A Spy's Devotion (24 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY

Julia turned and ran toward the front stairs, her heart pounding sickeningly.

“Get back here, Julia!” Her uncle’s footsteps pounded behind her.

She clutched the heavy cross as she ran.
Oh God, help me
.
I don’t want to strike my uncle with this cross, but please don’t let him catch me.

Her skirts were tangling around her legs and slowing her down. She could feel her uncle getting closer but did not dare turn around to look.

She reached the stairs and ran down them two at a time.

“You can’t get away.”

Julia imagined she felt his breath on her neck. She turned her head just as he lunged for her, his hands reaching.

She screamed, stepping quickly to the other side of the stairs.

Uncle Wilhern brushed against her arm as he lost his balance. He fell headfirst down the stairs. He finally came to rest at the bottom, lying on his side. His eyes were closed, and he did not move.

Julia ran the rest of the way down the stairs, avoiding his motionless form as she held up her skirt with one hand.

She darted out the front door and down the steps in the direction of the Langdons’ town house.

Julia knocked on the front door of the Langdon home while staring back down the street. She was breathing so hard, when the servant answered the door, she could barely speak.

“Is Mr. Nicholas Langdon at home?”

The servant, a middle-aged woman, stared at her with her mouth open. “No, miss. Mr. Nicholas has gone from home and did not say when he might return.”

“It’s very important.” Julia stopped to swallow past the dryness in her throat. “I need to speak with him, if he is at home.”

“Upon my honor, miss, he left just two minutes ago. He took the carriage. Old Bailey drove him.”

“Thank you.” Julia ran from the door, hurrying down the street to the next street over, where she could always find a hack for hire.

Oh, why had she not got there sooner? Why did he have to be gone?

She slowed, unable to run anymore. Soon she came upon a carriage and driver. “Please, sir, can you take me to Bishopsgate Street?”

He tipped his hat and quoted her a price. Fortunately, she always carried a few coins sewn into the hem of her skirt, to keep it from flying up immodestly in any gust of wind. It should be enough.

The young driver handed her in.

“If you please, sir, I am in a hurry.”

“I’ll do my best, miss.”

Soon they were off, riding down the street at a fast pace.

Julia ripped the hem out of her dress and removed enough coins to pay the driver. And then she had several minutes to think while they rode through the evening streets. The sun had not yet gone down. Surely it could not be very late. Mr. Langdon must have gone somewhere else first, because it would not yet be half past seven when she arrived at the place where her uncle’s evil friend was assigned to wait and shoot Nicholas Langdon.

But what if she were too late? No, no, she could not think like that. She would make it. She would get there in time. She must.

An image of Nicholas Langdon lying in the street, a bullet through his chest, rose vividly in her mind. A pain, as if she had been shot herself, streaked through her.

Ruthlessly, she shoved the image away. He would not be shot. He would not.

The carriage arrived at Bishopsgate Street in less time than usual. Julia watched out of the window until they were near the place where the pockmarked man was supposed to wait.

She could not let him see her, she suddenly realized. He knew what she looked like.

Julia rapped on the side of the carriage to get the driver to stop. “Let me out here.”

He stopped the horses. Julia opened the door herself and sprang out. She gave him the money and then noticed him staring at the iron cross in her hand. He must think she was daft. Truly, she wasn’t sure why she was still clutching the thing. But she hurried away down the street.

She had come away without even her bonnet, without a shawl or anything of the sort. Without anything to hide her face, the man across the street would see her.

She slipped into the nearest door, a shabby little shop that sold candles and other household odds and ends. Through the shop window she could see the place where the pockmarked man would be waiting. No doubt he was hidden in the shadows of the alley, waiting for Nicholas Langdon to walk by. Would he have his coachman let him out at the end of Bishopsgate Street, as he always did, and walk the rest of the way? Or would he have him drive closer tonight?

She needed to be able to see when he arrived. She slipped out the door and back onto the street, shielding her face with her hand. She stepped into another shop, quite close to the corner of the street where the Children’s Aid Mission was located. Standing at the large front window, she would surely see Nicholas Langdon as he walked this way, before he reached the corner.

She looked back and forth, examining every face that came near. She also searched the opposite corner, looking for the pockmarked man. Was he waiting in the shadows of the alley, between those two buildings? It seemed the most logical place.

She continued to search down the street for Nicholas Langdon. But what if he came from the other direction this time? Every nerve in her body seemed to be just beneath the surface, stretching, ready to leap out and stop Nicholas Langdon.

“Miss, may I help you with something? I need to close the shop.”

The baker—she suddenly noticed this was a bakery—stood at her elbow.

“Oh. No, thank you. I was just . . . No, thank you.” Julia stepped out the door—and saw Nicholas Langdon coming. From the opposite way. He was nearly to the corner. A man across the street was stepping out of the alley and raising a gun.

“Nicholas!” Julia screamed his name and ran as fast as she could, just as a loud report sounded from across the street.

She felt herself slam into Nicholas Langdon’s chest. A second loud blast came from the same place. Julia dropped her cross. It fell to the street with a metallic thud.

Her knees weren’t holding her up, but Mr. Langdon’s arms kept her upright against his chest.

Nicholas Langdon was pulling her into the smaller street, toward the mission.

“You must hurry and get away. They are trying to kill you.” She forced her knees not to buckle. “Go, quickly. The shooter will find you.”

“Be calm. Some men tackled him and took his gun away.” He held her at arm’s length and looked her up and down. “Oh no.” His face held a look of horror as he stared at her midsection.

“What is it?” But she suddenly knew. A sharp pain stabbed her side. Another pain was pulsing through her hand. Blood stained her white dress.

