He assessed the distance and changed his angle, hoping to cut off some time in the pursuit. The horse the viscount had chosen had been a cavalry officer’s charger and was fleet of foot.
Commodore had been an all-purpose horse, big and rangy, used for hauling and as a saddle horse when needed. He might not be the fastest animal, but he had stamina and determination. He seemed to understand that his job was to chase, and he threw his entire being into the task. His stride ate up the ground, and Evan bent low over his neck.
Don’t let him make the woods. Shoot him if you have to. Marcus’s orders echoed in his head.
When he thought he had closed the gap enough, Evan pulled on the reins to slow Commodore. But the horse was full of run, nearly wild. It took strength and determination to pull him out of his gallop. As soon as it was safe to do so, but not waiting until the horse had stopped completely, Evan slid to the ground, his momentum causing him to stagger. It was now or never.
Fitzroy looked back over his shoulder, and he must’ve thought Evan had given up the chase, because Evan saw a flash of a grin.
Dropping to his knee, Evan braced his elbow on his thigh. His breath came in gusts, and he forced himself to calm. He would only get one shot. Gauging the distance, he sighted. He raised the barrel and led his target slightly. The bullet needed to arrive in a specific space at the same time as his quarry.
Fitzroy stood in the stirrups, bent over his horse’s neck, presenting a tricky target. He was perhaps twenty yards from the tree line, and he must be certain of his escape.
The viscount never made it to the woods. A split second after the explosion of gunpowder and the muzzle flash, he toppled from the saddle into the dirt, raising a cloud of dust. His horse continued on, wheeling in a circle at the edge of the trees and turning back, wild-eyed and skittish.
Evan leapt to his feet as hoofbeats sounded behind him. Shand and Marcus arrived. With his gun in one hand, aware he hadn’t taken time to reload, Evan jogged toward Fitzroy. He held the gun like a club in case Fitzroy was still able to fight.
When he reached the viscount, he knew he needn’t worry. Fitzroy lay sprawled on the ground, blood pouring from a wound in the center of his chest. If his fancy waistcoat had been the target, Evan would’ve hit the bull.
Marcus knelt beside him. “Who sent you? Who gave you orders to kill the Prince Regent?”
Fitzroy smiled, teeth stained with blood. He coughed and sputtered.
Marcus grabbed his shoulder and shook it. “Who sent you? Who is your commander?”
Fitzroy stared at Marcus for a long moment, defiant and malicious. Then like snuffing a lamp, the light went out of the viscount’s eyes, and he went limp.
Marcus rose, his face grim. “I was so close. I’ve been trying to expose the assassin for months now.” He pounded his fist against his thigh.
“How did you know? How could you? I didn’t know myself until I heard his name and it all came rushing back. I couldn’t remember anything certain of that day until just a few moments ago.” Evan looked from Marcus to Shand. Shand didn’t seem surprised at Evan’s lack of memory. The sergeant was a shrewd one, for sure.
“We’ll talk about it later.” Marcus brushed aside the questions, totally in command. “Shand, bring the body. For now I want to speak with Percival Seaton.”
CHAPTER 16
DIANA TOOK CHARGE of the Prince Regent, since no one around her seemed capable of sense. Marcus had grabbed her hand and pressed it onto the serviette over the wound before charging down the hill in pursuit of her husband.
Please, God, keep Evan safe. And Marcus and Shand. Help me know what to do with the prince. Everything had happened so quickly. She would never forget the slash of the knife, her intense shock, or how quickly Evan had taken off. Nor the fact that her husband seemed to have regained his memory.
Or that Arthur Bracken, Viscount Fitzroy, her sister’s seducer and her nephew’s father, was also an assassin.
But for now her task was the prince.
“Your Highness, you’ll be all right. Keep still. Hold my hand.”
Chaos reigned around her. People milled and women swooned and men shouted. This would never do. Where was their stoicism? She wanted to yell at them to pull themselves together and behave like Britons.
Louisa appeared at her side. “What can I do, my lady?”
Diana’s mind raced, creating a list in her head. “Get these people away from here. Find six of the biggest men and have them take a door off its hinges at the house and bring it here. We need to get His Highness to his rooms, where he can be tended. And pour me a brandy.” She motioned to the decanter on a side table, her fingers stained with the prince’s blood.
On his part, the prince didn’t complain, merely gritting his teeth, his normally florid face as pale as his linens.
“Hold fast, Your Highness,” she murmured. “I’m sure the tale of your bravery in the face of an assassin will be told far and wide. You’re a credit to Britain.” A little flattery would be better than sympathy, she judged.
He nodded, his jaw tight.
Someone poured a decent amount of the brandy into a tumbler, and she held it to his lips as Louisa ordered people to step back. “You gormless nits, you’re no help at all. Get away with you. You’re as useful as a glass hammer, you are.” She shooed with her apron, and well-titled gentlemen and ladies scurried out of her path.
“That woman’s tongue is as sharp as Fitzroy’s knife,” the prince grumbled.
“She is a bit caustic, but she does get things done.” Diana smiled.
Several footmen arrived, toting one of the doors from White Haven. As gently as possible, with Diana maintaining pressure on his wound, they got the corpulent prince onto the makeshift stretcher. It took all six men a considerable amount of effort to carry him up the hill, into the house, and up the stairs to the Royal Apartments, endeavoring to keep him level the whole way.
“Fetch hot water, towels, and my sewing basket,” Louisa barked to one of the footmen as they brought the prince into his boudoir.
Several people had followed the procession into the room, crowding around the royal bed. Diana’s arms ached.
“You are not going to take a needle to me, woman.” The prince raised his head. “Bring a proper doctor from town.”
Louisa put her hands on her hips and stared at him as if he had cotton wool for brains. “If you had ever met the town doctor, you’d be begging for my services. He’s a drunk and a lout and wouldn’t know a knife wound from a bullet hole if he had an instruction manual and a spyglass. Now, all of you clear out. I can’t work in this crowd.” She flapped her hands, as if herding geese.
After a verbal standoff that the prince had to settle, four courtiers were allowed to remain, but they all stood warily, as if afraid of what the housekeeper would say next.
Diana bit her lip to keep from laughing. Was there anyone Louisa was afraid to dress down?
A maid arrived with a steaming kettle, and a footman carried a stack of snowy towels and Louisa’s sewing basket, which usually resided next to her rocking chair in the servants’ dining hall.
“Now, lie still and don’t whine. It isn’t regal to snivel.” Louisa hiked her skirt and sat on the edge of the bed. Strands of red hair escaped from her lace cap, but she was swift and gentle as she took over for Diana.