“Yes.” She showed him his knife, hidden among her skirts.
“Good girl.” He looked at the soldiers… except now they were a coachman and two footmen. Reynaud blinked fiercely. Concentrate. “Did you see where the shots were coming from?”
The coachman shook his head, but one of the footmen, a tall fellow with a missing front tooth, said, “A black carriage pulled away very fast just after you dragged Henry into the house, my lord. I think the shots may’ve come from inside the carriage.”
Reynaud nodded. “That makes sense. But we’ll take Miss Corning in with all precaution just in case. Mr. Coachman, please go first. I’ll follow with Miss Corning while the footmen come behind.” He handed one of the pistols to the footman who had spoken. “Don’t shoot, but make sure anyone watching can see that you’re armed.”
The men nodded, and Reynaud rose with his little company. He wrapped one arm about Miss Corning, covering as much of her body with his as he could. “Go.”
The coachman ran to the steps, and Reynaud followed with Miss Corning, damnably aware of how exposed they were. Her form was warm next to his, small and delicate. It seemed to take minutes, but they were within the house again in seconds. No more shots rang out, and Reynaud slammed the door behind him.
“Dear God.” Miss Corning was looking at Henry, the wounded soldier.
But he wasn’t a soldier, Reynaud realized all at once. Henry was the footman who’d been guarding his bedroom door. His head spun as burning bile backed up into his throat. The sergeant was the butler, the women the maids, and there were no soldiers, only footmen staring at him warily. And the Indians? In London? Reynaud shook his head, feeling as if his brain would explode from the pain.
Dear God, maybe he was mad.
BEATRICE BENT OVER a small prayer book, picking apart the binding. She found it easier to think when her hands were busy. So after Henry had been seen to, after Lord Hope had retired to his room, after she’d calmed the servants and sent them back to work, after all had been restored to order in her home, she’d retreated here to her own rooms to contemplate the events of this afternoon.
Although, she’d not come to any firm conclusions when a knock sounded at her door. She sighed and looked up at a second tap.
“Beatrice?”
It was Uncle Reggie’s voice, which was odd, because he hardly ever visited her in her rooms, but then this had been a very odd day. She set the book down on the little table she worked at and rose from her chair to let him in.
“I wanted to make sure that you were unharmed, m’dear,” he said once he’d entered. He glanced vaguely around the room.
Beatrice felt a pang of remorse. In all the excitement of the shooting, she’d not had a chance to talk to her uncle. “I’m quite all right—not even a scratch. And you? How do you feel?”
“Oh, nothing can hurt an old man like me,” he blustered. “’Course, that impostor did knock me against the wall a bit.” He peered at her from under his bushy eyebrows as if waiting for a reaction.
Beatrice frowned. “He did? But why?”
“Bloody arrogance, if you ask me,” her uncle replied heatedly. “He was raving about Indians in the woods. Started ordering the servants about and told me to get out of the way. I think the man is mad.”
he looked up and saw the Goblin King throw off his velvet cloak. Now were revealed his orange glowing eyes, lank green hair, and yellow fangs.
“Who are you?” Longsword cried.
“I am the Goblin King,” replied the other. “When you accepted my coin for your lock of hair, you sold yourself into my power. For if I cannot have the sword alone, then I will have both you and the sword. . . .”
—from Longsword
Surrounded. The enemy on both sides, shooting from hidden positions, his men screaming as they were picked off. He couldn’t form a line of defense, couldn’t rally his troops. They were all going to die if he—
The second shot rang out. Reynaud found himself on the ground against a carriage, Miss Corning’s sweet, warm body under him. Her gray eyes stared up into his, no longer green with anger but only terrified.
And the screams—the screams were all around him.
“Descendez!” Reynaud roared to a soldier sitting in the carriage box looking stupidly around. “Form a line of defense!”
“What—” Miss Corning began.
But he ignored her. A man had been hit and was writhing on the top steps of the town house, his blood staining the white stone. It was the young soldier, the one who’d been walking with him. Dammit. It was his man.
And he was still exposed.
“Stay with Miss Corning,” he ordered a nearby soldier.