Page 23 of From Unwanted to Duchess
CHAPTER 8
James
James exhaled, not looking forward to having to explain to his godmother what had happened.
In fact, he dreaded it, thinking of that gunshot—that unmistakable noise. He shuddered at the thought of it, the memories rising in the back of his mind, but he pushed them away.
He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to think of it. And yet he could not help it. Because that awful sound—a gunshot ringing in the night—had started
The more they walked toward his godmother’s house, the more images flashed through his mind. The sound of the gunshot faded, replaced by the thud of fists against flesh. The taste of blood filled his mouth. Then a scream. A horrible cracking sound. And more blood.
“There you are!” His godmother rushed toward them.
Her carefully applied makeup was smudged now as she wrapped her stout arms around Frances and pulled her near. She peppered kisses on her face, then turned to James, hugging him close.
“How are the two of you? I thought you got caught up in the crowd!”
“We were,” he said, “but not voluntarily. We tried to make it back to the carriage, but?—”
“I know, I know! I had to leave. I thought the two of you had gone down the street, so I directed the driver to collect you. But then we couldn’t get through because those people were coming with their torches. So I had hoped that we could catch up with you, but there were more and more people coming. I do not even know where they were headed.”
“To the house of Frederick John Robinson on Old Burlington Street,” Frances supplied.
“Oh goodness. I bet that man had no idea what he was unleashing when he introduced the Corn Bill to the House of Commons.”
“I dare say so,” James agreed. “There were dozens of people outside his house, and then there was a gunshot.”
“A gunshot!” Aunt Eugenia exclaimed with horror. “Was anyone hurt?”
Frances and James both shook their heads.
“Not that we know of, but we were several blocks away by then,” James added.
“Well, I am glad that you have brought her home safe and sound, James. Frances, let us go inside. All of us. How about a cup of tea?”
“I do not think I can drink anything,” Frances replied. “I think I need to lie down. I am rather fatigued.”
“Of course, dear,” Aunt Eugenia said as the three climbed the steps and entered the house.
Frances made her way up the stairs, while James remained behind. She had held herself together remarkably well, given that she was not accustomed to life in the city. She had most likely never seen a mob descend upon her in all her life.
The moment Frances was out of earshot, Aunt Eugenia smacked him on his arm. “How dare you bring her into such a situation!”
“I did no such thing!” he protested. “I only went to see what the commotion was. I couldn’t have known what was going to happen. In any case, I kept her safe.”
Aunt Eugenia divested herself of her pelisse and the turban on her head. “I suppose you did. Come, take a glass of whiskey with me. That’ll put hair on your teeth.”
“That sounds like the sort of thing I could use now,” he muttered.
They entered the parlor, and she poured them each a generous glass of whiskey. James drained his in three swallows.
Usually, he enjoyed the burn down his throat, but today he did not. It had been terrifying, the moment he had lost Frances in the crowd. He had never been so scared. Well, not in at least ten years.
“You look as pale as a wall,” Aunt Eugenia commented and sat down beside him on the settee. She had brought the bottle with her and refilled his glass, then hers, up to the rim.
“I will admit I am not myself tonight. It was rather disturbing. I do hope nobody was killed or hurt.”
“I suppose we will know in the morning. You know how people talk in these parts. If anything happened, we will know.” She paused and looked at him sideways. “A gunshot, you say?”
