unknown on Davies Street, and the neighbors had apparently concluded that the report was simply another of Mr. Manton’s patrons firing where he shouldn’t.
“I suppose you’re going to insist on climbing over the gate again too?” I said.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Honestly, I’d met two-year-olds who were less belligerent. “No reason, I suppose, except that someone might see you, you were recently stunned by a lead ball, and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig—oh, and there’s a murderer somewhere close by who has a firearm he enjoys aiming at your head. But by all means, storm the ramparts.”
Ben’s brows drew together in a frown. “Go back into the house first, so I know you’re safe.”
I privately thought it rather sweet that he should be so concerned about my safety, but I wasn’t the one who’d been shot. “No. If you insist on going, you climb over the gate first, so I know you’ve managed to get away all right.”
Ben made a sound somewhere between a harrumph and an exasperated sigh. “As much as I’d like to stand here arguing with you, there have to be more productive uses of our time. Why don’t we both go on the count of three?”
I considered a moment. “I suppose that would work.”
We counted together—“One, two, three”—and started in our separate directions, but I made sure to take my time so that he was safely over the fence and dropping lightly to the other side before I pulled the back door shut behind me.
I smiled to myself, counting it a minor victory.
Ben
As I walked home, my head was positively pounding. I told myself it was only a natural consequence of having been shot, and perhaps of hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes. Unfortunately, my head had begun to hurt even before that, thanks to the tension of rubbing elbows—and not much else—with Lady Barbara Jeffords.
Gad, what a frustrating afternoon. I still didn’t know who’d killed Sam and was blackmailing Lady Helen, I didn’t know who’d shot me or why, and, least consequential but most irritating of all, I’d once again ended up looking like a fool in front of Barbara.
Why did she have to choose her bedroom? Why couldn’t she have smuggled me back outside, or perhaps into the coal cellar? I suppose it made no difference to her, but as we’d stood over her bed I’d been in such a fever of awareness of her, all I could think was, Keep your eyes on the blackmail letters , keep your eyes on the blackmail letters . Then, later, just when I’d begun to relax, I could have sworn she’d expected me to kiss her. As she’d leaned close, her eyes inviting and that scent of lily of the valley in her hair, the pull I’d felt between us had been irresistible. So why hadn’t she felt it too? And what kind of idiot tried to kiss a gently reared girl alone in her bedroom, anyway? I might as well volunteer for a leg-shackle.
I reached up and gingerly touched my temple. It had stopped bleeding, but I must have looked more like a battlefield casualty than a man returning home from an afternoon call, for as I passed other pedestrians on the street, most turned to throw me a second look. I wondered how I was going to slip into Ormesby House without my mother spotting me and dropping into a dead faint.
I wanted to blame that on Barbara too, but I knew it would be unfair. It wasn’t her fault I’d been shot. In fact, to be completely honest, I might have misjudged her. Apparently she hadn’t threatened to publicize my contretemps. Then there was the gratifying way she’d come flying out of the house when the bullet hit me, and the fearlessness with which she’d insisted on sticking by my side. I could still feel her fingers in my hair from when she’d checked to see how badly I was injured, her touch as light and tender as a caress.
Still, if I had any sense I would keep my distance. Then I wouldn’t have to suffer her confounded sultry looks and mixed signals anymore. Sometimes it felt as if she
“I suppose you’re going to insist on climbing over the gate again too?” I said.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Honestly, I’d met two-year-olds who were less belligerent. “No reason, I suppose, except that someone might see you, you were recently stunned by a lead ball, and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig—oh, and there’s a murderer somewhere close by who has a firearm he enjoys aiming at your head. But by all means, storm the ramparts.”
Ben’s brows drew together in a frown. “Go back into the house first, so I know you’re safe.”
I privately thought it rather sweet that he should be so concerned about my safety, but I wasn’t the one who’d been shot. “No. If you insist on going, you climb over the gate first, so I know you’ve managed to get away all right.”
Ben made a sound somewhere between a harrumph and an exasperated sigh. “As much as I’d like to stand here arguing with you, there have to be more productive uses of our time. Why don’t we both go on the count of three?”
I considered a moment. “I suppose that would work.”
We counted together—“One, two, three”—and started in our separate directions, but I made sure to take my time so that he was safely over the fence and dropping lightly to the other side before I pulled the back door shut behind me.
I smiled to myself, counting it a minor victory.
Ben
As I walked home, my head was positively pounding. I told myself it was only a natural consequence of having been shot, and perhaps of hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes. Unfortunately, my head had begun to hurt even before that, thanks to the tension of rubbing elbows—and not much else—with Lady Barbara Jeffords.
Gad, what a frustrating afternoon. I still didn’t know who’d killed Sam and was blackmailing Lady Helen, I didn’t know who’d shot me or why, and, least consequential but most irritating of all, I’d once again ended up looking like a fool in front of Barbara.
Why did she have to choose her bedroom? Why couldn’t she have smuggled me back outside, or perhaps into the coal cellar? I suppose it made no difference to her, but as we’d stood over her bed I’d been in such a fever of awareness of her, all I could think was, Keep your eyes on the blackmail letters , keep your eyes on the blackmail letters . Then, later, just when I’d begun to relax, I could have sworn she’d expected me to kiss her. As she’d leaned close, her eyes inviting and that scent of lily of the valley in her hair, the pull I’d felt between us had been irresistible. So why hadn’t she felt it too? And what kind of idiot tried to kiss a gently reared girl alone in her bedroom, anyway? I might as well volunteer for a leg-shackle.
I reached up and gingerly touched my temple. It had stopped bleeding, but I must have looked more like a battlefield casualty than a man returning home from an afternoon call, for as I passed other pedestrians on the street, most turned to throw me a second look. I wondered how I was going to slip into Ormesby House without my mother spotting me and dropping into a dead faint.
I wanted to blame that on Barbara too, but I knew it would be unfair. It wasn’t her fault I’d been shot. In fact, to be completely honest, I might have misjudged her. Apparently she hadn’t threatened to publicize my contretemps. Then there was the gratifying way she’d come flying out of the house when the bullet hit me, and the fearlessness with which she’d insisted on sticking by my side. I could still feel her fingers in my hair from when she’d checked to see how badly I was injured, her touch as light and tender as a caress.
Still, if I had any sense I would keep my distance. Then I wouldn’t have to suffer her confounded sultry looks and mixed signals anymore. Sometimes it felt as if she
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