While Leorah focused her attention again on Lord Withinghall, the viscount’s blue eyes suddenly widened as he stared at the man next to her.
Leorah glanced to her left. The man was pulling out a gun. He pointed it at Lord Withinghall.
Without thinking, Leorah raised her parasol in both hands and slammed it down on the man’s outstretched gun.
He yelled, his face distorted. He grabbed her parasol and yanked it out of her hands.
He raised the gun again, pointing it toward the stage.
Lord Withinghall leapt off the stage at the man just as the gun went off like a crack of thunder.
The viscount landed on top of the man, slamming them both to the ground. Arms and legs flailed. Lord Withinghall knocked the man’s head against the ground. The man waved the gun in one hand, then turned the barrel toward the viscount’s head.
Leorah sprang at them. She grabbed the gun and wrenched it away.
The Maysons’ manservant, along with several other men, grabbed the gunman’s arms and dragged him out from under the viscount.
Lord Withinghall stood up. He was breathing hard. His neckcloth was askew and his hair mussed and falling over his forehead. He glanced around until his eyes met hers.
“Are you injured?” he asked.
“No. Are you?” Leorah’s gaze roamed over his tall, lean frame. “You were not shot, were you?”
“No.”
He looked around, spied her parasol on the ground, and picked it up. He handed it to her. She in turn gave him the assailant’s gun, a rather ornate dueling pistol.
“My parasol appears to have received the worst of it.” She laughed, but it was a near-hysterical sound.
“Shall I replace it for you?”
“You did not break it. That man who was trying to kill you—it was his fault.”
“Speaking of that man, would you excuse me?”
“Of course.” She reached up to tuck in a strand of hair that had fallen. Her hand was shaking.
Lord Withinghall turned to where several men were holding the fellow who had just tried to kill him. The man was struggling, but rather weakly.
“Who sent you to try to kill me?” Lord Withinghall asked in the same tone of voice he might have asked his butler, “Shall we have fish or chicken?”
That man said nothing, only stopped struggling against his captors, his head hanging forward in defeat.
“Who sent you?” Lord Withinghall asked a little more forcefully.
“Make way for the Justice of the Peace!” someone cried.
A man pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered around them. People were starting to shout out to him what had happened. He held up his hand and said, “I saw the whole thing.”
Lord Blakeney quickly introduced the Justice of the Peace, a Mr. Brooks, to Lord Withinghall. The viscount handed Mr. Brooks the weapon.
Mr. Brooks said, “Very glad you are unhurt, Lord Withinghall.” Then he turned to the men holding the would-be assassin. “Thank you, gentlemen. You may turn him over to the constables, and we will take charge of him.”
Lord Withinghall and Leorah stepped back to allow them some room as they made sure the culprit couldn’t escape, and then they led him away. One of the constables began writing down the names of the witnesses.
The Justice of the Peace turned back to Lord Withinghall. “I shall charge him with attempted murder, my lord. We shall lock him up and have him sent to Newgate as soon as possible. Someone will contact you, of course.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brooks.”
The man puffed out his chest, obviously proud that the viscount remembered his name.
The Lords Blakeney, Matherly, and Crenshaw all took a step toward Lord Withinghall.
“The way you leapt off the stage will be all over the papers tomorrow,” Matherly said.
“We can tell them you were defending Miss Hannah More from a madman,” Crenshaw said. “The lower classes will love you even more than they already do.”
Leorah glanced back at the stage and at the authoress. She was still sitting placidly in her chair, looking a bit annoyed.
“I think we should say you were heroic and challenged the man to a duel,” Blakeney said, “but he pulled out the gun and—”
“You will tell only the absolute truth. Now, you will excuse me, my lords,” Lord Withinghall said, “I shall escort Miss Langdon to her carriage, as I believe this rally is over.”
The lords pursed their lips and stared hard at Leorah.
Leorah took Lord Withinghall’s arm as the scene around them devolved into chaos, with men shouting and running—more people running to the scene than away from it—and people asking what had happened.
“You swing an impressive parasol, Miss Langdon,” Lord Withinghall drawled.
“I only wish it were permissible for ladies to carry walking sticks. I could have brained him good.”
“Very true.” He glanced down at her. He did not have a smile on his face, but his lip twitched, and there was a glimmer in his eye.
They reached the carriage, and he held her elbow and hand to help her inside. She felt a sudden urge to throw her arms around him. It was so strong she clasped her hands together to stop herself. She wanted to tell him how glad she was that he wasn’t hurt, that the world would be a much worse place without him. But she bit her lip instead.
“May I call on you tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes. Felicity and I will be home.”
He nodded and stared at her a moment. But then he closed the door of the carriage, and her driver quickly drove away.
Leorah closed her eyes and relived the entire incident, the terror of seeing someone aiming a gun at Lord Withinghall and shooting. She had struck the man’s hand, but he had not dropped the gun. In the moment it was almost like a dream, but now, as she sat in the carriage on her way back to London, her heart pounded and tears ran down her cheeks at the thought of a bullet tearing through Lord Withinghall’s chest. Thank you, God, that he was unhurt.
Her lips trembled as she pressed her handkerchief to her cheeks, preventing the tears from dripping onto her spencer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“How I wish I’d seen Lord Withinghall jump off the stage and onto that man with the gun.” Felicity rolled her eyes dreamily and clasped her hands against her chest.
“Would you stop saying that?” Leorah huffed out a sigh. “You know you would not have liked to see anyone shooting at the viscount.” Indeed, Leorah’s breath hitched as she said the words. Shooting at the viscount.
Felicity sat doing needlework, and Leorah went to the window to look out, staring down at the street, then to the doorway of the sitting room to listen for anyone who might be in the hallway, and then back to the window again as they waited for him to arrive. When had she ever waited so anxiously for anyone?
She did not wait long, as he came almost before it was polite to call. He entered the room and bowed. They exchanged polite greetings and sat.
“It is good to see you looking so well, Lord Withinghall,” Felicity said. “Yesterday could have gone very differently, I gather, from what Leorah has told me.”