panel behind him and withdrew a large, double-barreled pistol.
The panel closed with an almost silent
snick,
and he sat, leg braced against the door, gun resting loosely in his hand: a guardian at the portal.
“Do you all go about armed? Does every coach in London have a secret panel?”
Mr. Sandison chuckled, his whole demeanor seemingly relaxed as he swayed with the coach’s motion. “Life in London does seem
to call for a weapon far more often than one might assume.” He pushed the curtain aside with the barrel of the gun and stared
out into the dark street. After a moment, he let the curtain fall closed again. “Or at least my life certainly does.”
“Lord Leonidas’s as well.”
“Yes.” Mr. Sandison nodded in agreement. “Vaughn does seem to lead a most exciting life.”
He was looking directly at her, and Viola felt a blush rise in response. Ridiculous. She never blushed. Never. Though that
seemed to have changed of late… She pursed her lips, refusing to be baited. She pulled the handkerchief away from her head
and was relieved to see the flow had greatly lessened.
Mr. Sandison glanced at her. “Best keep it there a while longer.” He pushed the curtain aside again and returned his attention
to the streets. The occasional flash of light as they passed a streetlamp illuminated the coach for brief moments before plunging
it back into darkness.
The plush seat embraced Viola as she sagged backward, only her stays keeping her from crumpling into a ball. The invasion
of her house had been terrifying, but this, to be attacked on the streets, to see men wounded defending her… It was too much.
She simply couldn’t make sense of it. This clearly hadn’t been about seizing her manuscript. It had been about her. She’d
never imagined Sir Hugo would go to these lengths.
Did he think killing her would stop publication, or was he merely that angry over his humiliating encounter that evening?
And he was in breach of their contract. Had been for months, ever since he’d failed to make the quarterly payment that was
due. Ever since the first volume of her memoir had thrown him into an inexplicable rage.
Her hands began to shake, her stomach churning violently against the pressure of her stays. Her mouth watered as though she
were going to be sick. Viola shut her eyes and concentrated on the simple act of breathing.
The sooner she finished her manuscript and handed it over to her publisher the better. Once it was gone, she would be safe.
There would no longer be any reason—logically—to harass her. Though Sir Hugo might burn for revenge when he read his chapter.
Killing her after the book was in production would only ensure it was the biggest hit of not just the Season but possibly
the century. The murder of the Earl of Sandwich’s mistress—also committed as she left the theatre, now that Viola thought
of it—was still being talked of in lurid whispers four years later. If poor Martha had written a memoir, it would have been
a sensation. Viola shivered and thrust the memory of her dead friend away.
The carriage rolled to a clattering stop, and Viola opened her eyes as Mr. Sandison leapt down, the magnificent silver braid
that edged his coat sparkling in the welcoming light of her home.
“Stay inside while we check that the street is clear,” he said before shutting her up again. The distinct sound of knuckles
on wood was followed by muffled conversation.The coach rocked gently as one of his footmen swung down. Minutes passed in tense silence. The door opened, and Mr. Sandison’s
gloved hand appeared.
“All clear, Mrs. Whedon. Let’s get you inside before that changes.”
Mrs. Draper stood in the doorway, crowding aside Sandison’s bulky footmen like a broody hen making room for her chicks. As
Viola’s foot touched the cold metal of the coach step, she remembered her shoes were missing and that she was wearing only
one stocking.
Mr. Sandison
The panel closed with an almost silent
snick,
and he sat, leg braced against the door, gun resting loosely in his hand: a guardian at the portal.
“Do you all go about armed? Does every coach in London have a secret panel?”
Mr. Sandison chuckled, his whole demeanor seemingly relaxed as he swayed with the coach’s motion. “Life in London does seem
to call for a weapon far more often than one might assume.” He pushed the curtain aside with the barrel of the gun and stared
out into the dark street. After a moment, he let the curtain fall closed again. “Or at least my life certainly does.”
“Lord Leonidas’s as well.”
“Yes.” Mr. Sandison nodded in agreement. “Vaughn does seem to lead a most exciting life.”
He was looking directly at her, and Viola felt a blush rise in response. Ridiculous. She never blushed. Never. Though that
seemed to have changed of late… She pursed her lips, refusing to be baited. She pulled the handkerchief away from her head
and was relieved to see the flow had greatly lessened.
Mr. Sandison glanced at her. “Best keep it there a while longer.” He pushed the curtain aside again and returned his attention
to the streets. The occasional flash of light as they passed a streetlamp illuminated the coach for brief moments before plunging
it back into darkness.
The plush seat embraced Viola as she sagged backward, only her stays keeping her from crumpling into a ball. The invasion
of her house had been terrifying, but this, to be attacked on the streets, to see men wounded defending her… It was too much.
She simply couldn’t make sense of it. This clearly hadn’t been about seizing her manuscript. It had been about her. She’d
never imagined Sir Hugo would go to these lengths.
Did he think killing her would stop publication, or was he merely that angry over his humiliating encounter that evening?
And he was in breach of their contract. Had been for months, ever since he’d failed to make the quarterly payment that was
due. Ever since the first volume of her memoir had thrown him into an inexplicable rage.
Her hands began to shake, her stomach churning violently against the pressure of her stays. Her mouth watered as though she
were going to be sick. Viola shut her eyes and concentrated on the simple act of breathing.
The sooner she finished her manuscript and handed it over to her publisher the better. Once it was gone, she would be safe.
There would no longer be any reason—logically—to harass her. Though Sir Hugo might burn for revenge when he read his chapter.
Killing her after the book was in production would only ensure it was the biggest hit of not just the Season but possibly
the century. The murder of the Earl of Sandwich’s mistress—also committed as she left the theatre, now that Viola thought
of it—was still being talked of in lurid whispers four years later. If poor Martha had written a memoir, it would have been
a sensation. Viola shivered and thrust the memory of her dead friend away.
The carriage rolled to a clattering stop, and Viola opened her eyes as Mr. Sandison leapt down, the magnificent silver braid
that edged his coat sparkling in the welcoming light of her home.
“Stay inside while we check that the street is clear,” he said before shutting her up again. The distinct sound of knuckles
on wood was followed by muffled conversation.The coach rocked gently as one of his footmen swung down. Minutes passed in tense silence. The door opened, and Mr. Sandison’s
gloved hand appeared.
“All clear, Mrs. Whedon. Let’s get you inside before that changes.”
Mrs. Draper stood in the doorway, crowding aside Sandison’s bulky footmen like a broody hen making room for her chicks. As
Viola’s foot touched the cold metal of the coach step, she remembered her shoes were missing and that she was wearing only
one stocking.
Mr. Sandison
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