There was a wealth of information to be found in what she’d just told him, and as shrewd as it might have been, Anthony decided to press the advantage that the moment offered. “Did you enjoy growing up in Moxley?”
“Oh, yes, I . . .” She looked at him then, her eyes unblinking and her lips slightly parted to form a startled expression. And then she frowned, and that frown turned to something else entirely—something sad and defeated that in turn made Anthony feel like a cad. She hadn’t wanted him to know, but he’d tricked her into telling him anyway. He regretted it, and yet he didn’t, because now he finally stood a chance—they stood a chance. If she lived close by, he would find her, no matter what.
“Kingsborough!” a deep voice called from behind him. Anthony turned to find Lucien Marvaine, the Earl of Roxberry, striding toward him, accompanied by the lovely Lady Crossby, recently widowed, a particularly sad affair, since she’d been left alone with the couple’s six-month-old daughter, Sophia.
Anthony smiled as they approached. He’d always gotten on well with Roxberry. He had an adventurous streak that Anthony found particularly entertaining. Stepping forward, he was just about to voice his own greeting when from the corner of his eye he saw a flash of movement and then two things occurred at once. Anthony turned his head to see Daniel Neville dancing his way toward him with a lady he did not recognize. They were just coming up beside Lady Crossby and Roxberry when another firework exploded, a loud bang sounded and Neville’s dance partner screamed.
All else forgotten, Anthony ran forward to where Neville stood, his eyes wide open in shock as he held the limp lady in his arms. “Oh Jesus!” His eyes met Anthony’s in a frantic plea for help. “Someone shot her. Someone bloody shot her!”
Seeing the red patch of blood at the lady’s shoulder, Anthony knew he was right. “Get her on the ground,” he said as he removed his jacket for her to lie on. Next, he undid his cravat, bundled it into a tight wad and shoved it toward Neville, who was now kneeling at the lady’s side together with Roxberry, Winston and Casper, who’d all come to offer their assistance. “Put this on her wound, add some pressure, and try to stop the bleeding. Winston, I’m leaving you in charge here while I try to find out what the devil happened.”
Without a backward glance, Anthony started toward the steps leading up to the terrace. The majority of his guests were still congregated there, gazing up at the sky in expectation of the next firework, oblivious to the fact that a woman had just been shot. Taking the steps two at a time, Anthony quickly reached the terrace. He stopped to look around, searching the crowd for any sign of a perpetrator. Whoever had fired the pistol would have had to stand right at the edge of the terrace, up against the railing where the crowd was most dense.
Signaling a footman, he told the man to alert the guards and close off all the exits. He then pushed his way past the first few people and made his way toward the front, looking around as he went, but nothing struck him as strange or unusual. Damn. Whoever he was looking for had probably run off already. Seeing Lord Frompton, Anthony patted him on the shoulder, drawing his attention. “There’s been an incident. One of my guests—a woman, to be precise—has been shot.”
“Good Lord,” Frompton muttered. “Is she dead?”
“I’ve no idea. I left my brother and a few others to tend to her while I went in search of the villain. The lady in question was shot in the shoulder as she was turned in this direction, indicating that whoever did it must have been standing up here amongst the rest of you. Did you happen to see anything unusual? Someone’s sudden departure?”
Frompton shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but I’ll help you look. I’ll just inform my wife.”
Grateful for the extra bit of assistance the earl offered, Anthony gave him a curt nod before making his way over to one of the stone benches that lined the periphery of the terrace. Climbing up, he scanned the crowd again, but nobody was in a hurry to depart. In all likelihood, the would-be assassin had already left the grounds.
Jumping down, Anthony marched toward the doors leading back inside the ballroom. “Don’t let anyone else in,” he ordered the footman that he’d stationed there, “unless they’re a member of this household.”
Back inside, he didn’t break his stride as he glanced briefly at the orchestra—nothing out of place there. Hurrying onward, he ran up the grand staircase leading up to the foyer, saying, “Did someone else just come this way, Phelps?” to the startled butler.
“A lady, my lord, about ten minutes ago. She’ll be long gone by now though—her carriage was ready and waiting.”
“Christ! One of my guests has been shot.” At this Phelps blanched. “Please dispatch two footmen to fetch the constable along with Doctor Harper.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Phelps said stiffly as he turned about and hurried off.
Heading back toward the ballroom, Anthony was met by Neville, who was carrying the shooting victim in his arms, his face pale and filled with a desperation that Anthony had never before seen in the reprobate. He was accompanied by Winston, his mother and . . . Lord and Lady Grifton? Why on earth were they hurrying after Neville with such sour expressions?
