Page 99 of Ladies in Hating
“We heard a scream. We think that was the boy—James.” Ambrose ran a hand over his face. “Did you hear it too?”
“Bloody hell,” said Fawkes. “Yes. I heard it. There was an intruder in the house—I gave chase. You say it’s your brother?”
This last was directed at Cat, and she nodded. “He’s here? He’s inside?”
“Someone’sinside. I was chaining the outer doors when I heard gunfire.”
“Gunfire?” Her throat was tight, her fingers numb with her fear.
Jem? Or someone after Jem? Could it possibly be Martin Yorke?
She did not want to believe it.
“Whoever it was barricaded himself inside the music room,” Fawkes went on. “I could not follow.”
“Take us there,” Ambrose ordered, and Fawkes did. The gap in the wall where the timbers had fallen seemed to have stabilized. It had not been disturbed since their visit with the magistrate, and they left footprints in the plaster dust as they ran.
The music room was just inside the east wing. Neither she nor Georgiana had spent much time there, given its proximity to the unstable portion of wall that led out to the rose garden. But the door atleast seemed solid—Fawkes strode up to it and pounded deliberately on the polished ebony surface.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Reveal yourself!”
There was no answer, and Ambrose stepped forward and placed a governing hand on Fawkes’s shoulder. “Easy,” he murmured. “He’s just a boy.”
Cat added her own voice to the general chorus. “Jem? Is that you in there? Are you all right?”
There was another beat of silence and then, quietly, she heard: “Kitty?”
She sagged with relief, and Georgiana was there, an arm about her waist to hold her up. She moved close enough to press her hand flat against the door. “Jem! Yes.” Her voice was almost a sob. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Kitty!” Jem’s voice had grown louder, as though he’d stepped closer to the other side of the door. “How the devil did you know where—”
She was talking over him, her whole body pressed against the door. “Oh God, Jemmy, I’ve been out of my head! Are you well? Let me in.”
The handle rattled, and Jem’s voice was even louder. “Did you catch him? Is it over?”
Cat felt her stomach pitch, and she glanced back at the others. “Catch who?”
Jem pulled open the door, and Cat’s heart leapt with relief. His hair was flecked with straw, and his face was sweaty.
Every part of him was flustered and disheveled andsafe.
“Elias Beckett,” Jem said. He looked around the assembled party in obvious consternation. “The fellow who was trying to pillage the house. The one who was shooting at me.”
“Shooting at you,” Ambrose repeated in alarm, at the precise moment that Fawkes demanded, “Pillage?”
“Elias Beckett,” Cat breathed, and Georgiana’s fingers tightened on her waist.
“Yorke’s other clerk.” Georgiana’s eyes were huge, bluer in the shadows. “Oh my God. That explains—”
And then, from a very great distance, they heard Bacon, barking frantically.
Cat looked down. Where Bacon had been moments before, dancing about their feet, there was nothing but empty space.
“Bollocks,” said Percy, “Georgie’s dog—”
The barking rose in a crescendo, and Cat felt her belly pitch. Her gaze flicked toward Georgiana, whose face had gone dead white.
The little animal had no sense of danger. If Elias Beckett was there and armed and wild-eyed, Bacon would not know to stay away.
