Orkey’s hand pressed across her mouth before she could screech the word, but just as quickly, someone barreled into his body and tackled him away from her.
She caught a flash of red hair, familiar brown trousers, one second before a gunshot reverberated throughout the room.
Rage ignited Tom, blasting heat beneath his skin as his fingers clamped tighter around the man’s neck. He’d kill him. He’d rip out every cursed bone and feed it to the dogs.
“That will be enough, Tommy.” Mrs. Musgrave’s voice was calm, slow, easy, devastating.
Another gunshot.
A nearby chandelier wobbled, and glass sprayed in a pinging shower.
Ducking out of the downpour, Tom slung the young blackguard to the ground and whirled to Meg.
She’d risen from the chaise lounge, one hand on the armrest as if to steady herself. Her cheeks were pink. Her chin purpling. Her eyes locked on him—unblinking and wild—with a stricken look he’d only seen on her face once.
The night she told him about the alley.
Stomach hitching, he rushed for her—
A hard force rammed into Tom’s shoulder, sending him stumbling. He hit a wooden stand and chess pieces scattered around him.
“Do not hurt him, Abraham.” The drawing room doors thudded open again. “Vern, I wish you to stand guard over Tommy by the mantle. He is not to move and he is not to be injured, but he is to witness the proceedings.”
The rat called Vern bullied Tom to the mantle with his cudgel. His face soured with a frown, one almost of remorse, before he straightened his stance like a sentinel.
Tom’s heartbeat racketed out of control. He brought the ropes to his mouth. Bit at them with his teeth. “Mrs. Musgrave.”
“Orkey, can you stand?”
“Yes’m.”
“Then go and fetch Mr. Foxcroft.”
Orkey bounced up, turned circles until he spotted his hat, and mashed it on his head as he fled the room.
“Mrs. Musgrave.” Tom’s voice deepened a pitch. “Ye cannae do this.”
“Abraham, you must hold her still.”
“No.” Tom sprang forward. The cudgel brought him down with a wind-stealing blow to his spine. “I willnae let you hurt them,” he wheezed. He stood again. Pain crackled along his back as he staggered to Mrs. Musgrave, and when he caught her frail elbow, no one stopped him.
Her eyes were mellow, her voice tear-laced. “I know this will be difficult for you to watch, my dear. If it were not so necessary, I would spare you as you have always tried to spare me.”
“Listen.” He grabbed her tighter, breathing harder. “Yer husband wouldnae have wanted this. Ye know that. Look at me.”
“I am not doing this for my husband. Elias is dead. There is nothing else I can do for him.” Snot dripped from her nose. Her hand trembled as she wiped it with her floral sleeve. “I am doing this for the ones who are still alive. The innocents he has not yet touched.”
“Meg is an innocent.”
“No, my dear.Youare.” Her eyes lifted, a faint nod, and the cudgel battered the back of his skull.
Instant blackness stole him again. The last thing he heard was Meg scream.
She wasn’t certain if it was morning. They’d drawn the heavy draperies shut hours ago, and the candles were all dripping into extinction. Everything was shadows and languid movements and voices so quiet they skittered across her consciousness without making sense.
Nothing made sense.
Abraham’s fingers were hard, digging into her arms, forcing her to stand—to watch.
