The Wedding Night Affair--An Historical Mystery by L.C. Sharp (i have read the book .TXT) 📗

forcing them into the area below. Servants were racing out of the other houses in the street, heading for the mob, cudgels in hand, no doubt in an attempt to disperse them. A brawl erupted where the bunch of people with the brandy was. The bottle would be empty by now, and not everyone got a taste of it.

A window smashed, shards of glass showering on the crowd below. Juliana winced.

Steadily, Sir Edmund drew her back. They were two houses away now. Two more and they’d be at the end of the street. He kept a firm hold on her, over the long sleeve of the jacket, taking care not to bruise, although in these circumstances, she wouldn’t have minded.

The sheer mass of stinking humanity was overwhelming her resolve. She did not know how much longer she could stay on her feet, struggling back as people ran forward. The noise deafened her, the stink choked her, but still, she continued. Guided by Sir Edmund, she pushed back; encouraged by his murmured praise, she persevered.

They reached the corner. More people were coming, while cab drivers and others were heading just as determinedly in the other direction, bent on escaping from this deadly battle raging in Hanover Street. The cacophony of horses’ hooves added to the shouts and crashes, as property was destroyed. Liveried footmen appeared out of nearby houses, armed with pistols, swords and even a hammer or two.

And yet the journals would most likely dismiss this as a fracas or a disturbance unless the violence spread to other streets. In which case, it would be gleefully reported as another example of the mob rule threatening to overcome the orderly conduct of respectable citizens.

Or some such nonsense.

Gleeful giggles bubbled up inside Juliana, startling her when they burst free. After a glance at her, Sir Edmund released her, but kept hold of her hand. “Keep going,” he said, as they continued to walk briskly away from everything she had known, and toward a new future.

After today, nothing would ever be the same.

They turned the corner, and he hailed a cab. To her shock, it stopped long enough for them to scramble in.

Grateful for the rescue, even if it was in a cramped vehicle with cracked leather seats reeking of unwashed humanity, Juliana closed her eyes and let out one long sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said. She could never remember being so grateful to anyone.

“You’re welcome,” he answered dryly. He rapped on the top of the carriage with one fist and yelled, “Bow Street!”

The cab driver rapped back, as a signal that he understood.

“I’ve never been in one of these before today,” she confessed.

He turned a fascinated gaze on to her. “Never?”

She shook her head. “My parents would not allow it. Below our notice, they said.”

He snorted. “How the rich live. They have their own little world, floating above the rest of us.”

He opened his hand and stared at a small, silver-colored pin, such as the kind that fastened a neck cloth. The workmanship was crude, so it had not come from her house, unless it belonged to a servant. “What is that?”

“I took it from the man I gave the brandy to. A fair exchange, I think.”

He pocketed the item. She had no idea what it meant to him, but obviously it meant something.

When she recalled what he’d actually said before their escape, her heart sank once more. “I am to be locked up at Bow Street?”

“We shall see,” he said shortly. “Remember, I said I would make you no promises. But you will not be thrown into Newgate with the rest of the prisoners. You have people to vouch for you, so you will be released into the cognizance of someone. Probably your father.”

“No,” she breathed, then repeated it louder. “No.”

“Then where?” he demanded, turning to face her.

Their knees collided, and she flinched away, unused to such intimate touches.

“Do you have any relatives you can stay with?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be in this mess. My father would not have married me off to Godfrey.” Or at least he might have given her more say in her choice of husband. She’d have had a cousin to inherit the estate, and the terrible burden would have been off her shoulders.

His mouth firmed. “I see. We will contrive something for you.”

Yes, she was a prisoner. “I did not kill Godfrey,” she affirmed, as much for her as for the man sitting next to her.

The cab lurched around a corner, throwing her into his arms. This time she let out a cry of pain.

He righted her. “I could not help noticing other marks as you dressed. Are you bruised all over?”

“Yes, and I have a few grazes.” She did not elaborate. She did not have to. Godfrey had inflicted every mark she carried, and there were many of them. Had she stayed and Godfrey lived, she did not doubt he would have inflicted more serious damage. When he’d slammed her against the wall, she’d thought he’d broken her arm.

“You said I had motive? You are right.” Whatever it cost her she would say it. “If I’d had a weapon, I’d have used it for my own protection. He used a knife to cut the clothes off me. If I’d thought of it, I might have used it.”

“Was that the one that killed him?”

She liked the way he put that. He wasn’t assuming that she had done it, then. “Yes.”

“Opportune, then. The nearest weapon to hand.”

“What difference does that make?”

He raised a brow. “If you did kill him, but do not remember doing it, then grabbing the nearest weapon could be key in your defense. A blind attempt to defend yourself rather than a deliberate attack. Perhaps you had intended to pick up a candlestick to fend him off, but found the dagger instead. Manslaughter can still mean hanging, but it does not have to. Self-defense could be argued, too, which could ameliorate your sentence. Murder, on the other hand, premeditated and deliberate,