Page 79 of Surrender Your Grace
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Your Grace,” the driver said, “but not on my life. I like my teeth where they are.”
The young footman, big and burly, which the new ones all seemed to be since her troubles started, nodded in agreement.
***
As Andrew turned the corner, a swirl of dark cloak flashed in and out of shadow and sunlight. The figure paused at the far end of the alley, face obscured beneath a hood, and glanced back. Then he bolted.
Andrew sprinted after him, boots scraping on wet stone. Cold sliced against his cheeks, his heart thumping as he dodged stacks of crates and patches of ice. At the mouth of the alley, he skidded to a halt, barely keeping his balance.
The market square sprawled ahead, filled with a throng of shoppers and street vendors—hundreds of faces. The cloaked man was nowhere in sight.
“Damn it,” Andrew bit out, raking a hand through his hair.
He stood there, chest heaving, not from exertion but from fury.
Cici could have died right in front of him.
Jaw clenched, he turned back toward the alley. Enough chasing shadows. He needed a professional. Someone who could blend in, ask the right questions, and dig deeper.
He strode back with renewed purpose. As he reached the street where Cici waited, the footman alert at her side, he noticed her pallor, how her eyes darted around, looking frightened and vulnerable. He quickened his pace.
“Andrew. Thank goodness,” she breathed, scanning him from head to toe then past his shoulder. “What happened?”
“He slipped into the crowd and got away,” he said, ushering her toward the carriage. “He knew we’d be here.”
“But how?” she asked. “This outing was unplanned.”
“He followed us and picked his moment.”
She wavered slightly. “He’s been watching us?”
More likely just watching her. He didn’t say so, however. She was frightened enough.
“Let’s get you inside,” he murmured, lifting her into the carriage and signaling the driver. As he climbed in beside her, the coach lurched forward.
Cici reached for his hand. He clasped it firmly, slipped his arm around her, and pulled her close.
“I thought maybe I imagined it,” she whispered. “But he’s been there. Every time. Why would he want to hurt me, Andrew? I don’t even know him.”
Andrew’s grip tightened. “Someone paid him to, Cici.”
Their eyes locked, the carriage swaying around them.
“Lady Winslow,” she uttered at the same time he said, “Your sister.”
“You think Elizabeth would hire a killer?”
“Why not? She had no qualms about poisoning you.”
“What about the widow? She seemed mighty possessive of you in the park and despised me on sight.”
He frowned. “They both have motive—”
“Yes, that I took something that belonged to them,” she concluded.
“Which is deluded,” he scoffed angrily.
“What am I to do? Become a prisoner in my home? Afraid to step outside?”
