Chapter 30
Seated in the carriage that would take them home, Samantha leaned against Adrian’s shoulder while taking comfort in his strength. Her ordeal was over. She was safe.
“I’m sorry I snapped at Melody,” Adrian muttered, his voice gruff. “I just hate that it was Harlowe who figured out where you were. That it was he who helped you in my stead.”
“It was good to see my sisters again,” Samantha whispered, more to herself than to Adrian. “I missed them.”
She’d not realized how much until they were there, slashing their way through flesh and sinew. United in a common cause, they’d risked their lives to save hers.
Adrian was quiet a moment before suggesting, “Perhaps you should try to see them more often.”
She’d considered this numerous times before, but it wasn’t so simple.
“We mustn’t forget who they work for. As such, it might be best if I don’t.
” Already, she worried Harlowe would use tonight’s events as a means by which to put pressure on her.
She turned slightly so she could better face Adrian.
“Every action Harlowe takes is tied to some sort of agenda. He didn’t send Melody, Tara, and Holly to get me out of the goodness of his heart. ”
Adrian dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “Whatever his reason, I’m glad you’re out of harm’s way.”
Even though the slightest touch made her bruises ache, she snuggled closer. “I cannot wait to get home and wash away this horrid experience.”
A pause followed before Adrian asked, his voice hoarse, “Did O’Leary or his men… Did any of them force themselves on you?”
“No.” She’d be dead if they’d tried since they would have had to kill her first. “I was fortunately spared from such an ordeal.”
He blew out a heavy breath, the arm he’d wound around her cradling her to his side. “Thank God.”
“A cup of hot tea will be welcome too,” she murmured, her body suddenly heavy with exhaustion. “Perhaps while I soak in the tub.”
“Whatever you wish,” Adrian whispered, his fingers gently stroking her arm.
Soothed by his touch, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to rest while they traveled the rest of the way home in silence.
* * *
It was well after midnight by the time Peter returned to Bow Street. Despite being beyond the point of exhaustion, he wanted to learn if Gabriella had managed to warn Mr. Kipling. If so, Lewis and Anderson would have invited the man to come here. In which case, Peter wanted to speak with him.
He entered the building but stopped dead at the sight of Yates. The coachman, who sat on the bench near the wall, stood as soon as he registered Peter’s arrival.
“Mr. Kendrick.” Yates hastened toward him, increasing Peter’s unease. “I was told to fetch you. Lewis said there’s been a murder, that the killer escaped, and that he and Anderson had to give chase. Miss Hastings stayed behind with the body.”
“Take me to her at once,” Peter said. It would be a much longer night than he’d bargained for.
Damn. The information they’d gleaned about the next victim had come too late. Peter’s Runners had arrived too late and now the killer could be in the wind. Worse, she’d now know they were on her trail — that they’d soon make enough connections to figure out who she was.
With three men dead, all of them friends who’d served in the army together, it would just be a matter of time at this point. But if she was able to get away, she might avoid capture forever.
Peter climbed into the carriage and prayed his Runners had managed to apprehend the woman. It would save them all a great deal of extra work. Lord help him, he needed this win.
His thoughts shifted to Gabriella and his gut twisted on her behalf. Having seen what the killer had done to the previous victims, he couldn’t imagine her having to be alone with the corpse. All he could do was hope it had not been for long.
Impatient to reach her, he tapped one foot on the floor and drummed his fingers against the bench as the carriage weaved its way through the streets. The destination wasn’t far. It probably didn’t take more than ten minutes to reach it, even though it felt like twice as much time.
He alighted from the carriage and approached Number 17 Shoe Lane. The door opened without issue, admitting him to a modest foyer. He stepped forward and paused, his hand still on the door handle, when he noted the hints of an altercation having occurred.
A vase lay broken near the foot of the stairs. Flowers were strewn around it. A piece of torn fabric lay a little farther away. And… His heart clenched. Was that blood spatter on the wall?
“Gabriella?” He shouted her name without thinking, then realized his error and quickly called out for Lewis and Anderson. Surely they would have returned here to wait with Miss Hastings until Peter arrived.
“In here.” Lewis’s voice was loud and clear. It came from within the nearest room.
Peter approached, directing a swift glance toward the stairs when he registered someone’s presence there. It was Anderson who’d stepped onto the landing, the ominous expression he wore sending a sliver of apprehension down Peter’s spine.
