Page 100 of No One's Bride
“Are ye nae going to hide?” came her panicked whisper.
“I can’t control events from the cupboard, and I’d rather the villain think he has a chance of escaping.” Mr Daventry gestured to the window near the desk and told her to draw the curtains. “Hurry. If need be, you can shoot from there.”
Shoot!
She’d never fired a pistol in her life.
Seconds after she hid and closed the curtains, the door to the apartment creaked open. Despite trembling from head to toe, she peered through the small gap, but it was almost impossible to see with any clarity.
A tall, slender figure moved into the drawing room but failed to notice Mr Daventry sitting in the shadows. Unlike Professor Mangold, the person moved with a confident gait but stopped to remove something from his pocket.
Ailsa’s heart thundered in her chest.
Was it a weapon?
Her thoughts turned to Sybil Daventry, a woman whose love for her husband shone like a bright beacon. Ailsa would rather shoot a spy than see Mrs Daventry in widow’s weeds. And so, with an element of calm, she slowly drew the pistol from her pocket and waited.
The strike of a match on sandpaper produced a small amber flame. The man—for he wore a surtout and top hat—lit the candle on the console table nearest the door.
The devil stood amid the golden glow, the light dancing across his hooked nose and prominent cheekbones. Ailsa could not see his eyes but caught a familiar whiff of damp clothes.
Countless thoughts flooded her mind.
But Mr Daventry spoke, a deep sinister voice in the gloom. “Mr Chadwick. Miracles do occur. Lame men can walk.”
Mr Chadwick?
But this man looked younger and nowhere near as frail as the poor fellow in the bed. Did Mr Daventry know him or had he made an intuitive guess?
“Who are you? What are you doing in my apartment?” Mr Chadwick didn’t spout gibberish. He spoke in a stern voice, though one could not mistake the rattle of nerves.
“I’m here to arrest the man who slaughtered his employee. The savage who ripped out Hibbet’s heart to make an example of him. Heaven forbid other spies turn traitor.”
With surprising arrogance, Mr Chadwick stepped forward. “Have you been on the brandy, constable? I own this establishment and merely came to inspect the premises.”
“I’m not a constable.”
“Then who are you?”
“Your worst nightmare.”
A heavy silence lingered.
Ailsa fought to keep her shaking hands still in case she dropped her weapon. The knot of fear in her throat made breathing hard, but it gave way to a sudden wave of relief. If this man murdered Mr Hibbet, then Sebastian was safe.
“I shall give you until the count of five to leave,” Mr Chadwick said. Clearly, he did not know Mr Daventry. “Or I shall have you arrested for trespassing.”
“The magistrate gave me the key. This apartment is a crime scene, a place under investigation until the villain is apprehended.”
Mr Chadwick took a moment to consider his position. His frantic gaze darted around the room as if the answer to his troubles was in plain sight.
“You’ve come for the list.” Mr Daventry tapped his coat pocket.
“Give it to me.” Mr Chadwick’s firm reply was a blatant admission of guilt. “Name your price, and I shall ensure you receive suitable recompense.”
“I cannot be bought.”
Mr Chadwick scoffed. “Nonsense. All men can be bought.”
