Page 75 of Snowy and the Seven Doves
It was that foreign guard who followed around after the false Snowden, pretending to be a valet. The one who had thwarted both the lightskirt and the sniper. He was holding up the garments the old lady had worn, and her wig.
For a moment, Snowden felt a frisson of fear, but he drowned it in indignation. “How dare you walk into a viscount’s house? I’ll have you arrested!”
“We also have the merchant,” the valet said, his tone steady.
Worse, amusement flickered in his eyes.
A thundering knock on the door changed that to a hawk-like alertness. “That will be the runners,” he announced.
It was, and they had the nerve to announce he was under arrest on a charge of murder and attempted murder. Attempted? He damned well had murdered the imposter! “You cannot arrest me,” he sneered. “I am a peer.”
“You are not,” said the woman who had accompanied the runners. “You are an imposter and a murderer. The magistrate has seen the evidence of your crimes and has ordered your arrest.”
Snowden took a step back, then rallied. “Thompson!” he shouted. He would have his butler throw these fools from his house. But no one came to his call.
“Your servants are being detained in the servant’s hall.” The foreign guard was now openly wearing a smile. “It is over, Snowden. You have lost.”
Snowden looked around. Burly men by the door. The window? It was his only chance. His eye passed over the mirror. He barely recognized the man he saw there. Trepidation? Even panic? Shoulders hunching against fate? That was not Richard. He snarled and saw welcome anger leap to the features in the mirror.
Escape. Now.
He hurled himself toward the window, and the room devolved into chaos as the runners threw themselves after him. Even when they pulled him away from his goal, he continued to struggle, anger and fear fueling his strength. Furniture broke under falling bodies, ornaments fell from shelves and side tables.
It had been a desperate attempt, and it failed.
Snowden finished up on the floor, a burly runner sitting on his back to hold him down. He closed his eyes as despair filled him. He had failed. He would hang; choke to death at the end of the rope, jerking, struggling, voiding waste.
The image consumed his mind and his eyes shot open to find something else on which to focus.
Before him, scattered across the floor, were the remains of his mirror, a multitude of shards. His friend Richard looked back at him from a dozen angles.
Cheat the hangman. You know what to do.
He would have to be quick, or they would stop him. He thought about where to cut. Now. Fast and hard.
He grabbed the nearest large shard and jammed it into his throat, just below the angle of his right jaw bone. Someone shouted, and his captor shifted his weight, forcing his head down. With his last thought, he wished he had never met Madeline.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Snowy kept tellingeveryone he was perfectly well. His looks must have belied his words, for they kept asking. He would have to feel a great deal sicker if he was to delay his wedding. True, he was as weak as a kitten and his head still felt somewhat detached from the rest of him, in addition to which, staying upright when standing was problematic.
His attention, too, floated, which had nothing to do with hemlock poisoning and everything to do with his bride. He had not seen her since she had crept from his room at dawn, after instructing Rahat to monitor his breathing and his pulse, as she had been doing all night.
Her friends had arrived early and closed themselves up with her in her chambers. According to Rahat, his foster-mothers had been invited to join the bridal preparations. From the occasional burst of laughter loud enough to penetrate the walls, a good time was being had by all.
Meanwhile their husbands, his own friends, and his brother gathered in his rooms, ignoring the fact that he was fresh from his bath and still in his smalls. They took over from Rahat to get him dressed, refusing to allow him to lift a finger. The married men passed on facetious advice and the single men tossed about farcical commiserations. Everyone told jokes, even Rahat.
The ladies may have heard a few bursts of laughter from his room, too.
No one, not even Ned, mentioned the news that had been delivered last night—that Snowden was dead. “My father’s death, and what it means, is a matter for later,” Ned had said. “Tomorrow is about you and my new sister.”
When Snowy’s supporters deemed him sufficiently brushed, buffed, polished, and primped, they escorted him downstairs, Gary on one side and Ned on the other, no one commenting on his slightly random foot placement that made the support necessary.
He was loaded into a carriage with Gary, Drew, Rahat, and Ned. The other men were going to wait for their wives.
At the church, a man showed them to the vestry to wait, and Gary produced a chair from somewhere for Snowy to sit on. She would be here soon if nothing prevented her. Perhaps Snowden had left another trap?
Snowy knew the guards were alert to such a possibility, but still his heart pounded, and his breath came short. He would not be at ease until she was beside him, and they were wed. Ned sensed some of his turmoil, for he said, “She is coming.”