He acknowledged him with a nod, then entered the room he’d been heading toward — a small, dimly lit parlor — and froze in response to the sight he beheld. Dear God. Panic shot through his veins. He darted a look at Lewis, whose expression was grim.
“She’s been like this since we returned,” Lewis whispered. “We thought we were chasing the killer, but that was merely a trick the woman had devised. The man she murdered is upstairs. Looks like his throat was slit after he died, just like it was with Orwell. Anderson has been making sketches.”
“Thank you, Lewis.”
Anxious to reach Gabriella, Peter moved, only to halt when Lewis added, “There’s also the woman we believe she impersonated. The real Mrs. Rivers, that is. She’s in the room next to this one. Unconscious.”
“But she lives?”
“Yes, though it seems she took a hard hit to the back of her head. There’s no telling what state she’ll be in when she comes to — if she’ll even remember what happened.”
Peter nodded, then shifted his attention to the woman he’d fallen in love with. Gone was the vibrancy, that stubborn determination that irked him while also filling him with admiration, the fire that always burned in her eyes.
Gabriella was but a shell. Seated on the floor and huddled against the far corner, she clutched something to her while staring into nothing. A lifeless body lay at her feet in a messy sprawl.
The only light in the room came from the fireplace on the opposite side. It cast a flickering glow across the ceiling, leaving the rest of the space in various degrees of shadow. An oil lamp would be required if Peter was going to assess the scene properly.
Expelling a breath, he went to collect the one that sat on the hallway table.
“Go help Anderson,” Peter told Lewis.
The Runner did as requested without hesitation, leaving Peter alone with Gabriella and the woman she’d killed. He hesitated briefly, then crossed the floor and dropped to a crouch beside Gabriella. She didn’t so much as budge, as though she’d not even registered him being present.
He placed the oil lamp on the floor then set his palm against Gabriella’s cheek. She flinched, but stayed, so he turned her head in his direction. Gently, until their eyes met. Until he was sure she saw only him.
His thumb stroked the side of her neck in an effort to soothe. “You’re all right. I’m here now.”
She blinked. “Peter.”
“Yes.” He wrapped an arm around her and drew her against him, felt the tremulous intake of breath that vibrated through her. A miserable sound followed and then she buried her face against his shoulder and started to sob.
Unsure of what to do besides offer whatever comfort he could, Peter held her until the worst of it passed. When her shoulders no longer shook, he reached for the oil lamp and turned up the light.
The sight that greeted him left his throat dry. There was so much blood. It was everywhere. Especially on the dead woman’s torso.
Sensing Gabriella shifting against him, Peter used the hand against her cheek to hold her in place and keep her from turning. “Don’t look. Just wrap your arms around my neck and I’ll get you out of here.”
She did as he said, allowing him to scoop her into his arms and carry her into the foyer. Lewis must have lit the wall sconces there before heading upstairs, for the space was well lit now despite Peter having removed the lantern.
He set Gabriella on the steps and eased back a little without fully releasing her. She too was covered in blood. The sight turned his stomach. “Are you hurt?”
She answered with a dazed look. “Hmm?”
His gaze swept every part of her body, searching for wounds. Finding none, he reached for the item she held between her hands. A pair of scissors, he realized.
When he tried to take them from her, however, she clutched them more tightly against her, as though they were a lifeline without which she’d perish. Again, she started shaking. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. “I killed her, didn’t I?”
He stroked his hand over her head. “Shhh…”
“I’m a murderess.” Her gaze snapped to his and turned unnervingly sharp. “I’ll face charges for this. Oh God. I’m going to hang.”
She spoke as if in a trance, as if her mind was not fully present. It broke his heart to see her like this, and it made something fierce awaken within him.
“No,” he assured her. “You were defending yourself.”
“So was Croft, was he not? When he shot Benjamin Lawrence?”
“Yes, but he—”
“I killed her.” She stared at him, her expression so horribly blank. And then she blinked, began shaking her head. “No. No it’s more than that. You’ll see. Oh God. You’ll see and you’ll…you’ll… It’s impossible for us. I made it impossible for us and now it’s too late and I can’t… I just can’t…”
“Listen to me,” he told her, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Everything will be all right. I’ll make sure of it.”
“I don’t think you can,” she muttered.