“You’ve been shot.” Nicholas Langdon scooped her up in his arms, holding her tight against him. He started at a fast walk toward the Children’s Aid Mission building.

“Don’t take me to the mission. That is the first place they will look.”

“Where, then?”

“To the Bartholdys’. Do you remember where it is?”

“You need a doctor.” He suddenly groaned.

“What is it? Are you hurt?”

“No! Julia, you’ve been shot! Oh God, please don’t let her die.”

“I won’t—” She gasped at the pain in her side. “I won’t die. It is nothing, I am sure.” She glanced down but could not see her wound, as her injured side was pressed against his stomach.

He was striding very fast, almost running, as though she weighed no more than a child.

People were exclaiming all around them, and those on the street stood back to let them pass, staring very pointedly at her.

She lifted her hand. It was indeed quite bloody. But at least all her fingers were present.

“I do not think I am injured very badly. I think I can walk.”

He only glanced at her, his brows drawn together, and kept up his fast pace.

Soon they reached the Bartholdys’ tiny house. “Knock,” he ordered.

Julia knocked on the door with her uninjured hand. Nicholas Langdon tried to open the door, but it was locked.

A servant opened to them. She stepped back when she saw Mr. Langdon holding Julia.

Everything around her became a bit hazy. He laid her on a settee and knelt beside her.

“Bring something to staunch the bleeding,” he ordered. Was he angry? He sounded angry. Madame Bartholdy was running around in such a distracted way, calling out instructions to their servant. Julia was hardly aware of anything but Nicholas Langdon hovering over her, his face contorted with obvious anguish.

Nicholas stared down at Julia’s side, pressing his hands against it.

“You are spoiling your gloves.” It was the only thing she could think to say as the bright-red stains spread over his fingers.

“Send the servant to fetch a physician.” He glanced up at Madame Bartholdy.

“Yes, of course,” she said in her thick accent. Then she turned to give instructions to the poor servant, who looked as if she might faint.

“Are you in much pain?” He was staring down at her in that intense way of his, his brown eyes quite close to hers as he continued to press his hands into her side—until Madame Bartholdy brought a bundle of cloth bandages. He took them and pressed them against the wound.

“Not if you wouldn’t press so hard.”

“I am sorry, but I don’t want you to lose too much blood.”

Everything seemed like a dream and not entirely real.

He leaned quite close again and said, “How can I ever forgive myself? Oh, Julia, why did you do it?”

The pain—and his calling her by her given name, Julia, instead of Miss Grey—seemed to wake her out of her dreamlike state. She had been shot.
Oh dear.
And she had screamed his Christian name just before the first shot came.

She gazed up into his tense face. “I thank God you were not hurt, that I reached you in time.”

Madame Bartholdy suddenly knelt beside him. “Let me do that. You comfort Miss Grey.”

Nicholas Langdon moved closer to where Julia’s head lay on the settee. The pain was suddenly so sharp she was having trouble catching her breath.

Mr. Langdon snatched off his soiled gloves and threw them on the floor. He picked up her injured hand, took up one of the cloth bandages, and wiped at the blood.

“It looks as if he only nicked the side of your finger, here.” He showed her and then he ripped the cloth into a long strip and wrapped it around the wound, tying it in place.

“Whatever you were holding, it must have stopped the bullet from hitting my chest.”

“My parents’ cross.”

“What? A cross?”

“The surgeon is coming,” the servant announced, running back into the room. “I found him walking this way. He was on his way home from another call.”

“There are no physicians nearby, but a surgeon may do almost as well,” Madame Bartholdy said apologetically.

An older man came in the door and made his way toward them, finding a table to set down his bag.

“The second bullet must have struck your side,” Nicholas Langdon said. “Do you know who did it?”

“I don’t know his name. He had pockmarks on his face and brown hair. My uncle told him to shoot you. He sent you the note. It was not from Mr. Wilson at all. I was so afraid I wouldn’t get there in time.” Her last few words came out as a whisper.

Nicholas Langdon bent and kissed her wrist and then stood as the surgeon drew near and began asking questions.

Monsieur Bartholdy said, “Mr. Langdon? Come. We men are not needed for this next phase of the operation.”

Where was Monsieur Bartholdy taking him? But when the surgeon cut a hole in the side of her muslin gown, Julia was glad he was gone.

The surgeon washed away the blood. “Glory be. This is but a flesh wound. The bullet merely scraped you, child, and kept going. You shall require no more than a bandage.” He shook his head, smiling. “You are a very fortunate young lady.”

Only a flesh wound. That was good. She waited impatiently as he applied some kind of salve to the wound and then bandaged it with Madame Bartholdy’s help.

“Madame Bartholdy,” Julia said, reaching for that lady’s hand, “please tell Mr. Langdon that he must get away from here. He could still be in danger.”

“You can tell him so yourself,” she said cheerfully, laying a thin shawl over Julia to ensure her modesty. “I’ll go get him.”

“Now, miss, I think you will be well.” The surgeon was packing up his things. “Change your bandage once or twice a day and do not do anything strenuous for several days.”

“Oh, I must pay you.” She could not allow the Bartholdys to bear the expense.

“I will take care of it,” Nicholas Langdon said as he strode toward her. He and the surgeon spoke quietly with each other in the corner of the room for a few moments before he came toward her.

“You must go.” Julia tried to sound as urgent as possible. “My uncle may try again to kill you.”

“Won’t he also come looking for you?”

“Yes, but he won’t kill me.”
He will only force me to marry Mr. Edgerton.
“You are the one in danger.”

“I do not think he will attempt to kill me a second time in one night. But I must go now and speak to the constable. I saw some men overcome our shooter and capture him, just after the second shot.”