Anthony frowned. He’d never cared for how miserly, selfish and arrogant they’d proven themselves to be in the time he’d known them, but their estate was close to his. It would have been badly done not to invite them.
Now was not the time to deliberate, however—there would be time for explanations later. Instead, it was imperative that they did whatever they could to help the woman who’d been shot. Looking beyond them all, he saw that the footman he’d stationed at the ballroom doors was starting to have trouble turning the guests away. It wouldn’t be long before someone pushed the man aside, demanding entry. “This way,” Anthony told Neville as he switched directions and began heading toward the green parlor. Ushering everyone inside, he closed the door behind him. “You can set her down over there, Neville. I’ve sent for a doctor, but in the meantime . . .” He hesitated before asking the dreaded question. “Is she alive?”
“It appears so,” Winston said while his mother—whom Anthony would have thought to be beside herself in light of how her perfect evening was turning into a rapid disaster—walked across to where the lady now lay and began pulling her sleeve down over her shoulder.
“The least we can do is try to clean this,” she explained. “Would you please give me some brandy and another cravat? This one’s soaked through.”
Anthony blinked, momentarily taken aback by his mother’s air of command. It had been years since he’d seen her like this. Eager to help in any way he could, he quickly poured a measure of brandy into a glass and placed it on the table next to where she knelt just as Winston and Neville both handed him their cravats. He gave one to his mother, who dipped the length of fabric into the glass of brandy, then pressed it against the lady’s open wound. Her mask had been removed, he realized, revealing a face he hadn’t seen since . . . well, he couldn’t quite remember since when, but he suddenly understood why Lord and Lady Grifton were present.
“I thought she was—”
“Quite,” Lady Grifton snapped. “Apparently she pulled the wool over all of our eyes.”
Trying to find an appropriate response to that and failing miserably, Anthony decided to go in search of Miss Smith. “I ought to explain the situation to our guests, but I’ll be back soon. Can you manage until I return?” It was partly true of course—the guests had looked quite disgruntled at being kept outdoors. Deep down inside, however, there was no denying that it was an excuse to find Miss Smith and at the very least bid her a good night before she left.
But when he returned to the ballroom, it was clear that panic had begun to unfold. The rest of the guests must have realized what had happened and were now worried for their own safety. Ignoring the jumble of nerves that tumbled through his stomach at the thought of addressing everyone, Anthony stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled—rather uncivilized perhaps, but it worked immediately, drawing the attention of one and all.
“Will she be all right?” Louise asked, coming up to him as soon as he’d assured his guests that the shooter had already vacated the premises and no longer posed a threat to any of them. Determined to be hospitable, he ended by saying that the music would resume and that dancing would continue, though he secretly hoped they’d all depart within the next half hour. There was much for his family to attend to; more so once the doctor and constable arrived. “I hope so,” he told Louise while her husband stood silently at her side. “It’s Lady Rebecca, by the way—the Earl of Airmont’s daughter.”
The surprise on Louise’s face was unmistakable. “The mad one?” This was spoken in a whisper of disbelief.
“Precisely,” Anthony said. He still had to figure out what she was doing at the ball. He hadn’t invited her, and judging from Lord and Lady Grifton’s expressions, they were equally surprised by their niece’s attendance.
“If you need assistance, I’d be happy to help,” Huntley said.
Anthony nodded his appreciation. “Thank you. I was actually hoping to find Miss Smith. I don’t suppose either of you have seen her since you came back inside?”
“She left,” Louise said matter-of-factly. “It was right before you returned, so I suppose you must have been—”
“In the green parlor,” Anthony muttered, his heart feeling suddenly heavy. He met his sister’s gaze. “I don’t suppose she said anything significant to you before her departure?”
Louise shook her head, but then she suddenly frowned, and Anthony knew she’d thought of something important. “She rushed past me, saying something about how late it was and that she had to hurry home.”
“She did thank you for a lovely evening,” Huntley put in.
“Yes, she did, but she’d barely gotten out the door before the Deerfords appeared and . . . ah, here they are again.”
It was too late for Anthony to beat a hasty retreat without being deliberately rude, but he really didn’t have time to listen to what either of them might have to say. Lady Rebecca had just been shot in his home, and he’d left his mother and brother to tend to her. He really ought to be getting back to the parlor so he could supervise and offer his support, not to mention the fact that he had quite a few questions for Lady Rebecca and the Griftons.
“Your Grace,” Lady Deerford began. She sounded as if she was struggling for breath. “You must tell us who she is—the blonde with the yellow gown—your sister says her name is Miss Smith, but surely you must know something more, like where she lives? How did you address her invitation, Your Grace? It’s of the utmost importance that we find her.”
“Are you able to tell me why?” Anthony asked, his curiosity piqued.