George went down and Apollo followed, beating into that face, because it was the last thing Lily had seen—the face of her killer—and he meant to destroy it.
Blood spattered and George opened his mouth, his teeth scarlet-stained. He might’ve been saying something, might’ve been begging, but since Apollo couldn’t hear, it didn’t matter.
Something crunched beneath his knuckles, and Apollo realized he was grinning, his lips pulled back from his bared teeth, turned into the monster Lily had first thought him.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered anymore.
George spat blood and a bit of broken white that might’ve been a tooth and Apollo split his ear.
But the eyes were still there—the eyes that had looked on Lily’s death—and he aimed his fist toward them.
“Apollo.” The voice was Lily’s, but that couldn’t be, because… because…
Her hands, white and soft, wrapped about his bloodied knuckles and gently stopped him.
Sound suddenly rushed back in.
George was breathing with a harsh rasp, Apollo was making a noise like a sob, and Lily…
Dear God, Lily was saying his name.
He looked up and saw her face, blackened on one side with flecks of blood high on one cheek.
o. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she disregarded it. Apollo was a good man. If he said he loved her—loved her—then he did.
She sat in the bed, entirely nude, the coverlet pulled over her breasts, and felt a strange, tenuous feeling: happiness. Ridiculous. She didn’t even know if he’d escaped—and she had more than enough proof from Richard and Kitty’s marriage that aristocracy and actresses couldn’t mix. But…
He would escape. He was strong and determined and he was Apollo. He’d battled past the footmen and butler and the other gentlemen guests were certainly no match for him. He’d escape and she’d meet him in the garden tomorrow, and…
And what?
Perhaps they could find a way. He wasn’t the usual aristocrat, after all, and… and she loved him.
She shivered, thinking about it, such a risk, not only for herself, but also for Indio and Maude. Could she risk their happiness as well?
“He has good taste at least.”
She started at the strange voice and saw George Greaves stroll into the room as if he were entering an afternoon tea party.
She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“As well you should, you little whore,” he said without any heat at all. He closed the door behind him.
Lily fisted her hands, prepared to jump out of the bed and run—nude, if she had to. “Get out of my room.”
“My room, actually—or my father’s, which amounts to the same thing,” George said, taking a chair and placing it so he faced the bed. “You, Miss Goodfellow, have abused my father’s hospitality.”
“In what way?”
He crossed his legs and she noticed that he was completely dressed in breeches, waistcoat, coat, and immaculately tied neckcloth. What had he been doing as his guests slept? “You’ve been conspiring with my cousin, it seems, against my family.”
“Not conspiring,” she said, hoping against hope that this might be explained away. “He didn’t murder those men. He just wants to prove it.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that?” he asked with clear contempt. “As I said, conspiring with my cousin, Lord Kilbourne, perhaps to kill us all in our beds.”
“What?” She stared at the man. Did George Greaves truly believe that Apollo had come here to murder everyone in their beds? He must realize how ridiculous that sounded.