Page 148 of Ruby Red (The Ruby Red Trilogy 1)

I tore myself away.

Where was my self-respect? I felt so embarrassed. I wiped my face with the back of my hand.

“Handkerchief?” he asked, smiling, as he took a lemon-yellow square of fabric trimmed with lace out of his pocket. “No paper tissues in the Rococo age, I’m afraid, but you can have this.”

I was just about to take it when a black limousine drew up beside us.

Mr. George was waiting for us inside the car, his bald patch covered with tiny beads of sweat, and at the sight of him, all the thoughts circling around and around in my head calmed down a little. I was still completely knackered, but that was all.

“We’ve been beside ourselves with anxiety,” said Mr. George. “Oh, my God, Gideon, what happened to your arm? You’re bleeding! And Gwyneth looks distraught. Is she injured?”

“Just exhausted,” said Gideon briefly. “We’ll take her home.”

“No, not yet. We must examine you both, and your wound has to be treated immediately, Gideon.”

“It stopped bleeding a long time ago. It’s only a scratch, really. Gwyneth wants to go home.”

“She may not have elapsed for long enough. She has to go to school tomorrow, and—”

Gideon’s voice took on its familiar arrogant tone, but it wasn’t meant for me this time.

“Mr. George. She’s been gone for three hours. That will be enough for the next eighteen hours.”

“It probably will be,” said Mr. George. “But it goes against all the rules, and then we have to know whether—”

“Mr. George!”

He gave up, turned, and knocked on the window between us and the driver. The glass moved sideways with a soft swish.

“Turn right into Berkeley Street,” said Mr. George. “We’re making a little detour. Number 81, Bourdon Place.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I could go home. To my mum.

Mr. George was looking at me very gravely. His expression was sympathetic, as if he’d never seen a more pitiful sight. “What happened, for heaven’s sake?”

“Three men attacked our coach in Hyde Park,” said Gideon. “The coachman was shot.”

“Oh, my God,” said Mr. George. “I don’t understand it, but that makes sense.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s in the Annals—the twenty-fourth of September, 1782. A second-degree Guardian by the name of James Wilbour was found dead in Hyde Park. Half his face was shot away. They never found out who did it.”

“Well, now we know,” said Gideon grimly. “That is to say, I know what his murderer looked like, but I don’t know the man’s name.”

“And I killed him,” I said in a flat voice.

“What?”

“She came up and ran Wilbour’s sword into his attacker’s back,” said Gideon. “Well, we don’t know whether she really killed him.”

Mr. George’s blue eyes were round. “She did what?”

“It was two against one,” I murmured. “I couldn’t just stand there watching.”

“Three against one,” Gideon corrected me. “But I’d already finished off one of them. I told you to stay in the coach no matter what happened.”

“It didn’t seem as if you were going to last much longer,” I said without looking at him.

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