A Daring Liaison

He lifted himself slightly, as if he was unwilling to expose her if the danger was still present. His glance bored into her, as if searching for signs of injury or hysteria. “Are you …”

“I am well, Mr. Hunter,” she answered, trying to give the impression of aplomb even as she cleared her throat to steady her voice. “And you?”

He grinned and she realized he had anticipated hysteria. He eased himself to the side. “Well enough, Mrs. Huffington.”

“What—”

“Hunter! Good God, man! What happened?”

Mr. Hunter sat up and helped her into a sitting position as Lord Wycliffe and Sir Harry arrived at their side. “’Twould seem buying a lady flowers has become a capital offense.”

Lord Wycliffe’s narrowed gaze swept the surrounding square and paused at each deepened shadow. At a subtle gesture, Sir Harry spun about and headed in the direction from which the shot had come. “No warning?”

Mr. Hunter uttered a curse under his breath as he stood and lifted her to her feet. “A flower girl stopped us as we strolled. The moment she had her coin, she dashed for the alley. A second later—the shot. I’d wager she’d been hired to stop us long enough for the shooter to take aim, and then run away.”

Oh, dear Lord! Another man she’d been with had nearly been killed! She was cursed!

“You think the flower girl was involved?” Lord Wycliffe asked.

Mr. Hunter glanced quickly in Georgiana’s direction and she made a pretense of brushing the dust from her gown and examining herself for damage, though her trembling hands were apt to betray her. Apparently assured of her well-being, he turned back to Lord Wycliffe.

“Aye,” he said in a hushed voice. “Paid to distract us. As for knowing why, that’s anyone’s guess.”

But Georgiana had a guess. Whoever had killed her husbands, and perhaps Mr. Booth, had now turned his attention to her. Or Charles Hunter. Her heart pounded against her ribs at the thought of Charles lying in the street with a bullet in his chest. She turned slightly to pretend attention to her costume, trying to cover her fear and wondering what else they might say if they thought she wasn’t listening.

“Gibbons?” Lord Wycliffe asked.

There was a pause and then Mr. Hunter’s voice answered in a hushed tone. “Unlikely that Gibbons would have missed once we were still for longer than a moment, and I doubt he’d part with a ha’penny to hire a flower girl.”

Who was this Gibbons person, and why would he want to kill her?

From the corner of her eye, Georgiana noted that Lord Wycliffe slid a glance in her direction. “Do you think …”

“Possible,” Mr. Hunter answered.

She shivered with that implication. She knew what they suspected. That someone had tried to kill her. Was that better or worse than someone trying to kill the men with her? Icy cold crept through her as she surveyed the crowd, looking in one direction and then the other. Was a killer still watching? She caught sight of the edge of a cape rounding the corner of the Theatre Royal. She shivered. She really must get a grip on her imagination!

She met Charles’s gaze, painfully aware that attention was directed at her and they were likely wondering if she really was such a dreadful person that someone wanted her dead. She banished the terrifying notion and gave them an uncertain smile. “At least no one was injured. Thank heavens for that.”

“Are you not frightened?” Charles asked.

Terrified! But she had no intention of discussing it. “S-surely the whole thing was some sort of accident, was it not?”

Lord Wycliffe seized on her excuse. “Pistols misfire all the time, Mrs. Huffington. Very sensible of you to understand that.”

The thought flashed through her mind that his lordship was a dreadful liar for a man in his position. “Nevertheless, I should like to return to the theater, if you do not mind. I would think the intermission is well over and my friends will be looking for me.”

Mr. Hunter and Lord Wycliffe flanked her as they turned toward the theater. She glanced over her shoulder one last time, her skin prickling with the feeling that someone was watching. She was sure of it. As sure as she’d been the other night at her window.

“How perfectly dreadful!” Hortense exclaimed. “Why, you could have been killed.”

Harriett’s eyes narrowed and an angry furrow creased her brow. “Really! Men ought to be more careful. I do prefer swords to pistols for that very reason. You wouldn’t have an accident like that with a sword, now, would you?”

“You have a point, Miss Harriett,” Lord Wycliffe replied with a wry grin.

The orchestra struck a chord to signal the end of the intermission, and Harriett lowered her voice. “Furthermore, men who discharge their pistols in public ought to be horsewhipped.”

Hortense nodded her agreement. “At the very least.”

Georgiana noted the twinkle in Lord Wycliffe’s eyes. She was relieved that neither of her friends seemed to be taking the incident as a personal attack. One could argue that one shot was much like another, but she was not reassured. That shot had seemed deeply personal.

“Mrs. Huffington, are you quite all right?” Mr. Hunter asked yet again, noticing her distraction.

“Quite,” she said as everyone turned to her. She gave them a cheering smile and shrugged. “Nevertheless, I should like to go home.”

“Why, of course, you poor dear,” Harriett said. “You’ve had a frightful experience. We should have thought of that, but you seem so composed.”

“I am just exhausted. But please do not shorten your own evening. I shall hire a hackney.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mr. Hunter said, shooting a meaningful look at Lord Wycliffe.

Ah, so contrary to their assertions, he and Lord Wycliffe actually did suspect there was something sinister in the wind.

Mr. Hunter took her arm and led her from the theater as the performance resumed. On the street, he signaled a hackney, handed her up and followed her in. The jarvey cracked his whip and the carriage lurched forward, propelling Mr. Hunter into the seat beside her instead of across from her.

“Beg pardon,” he murmured as he settled next to her.

She gave him a sideways glance and arranged her skirts to keep them from wrinkling, then folded her hands in her lap, trying to give the appearance of sublime unconcern. She did not want him to know how acutely aware of him she was—of his warmth, his size, his sensual mouth or the devastating effect he was having on her senses.

“I have a vague recollection of glimpsing you last fall, Mrs. Huffington. Were you in London as late as September?”

So it was to be inconsequential conversation, was it? And a tacit agreement to ignore their earlier acquaintance? But she couldn’t ignore the fact that he smelled utterly masculine—like good shaving soap and starched linen.

She gave herself a mental shake and turned her thoughts to the conversation. “Yes. In fact, I believe I saw you at the Argyle Rooms the night my … Mr. Booth was shot.”

“Did anyone ever mention to you that someone else had been shot that night, too?”

“I believe so. One of his friends, I was told, but the injury was not life threatening.” She looked at him and surprised an almost incredulous look on his face. But she had told him about Mr. Booth before, hadn’t she? Why should he be surprised?

A muscle jumped along his jaw and he took a deep breath. “You were saying, Mrs. Huffington?”

“Oh, yes. That we left for home a day or two after that. There seemed no point in staying and Aunt Caroline was never very comfortable in London.”

“I understand. London, for all its glamor, can be an unsettling place.”

She smiled. “I would never call it peaceful.”

He shifted to face her, and a small smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Somewhat of an understatement, that.”