Above them, the chandelier shivered and swayed.
Christian’s eyes grew wide.
Footsteps.
They pushed away from each other in silence. Christian extinguished the candle with his fingertips. The acrid scent of candle smoke filled the air.
The chandelier’s tinkling rattle went quiet as the footsteps paused.
Violet held her breath, uncertain what to do.
She could scream for help. They’d capture Christian, detain him, question him. She would have the truth.
Or she could trust him, against all previous evidence. She could trust him and help him escape.
“Swear,” she whispered. “Swear on Frederick’s name you’re telling the truth.”
His eyes met hers, as sincere as the Sussex night was dark. “I swear it. I swear it on my brother’s grave. And on the life of our future son.” When her jaw dropped, he shrugged. “You know we’ll have to name our first boy Frederick.”
“Don’t complicate matters,” she pleaded. “I can’t think when you speak like that.”
“Wasn’t that a lovely moment earlier, between Rycliff and his wife? I couldn’t help but wish it was us.” He touched her arm. “Someday.”
Her heart blithely skipped about her chest. She put a hand to her breast, trying to calm it.
And then—just when his words had made her forget them—the footsteps resumed. Louder, and in a more deliberate rhythm. Someone was headed for the stairs.
Without discussion and in perfect unison, they shot to their feet.
He beckoned for Violet to pass him the gun. “That’s my signal to leave.”
“Oh no, you don’t.”
She tightened her grip on the pistol and grabbed for his wrist with her other hand, tugging him toward the same set of garden doors he’d burst through some hours ago.
“This time, you’re not leaving without me.”
Chapter Six
As they raced through the night, headed for the small village of Spindle Cove, Christian worried. He worried that they would soon be missed. He worried that Violet didn’t have her cloak, and those impractical silk slippers couldn’t possibly guard her toes against the hoarfrost coating the ground. He worried that she’d never forgive him, and that he didn’t deserve her forgiveness anyway.
But he didn’t worry about allowing her to lead.
Violet knew exactly where she was taking him. She knew how to avoid barking dogs and ice-crusted puddles as they made their way. She didn’t stumble or cringe or pull up breathless, clutching her side and begging for a rest. She moved swiftly and surely through the night. Relentless.
Somewhere an owl called, “Who?” and Christian echoed the sentiment.
Who? Who was this fearless, pistol-wielding woman, and what had she done with sweet, quiet, next-door Violet?
She’d changed, she said. Of course she had. Hadn’t he been altered in the past year? It had been stupid of him to dream otherwise. He’d stuck a pin in her memory, put it under glass to treasure and admire it, as though she were some desiccated specimen. But Violet was a live creature. Changing, growing, adapting. And beautiful in motion, with that emerald silk flowing in the night.
Christian had to face facts. He didn’t want Violet the same way he once had.
He wanted her more. Much, much more.
When they reached the village, they slowed down. They kept their steps quiet as they moved from shadow to shadow.
“Lord Rycliff sent Rufus and Dawes to guard the rooming house,” she whispered. “We’ll have to watch out for them.”
She directed him to slink around a corner near the village square, and together they huddled in the doorway of a shop. Brights’ All Things, the lettering on the door read.
Christian hoped the promised “All Things” included small boats.
Violet tried the door latch. Locked, of course. Wordlessly, she pulled a hairpin from her wind-mussed chignon and handed it to him.
He stared at it. “What makes you think I know how to pick locks?” he whispered. “Just because I’m a spy?”
“No. Because you were forever stealing pocket money from your father’s top desk drawer.”
Bloody hell. She truly had been paying attention.
“I haven’t done that in a decade.” Nevertheless, he took the hairpin. After a few minutes’ gentle exploration and some overt persuasion, the lock responded. “That’s a good girl,” he murmured, turning the door latch and swinging the door open on its thankfully well-oiled hinges.
They entered the shop. Moonlight washed the room with a milky glow. Peering at the shelves, Christian spied bolts of fabric piled ceiling high. Ink bottles lined neatly as soldiers. Rows up on rows of ribbon spools.
No boat.
“What is it we’re here to get?”
“A lamp,” she said, setting the pistol aside. “Of sorts. Sally Bright showed it to me one afternoon. Said it once belonged to her ne’er-do-well father.”
Hiking her skirts to her knees, Violet scrambled up a small ladder and reached for an object on the top shelf.