Chapter 22 #2
“I heard you moving about,” I blurted out. “And I saw your candlelight. I thought—that is, I hoped—that we might talk. I think I’ve discovered something, and I’m rather reeling from it. Mr. Rawlings isn’t here, so I’ve no one to speak of it to. Could I—may I—”
“Oh, come in,” she said a bit grumpily, opening the door wider. It was not the warmest of receptions, but neither was it a no.
I slipped inside, leaving the door partway open behind me.
Mrs. Rawlings crossed her arms. “What is this you are blathering on about?”
“I found something,” I said. “I’ve been helping Mr. Rawlings research a case separate from the murder. And tonight, I made a connection I’d never made before.”
I explained everything as plainly as I could. I told her what I’d seen that night at the ball, about my realization tonight that Clarissa’s beau and the attacker from Vauxhall were the same man, and my theory that it was me the man was after, not Alexander.
She listened with narrowed eyes. Not narrowed in irritation or disbelief but rather in focus. When I finished, she stood there, considering everything I’d said.
“I know it sounds far-fetched,” I said, my throat tight. “I know it does. But there is also some logic to it, is there not?”
Mrs. Rawlings frowned. “There are holes to the story though. Why did the man attack you at Vauxhall? How did he even know you’d returned to London?”
A spark lit up my spine, sharp and hot. “Clarissa,” I breathed. “I saw her that same morning. She knew I was in Town.”
Mrs. Rawlings tipped her head. “So you believe she saw you, and then she told her lover, who decided to eliminate you as a witness before you made a move against them.”
Mrs. Rawlings might be ornery and difficult, but she was also as intelligent a woman as I’d ever met. She was making connections I hadn’t yet considered.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I think you are right. He could easily have followed us from Bow Street to Vauxhall. It was the perfect place to mount an ambush, strike when I was most vulnerable.”
“But he did not account for my son,” she said, pride clear in her voice.
“No, he didn’t.” My thoughts were racing. “He must have assumed that catching us by surprise would be enough to overpower the both of us.” I swallowed. “It nearly was.”
Mrs. Rawlings began pacing slowly, crossing the shadowy length of her room.
“But even if it is true—of which I am far from convinced—what does this all matter at this point? Bow Street has caught the man. All Alexander needs to do is identify him as the attacker, and this is over. The man’s motive is secondary. ”
Something niggled like a worm in my brain. Alexander’s words came back to me from that morning—or yesterday morning, rather.
They might have the wrong man, he’d said.
“But . . .” I began, my thought half formed.
“But what?” Mrs. Rawlings sounded impatient—I was keeping her from her bed.
“They arrested the viscount’s murderer,” I said slowly. “But if I am right about this, and the murderer is not the same man who came after us in Vauxhall, then our attacker remains free.”
She stood unmoving, hands at her sides, staring at me. Then she shook her head. “Ridiculous,” she declared. “It is far too late at night for us to be spinning such tales. Alexander will return in a few days, and you can sort it all out with him. This has changed nothing.”
“Except,” I said, “I have every reason to believe that I am the target, not Alexander. And now that he is gone . . .”
She waved me off. “You are creating fantasies in your head, Miss Lacey. It will do nothing but rob you of sleep and inflate your sense of self-importance.”
I did not agree. But again, I had no proof. And the more I tried to sort through everything I did know, the more tangled my thoughts and theories grew.
Still. There was a dread inside me, a fearful knowing that made my stomach feel like the inside of an anthill.
Then I heard it.
A creak. But not any creak. It was the long, sharp groan that I’d heard earlier tonight when I’d trod on the third step on the stairs.
My blood ran cold. The air fled from my lungs.
Mrs. Rawlings noticed my reaction. “What is it?” she asked sharply.
I couldn’t breathe. “Put out the candle,” I hissed.
“Why—”
“Put it out!”
Such was the fear in my voice that she moved without further protest, stepping quickly to the candle on her bedside table and blowing it out, leaving us in the blinding blackness.
“What did you hear?” she whispered, the smallest unease in her voice.
I only shook my head and crept to the door, which I’d left partly open. I peered out, only able to see a sliver of the corridor.
We waited, the quiet and the dark playing tricks on my mind. Mrs. Rawlings made as if to speak, but I held a finger to my lips.
A minute passed, then two, then three. I saw nothing through the gap in the door, no movement or figures. I bit my lip. I could have sworn I’d heard that creak. But Mrs. Rawlings was right. My fear had gotten the better of me, had gone straight to my head and made me invent dangers.
My shoulders relaxed. I exhaled in relief.
Then a shadow in the corridor moved.