Chapter 20 #3
“Lower your weapon,” the newcomer said, clouded in shadows, her voice holding a faint French accent. “Unless you wish to test how fast I can fire mine.”
Miss Dawlish stiffened, the color draining from her face. Charlotte’s heart leapt into her throat. Relief, disbelief, and hope collided in her chest.
Luca glanced at her briefly, his expression fierce and protective. “For all that is holy, please get behind me now.”
For once, Charlotte did not argue. She nodded, her voice steady but her pulse racing. “I think that might be for the best.”
From the shadows at the end of the corridor, a figure emerged.
The petite woman was dressed in men’s clothing—dark trousers and a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves—and she held a pistol with the steady precision of someone well acquainted with its use.
Her brown hair was tied at the nape of her neck, and her calm, unflinching expression drew every eye in the corridor.
“Rosalie?” Alistair’s voice cracked with disbelief.
Charlotte turned sharply towards her brother, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Who is Rosalie?”
Alistair’s jaw tightened. “It is a long story,” he muttered, never taking his eyes off the woman.
Before Charlotte could press him further, movement caught her attention—Rupert had drawn his pistol, his arm extended with unnerving steadiness. The metallic click echoed down the corridor as he aimed directly at Miss Dawlish.
“As I said,” Rupert called out, his tone measured, “you have lost. Put down your weapons, and you may yet live another day.”
“But for how long?” Miss Dawlish asked.
Rupert stepped forward. “I cannot say,” he replied. “But I promise that I will not be your barrister.”
“Mother?” Roger’s voice wavered, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Miss Dawlish’s pale eyes darted to her son. “Don’t lower your pistol,” she said. “We still have the advantage.”
Rupert’s lips curved faintly. “No, you don’t,” he said. “My associate is an excellent shot. She will kill you where you stand.”
Charlotte’s heart pounded as her gaze flicked to Rosalie, who stood utterly motionless, her pistol aimed squarely at Miss Dawlish.
“She only has one shot,” Miss Dawlish sneered.
“And yet,” Rupert countered, “she’s aiming at you. You may be reckless with your own life, but are you willing to gamble your son’s?”
Miss Dawlish’s smirk faltered. “Why did you have to ruin everything?” she shouted, her voice cracking. “We weren’t bothering anyone!”
Luca interjected. “You were murdering innocent women!”
Miss Dawlish’s chin lifted defiantly. “We were providing a service for their families!” she exclaimed, almost triumphantly. “They were merely business transactions.”
“This is your last warning,” Rupert stated.
Miss Dawlish’s gaze snapped towards him, her eyes narrowing. “You would shoot a woman?”
Before anyone could respond, the sharp crack of a pistol discharging rang through the corridor. The echo bounced off the stone walls, followed by a sharp cry. Miss Dawlish staggered, her pistol clattering to the floor as she clutched her arm, crimson blooming through the sleeve of her dress.
Rosalie stepped forward, the smoke curling from the barrel of her pistol. “He may not, but I would,” she said simply.
“Mother!” Roger cried, panic replacing his arrogance as he dropped to his knees beside her. “Are you all right?”
“I am,” Miss Dawlish rasped, her face pale.
The fight went out of her son in an instant. His weapon slipped from his hand, striking the ground with a dull thud. “You need to help my mother,” he pleaded.
“You have no right to make demands right now,” Alcott growled, stepping forward.
Rosalie crossed the short distance to Miss Dawlish and knelt, inspecting the wound with a practiced glance. “She’ll live,” she announced, rising. Without another word, she turned and disappeared down the dim corridor, her figure melting back into the shadows as swiftly as she had appeared.
Charlotte stared after her, her heart still hammering, her mind spinning with questions—who is Rosalie? What is her connection to Alistair? But there was no time to ask.
Luca turned to her then, his expression tight with worry. “How are you faring?”
Charlotte exhaled shakily. “I have been better.”
Without hesitation, Luca slipped off his jacket and placed it gently around her shoulders. “Let’s get you home,” he said.
“Home,” she whispered, savoring the word. “That sounds lovely.”
Alcott extended his arm. “Come along, Charlotte. I’ll see you to the coach.”
She nodded, her strength waning at last, and accepted her brother’s arm. Together, they stepped out of that dreadful place. The sudden burst of sunlight made her squint, but she was so grateful to be alive.
As they made their way towards the waiting coach, Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. Luca was helping Lady Matthew, his hand steady beneath the trembling woman’s elbow. Her throat tightened. There were so many things she wanted to tell him but this was not the moment.
Soon.
The word lingered in Charlotte’s mind like a promise—fragile, trembling, but full of hope.