Page 122 of Thief of the Ton
As silent as a grave.
A grave…
She reached for the decanter, then held it to her lips and tipped her head up, swallowing the fiery liquid. Perhaps if it lessened the pain on the outside, it would also numb the pain within. Then she bundled the garments into the closet, slipped her night rail on, and climbed into bed.
Safe at last—but the tide of horror that had been swelling against her conscious mind finally burst through, and she let out a cry.
Heaven help me—I’ve killed a man!
Chapter Thirty-Three
Peregrine stared atthe road ahead where the rider had disappeared into the darkness. His gut twisted with horror.
Lavinia…
He turned on Houseman. “What the bloody hell have you done?”
“My duty,” Houseman said, pocketing his pistol, “which is whatyoushould have done. That was the Phoenix, and the bastard got away.”
“At least he didn’t get the clock,” the earl scoffed.
Peregrine winced at the bitter triumph in his father’s voice. “Is that all you care about, Father—a bloodyclock?”
“The clock’s nothing.”
“No, of course not,” Peregrine said, gritting his teeth to temper the fury raging within. “You only care about ruining lives. As for you”—he turned to Houseman—“you didn’t have to shoot her!”
Houseman’s eyes narrowed. “Her?”
“Houseman had every right to shoot,” the earl said. “Nobody’s safe these days with highwaymen haunting the roads. They deserve to be shot.”
“Not when they’re lowering their weapons,” Peregrine said. “Would you shoot someone who’s unarmed?”
“If necessary—to protect what’s mine.”
“But the clock isn’t yours, is it?”
“Itismine!” the earl snarled. “I’ve the bill of sale to prove it. It belongs to me, according to the law.”
“I’m not talking about the law,” Peregrine said. “I’m talking about justice.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not, Father. If we lived in a just world, you’d have been held to account for what you did.”
“What did you mean…her?” Houseman asked.
“The man wasn’t unarmed,” the earl said, ignoring Houseman. He pointed to the prone figure of the footman. “He’s killed a man. Would you advocate justice for a murderer?”
The figure moved and gave out a low groan. Peregrine rushed toward him, crouched down, and placed his hand on the man’s forehead.
“He’s alive,” he said.
“That may be—but that highwayman shot him.”
“By accident!” Peregrine cried. “Houseman shot first—he’s the one who shot on purpose.”
“Yes—to defend us against a murderous ruffian!”
