Page 122 of Unmasking the Diamond
No one moved.
She sighed impatiently. “Must I truly shoot one of you to prove I mean what I say?”
From the back of the group, Rupert’s voice carried, calm but cutting. “May I offer a suggestion before you do something you’ll regret?”
“And what might that be?” Miss Dawlish asked.
Rupert stepped forward. “Surrender. Now. It would be in your best interests.”
Miss Dawlish threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I like you, sir. You have a certain… charm. Perhaps I shall let you die last.”
“You’ve been so busy pointing your pistols at us, you failed to notice one small detail,” Rupert said.
Miss Dawlish’s smile faltered. “And what is that?”
“That we didn’t come alone.”
Her gaze darted over her shoulder, confusion flickering for the first time. “What do you mean—who came with you?”
A low creak echoed from the corridor behind her. Footsteps. Then another voice—firm, unfamiliar, and female—rang out.
“Lower your weapon,” the newcomer said, clouded in shadows, her voice holding a faint French accent. “Unless you wish to test how fast I can fire mine.”
Miss Dawlish stiffened, the color draining from her face. Charlotte’s heart leapt into her throat. Relief, disbelief, and hope collided in her chest.
Luca glanced at her briefly, his expression fierce and protective. “For all that is holy, please get behind me now.”
For once, Charlotte did not argue. She nodded, her voice steady but her pulse racing. “I think that might be for the best.”
From the shadows at the end of the corridor, a figure emerged. The petite woman was dressed in men’s clothing—dark trousers and a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves—and she held a pistol with the steady precision of someone well acquainted with its use. Her brown hair was tied at the nape of her neck, and her calm, unflinching expression drew every eye in the corridor.
“Rosalie?” Alistair’s voice cracked with disbelief.
Charlotte turned sharply towards her brother, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Who is Rosalie?”
Alistair’s jaw tightened. “It is a long story,” he muttered, never taking his eyes off the woman.
Before Charlotte could press him further, movement caught her attention—Rupert had drawn his pistol, his arm extended with unnerving steadiness. The metallic click echoed down the corridor as he aimed directly at Miss Dawlish.
“As I said,” Rupert called out, his tone measured, “you have lost. Put down your weapons, and you may yet live another day.”
“But for how long?” Miss Dawlish asked.
Rupert stepped forward. “I cannot say,” he replied. “But I promise that I will not be your barrister.”
“Mother?” Roger’s voice wavered, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Miss Dawlish’s pale eyes darted to her son. “Don’t lower your pistol,” she said. “We still have the advantage.”
Rupert’s lips curved faintly. “No, you don’t,” he said. “My associate is an excellent shot. She will kill you where you stand.”
Charlotte’s heart pounded as her gaze flicked to Rosalie, who stood utterly motionless, her pistol aimed squarely at Miss Dawlish.
“She only has one shot,” Miss Dawlish sneered.
“And yet,” Rupert countered, “she’s aiming at you. You may be reckless with your own life, but are you willing to gamble your son’s?”
Miss Dawlish’s smirk faltered. “Why did you have to ruin everything?” she shouted, her voice cracking. “We weren’t bothering anyone!”
