Page 23 of Stolen By the Rogue
There was a loud bang and a puff of smoke. Searing pain shot through him. George glanced down at his white shirt and the crimson stain which was rapidly spreading across the front of it.
“You bloody well shot me!”
His world turned black.
Chapter Fourteen
Two weeks later
George put down the book he was reading when Alice stepped into the room. As she approached, she gave him one of her trademark filthy looks. Angry pregnant women were surprisingly fearsome creatures.
“You have a visitor,” she said.
He shifted in the chair, attempting to find a more comfortable spot. His wound protested, and he winced. He got a ‘serves you right’ glance in reply from Alice as she turned and headed out the door.
Sympathy for his injury had evaporated long ago in the Steele household, but George was in no position to complain. Alice and Harry were keeping him hidden from the rest of London society, and most importantly . . . the law.
George was sitting in the main drawing room on the second floor of 16 Grosvenor Street. He dared not go home. Explaining a bullet wound to his father was beyond even George’s extensive skills of lying. Instead, a note had been sent mentioning him taking a sudden and lengthy trip to France on Gus’s boat.
“You could at least tell me who my visitor is?” he called after Alice.
“It’s me.”
George stilled as Jane walked into the room, a brown leather satchel slung over her shoulder. He eyed her warily, remembering the outcome of their last encounter.
She held up her hands. “Rest easy. I am not carrying any hidden weapons. I come in peace.”
“That’s a bit late, don’t you think? Considering that you’ve already shot me,” he replied.
She waved his comment away as she casually dropped into the chair opposite him and crossed her legs. There was something different in her demeanor from the Jane he thought he knew.
She unhooked the satchel and set it on the floor. “Yes, but I did bring you here and made sure that your attempt to steal a priceless ancient artifact did not become public knowledge. You should be thanking me for having avoided a serious international incident.”
It was clear he wasn’t going to get an ounce of compassion, let alone an apology from Jane. “Remind me to thank you when I am able to move again without pain.”
For the first time since she had entered the room, the expression on Jane’s face softened. She leaned forward and rested a hand on his knee. “How are you?”
“Tired. Sore. And still trying to figure out why you bloody well put a bullet in my shoulder.”
A flash of pain crossed her face, and guilt pricked him sharply. Her look reminded him that he had not been the only one hurt that night.
“I shot you because you deserved it. You used me in order to steal Baldwin’s crown. Just be grateful I didn’t aim for your balls.”
Memories of that moment came rushing back to him—sharp pain and shock, then falling and darkness. He saw snippets of images of Harry. More pain. Worried faces staring down at him. The gruff voice of a doctor. Then the blessed relief of laudanum. And finally, nothing.
“How did you get me out of the embassy? I haven’t quite figured that part out,” he said.
“You mean why are you not sitting languishing in a prison cell? I hauled you out into the street and hailed a hack. And may I make mention that you are not a small man, and your unconscious body was like trying to drag an elephant. Fortunately, when we got here, Harry carried you inside and Alice sent for a surgeon. Apparently, you and your friends have a standing relationship with several medical professionals, and one came at short notice.”
George’s anger toward Jane cooled. She had risked a great deal in helping him escape. After the way he had betrayed her trust, he was genuinely surprised that she hadn’t summoned the rest of the embassy staff and had him clasped in irons.
A knock at the door preceded a footman carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate of small cakes. He set them on a nearby side table, then stepped back. “Mister Hawkins, Lord Harry asked me to inform you that he has received legal advice and the offer is sound. And as for Lady Steele, she said to give you the following message.” He nervously cleared his throat. “Don’t be a bloody idiot.” He gave a curt bow then left the room. The door hadn’t quite closed before the footman’s dirty chuckle drifted to George’s ears.
Cheeky beggar.
His mood was not improved by the sly grin which now sat on Jane’s lips. It was clear that even his friends had taken her side.
“What does Alice mean by ‘don’t be an idiot?’” he asked.
