Cecelia felt herself dragged backwards then. The adrenaline still coursing through her veins caused her to lash out until she heard her mother's voice. “It is me, Cecelia. Be calm. Step away.”
And so she did, just as the Bow Street Runners came hounding across the bridge, their whistles blaring, and truncheons in hand.
They swarmed the two gentlemen, and for a second, Cecelia feared that they might get the wrong idea, that they might arrest the wrong man.
But as the group separated and the dust started to settle, she was relieved to find it was Greystone they had locked between them, three men holding him back from George, who rose back to full height and dusted himself off.
“Your Grace,” one of the Bow Street Runners, perhaps their captain, stepped forward, bowing to George, who stood glowering at the restrained man. “What would you have us do?”
“This man is a menace,” George said, his conviction almost palpable. “Take him away, and I shall have my solicitor send over all the evidence you may need to make a full investigation.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the man said, dipping his head once more. “Are you in need of any further assistance? Do you require medical attention?”
George shook his head, then looked back over his shoulder. Cecelia instinctively shook her own head.
“Thank you, sir,” George said, dismissing the men who began to drag Greystone – Fitzwilliam – away.
“You can't do this!” he cried over his shoulder as they went. “I am an innocent man!”
“We shall let the judge decide on that,” George returned.
“No, no! Lady Cecelia! Lady Westmere, you must intervene. I am an innocent man! He is a jealous fool only seeking to get in the way!”
Cecelia noted how George stiffened at his words, and instinctively, she stepped forward to lay her hand on his arm.
“George?” she said softly, and she felt the tension release from his body as he turned to look at her.
There was concern on his face as he looked her up and down, and asked, “Are you certain you aren't hurt?”
Cecelia quivered as he placed his fingers beneath her chin and urged it upwards, examining the area of her throat where Fitzwilliam had held the knife.
“I am fine,” Cecelia assured him, her hand tightening on his arm. “Areyou?”
George's expression softened into a smile, and he gripped her hand on his arm.
“I am now.”
The way he said it caused a tingle to run down Cecelia's spine.
For a second, their gazes met, and they stood in an oddly comfortable silence, both of their faces broadening into smiles.
“I am glad you came,” Cecelia said, barely able to say the words past the ever-growing lump in her throat.
“I am glad I made it in time,” George responded, his tone causing her face to heat. “I don't know what I might have done had any harm come to you.”
His fingers moved from where they lingered on her chin and caressed her cheek gently.
Cecelia saw her mother out of the corner of her eye, saw the way she glanced away as if to give them a moment's privacy, a rare gesture on her part.
Suddenly, remembering where they were and who they were, Cecelia stepped away, clearing her throat.
“I should get my mother home,” she said, feeling her gut churn at the idea of leaving him. “The fog is getting thicker, and the sun hasn't done anything to warm the day.”
George nodded in understanding, though there seemed to be an equally disappointed darkness in his gaze.
“I shall escort you,” he said then, making Cecelia's heart soar. “That is, if that is acceptable to you both?”
He glanced between her and her mother, and it was her mother who turned to look at him and say, “That would be most kind of you, Your Grace.”
