Read Online A Flaw in the Blood by Stephanie Barron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephanie Barron
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blow to the back of the skull. The solid bulk went limp.
“Pray God you didn't kill him,” Georgie said faintly.
“Why? He'd have killed
me
. He'd have killed
both
of us and left our bodies on the roof. Just as he left Sep to die in chambers.”
She did not reply, her face as white as paper.
At the edge of the icy gutter, Fitzgerald knelt carefully and peered over the edge, senses swimming. He was unaccustomed to the eerie pitch, the irregular angles of this view of the world; he drew back, and waited for his head to steady.
“It's a sheer drop.”
Georgie's teeth were chattering with cold and tension, but she had retrieved her bag of surgical tools. “I refuse to retrace my steps. I will not walk past that man. I'm a
doctor,
Patrick—to leave him in that condition, in this weather,
knowing
what the result might be—”
“Your scruples do you credit,” Fitzgerald said dryly. “His men would be waiting for us inside, in any case. Georgie, that fellow called me a
Paddy
.”
“It's hardly the first time someone has.”
“That's not what I mean. I hadn't spoken yet—he had no thought for my accent—and it's faint enough after all these years. He came
looking
for an Irishman. He was sent here. By whom?”
“He probably followed
you
from Great Ormond Street.” She brushed the sleet from her cheek impatiently. “No doubt these people are watching Septimus's house—to learn whether he dies.”
It was possible, Fitzgerald owned. And yet—
He glanced back, afraid of what he might see coming through the broken window, and said suddenly, “Would it cheer you to know, Georgiana, that our friends from the garret are already picking your man's pockets?”
She turned swiftly, saw the clutch of women and children hunkered around the body. “Without even pausing to know if he's dead or alive?”
“You might check his pulse yourself.” Fitzgerald rose and brushed fragments of ice and slate from his trousers. “That lot would never be out here unless the gang had fled. Which means we can go home in peace.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Y OU THINK VON STÜHLEN IS behind these attacks,” Georgiana said. “That's why you inquired about him.”
They had retraced their steps through the tenement building without a further glimpse of the murderous pack. A swift walk up St. Giles to the hackney stand in Covent Garden, both of them unsteady from relief and fatigue. The early dusk of December fell swiftly, and the temperature had dropped as the afternoon waned. Georgiana shivered uncontrollably in her soaked gown, and Fitzgerald thought it imperative to get her home as soon as he could. Her gloves were torn and her hair sliding out of the bandage; they had not stopped to inquire of Button Nance where her bonnet had gone. She looked, in short, uncharacteristically slatternly. Fitzgerald looked as careless as always—but he'd lost his topper.
The sole cabbie lingering at the stand was more interested in the sight of their money, however, than the state of their clothes. Fitzgerald did not respond to Georgiana's remark until the lap robe was tucked over her knees and the reins snapped over the horse's back.
Bells still rang throughout London for Albert's passing, a dull monotony after all these hours; lengths of black crepe had appeared on door knockers and window fronts. Shops in Henrietta Street, Fitzgerald noticed, already sported black mourning shutters—which were closed, like the premises. There would be a considerable loss of custom in the weeks running up to Christmas, except among the linendraper firms—everyone, even the children of the lowliest clerk, would go into blacks for at least a month.
“I asked about von Stühlen because I hated the way he looked at you,” he told Georgiana.
“Like a wolf with a cornered sheep?”
“You saw it, too?”
“Well, he
has
earned a dreadful reputation.”
“—For shearing sheep?”
“No. For raping the unwilling.”
There it was again—Georgie's appalling
“Pray God you didn't kill him,” Georgie said faintly.
“Why? He'd have killed
me
. He'd have killed
both
of us and left our bodies on the roof. Just as he left Sep to die in chambers.”
She did not reply, her face as white as paper.
At the edge of the icy gutter, Fitzgerald knelt carefully and peered over the edge, senses swimming. He was unaccustomed to the eerie pitch, the irregular angles of this view of the world; he drew back, and waited for his head to steady.
“It's a sheer drop.”
Georgie's teeth were chattering with cold and tension, but she had retrieved her bag of surgical tools. “I refuse to retrace my steps. I will not walk past that man. I'm a
doctor,
Patrick—to leave him in that condition, in this weather,
knowing
what the result might be—”
“Your scruples do you credit,” Fitzgerald said dryly. “His men would be waiting for us inside, in any case. Georgie, that fellow called me a
Paddy
.”
“It's hardly the first time someone has.”
“That's not what I mean. I hadn't spoken yet—he had no thought for my accent—and it's faint enough after all these years. He came
looking
for an Irishman. He was sent here. By whom?”
“He probably followed
you
from Great Ormond Street.” She brushed the sleet from her cheek impatiently. “No doubt these people are watching Septimus's house—to learn whether he dies.”
It was possible, Fitzgerald owned. And yet—
He glanced back, afraid of what he might see coming through the broken window, and said suddenly, “Would it cheer you to know, Georgiana, that our friends from the garret are already picking your man's pockets?”
She turned swiftly, saw the clutch of women and children hunkered around the body. “Without even pausing to know if he's dead or alive?”
“You might check his pulse yourself.” Fitzgerald rose and brushed fragments of ice and slate from his trousers. “That lot would never be out here unless the gang had fled. Which means we can go home in peace.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Y OU THINK VON STÜHLEN IS behind these attacks,” Georgiana said. “That's why you inquired about him.”
They had retraced their steps through the tenement building without a further glimpse of the murderous pack. A swift walk up St. Giles to the hackney stand in Covent Garden, both of them unsteady from relief and fatigue. The early dusk of December fell swiftly, and the temperature had dropped as the afternoon waned. Georgiana shivered uncontrollably in her soaked gown, and Fitzgerald thought it imperative to get her home as soon as he could. Her gloves were torn and her hair sliding out of the bandage; they had not stopped to inquire of Button Nance where her bonnet had gone. She looked, in short, uncharacteristically slatternly. Fitzgerald looked as careless as always—but he'd lost his topper.
The sole cabbie lingering at the stand was more interested in the sight of their money, however, than the state of their clothes. Fitzgerald did not respond to Georgiana's remark until the lap robe was tucked over her knees and the reins snapped over the horse's back.
Bells still rang throughout London for Albert's passing, a dull monotony after all these hours; lengths of black crepe had appeared on door knockers and window fronts. Shops in Henrietta Street, Fitzgerald noticed, already sported black mourning shutters—which were closed, like the premises. There would be a considerable loss of custom in the weeks running up to Christmas, except among the linendraper firms—everyone, even the children of the lowliest clerk, would go into blacks for at least a month.
“I asked about von Stühlen because I hated the way he looked at you,” he told Georgiana.
“Like a wolf with a cornered sheep?”
“You saw it, too?”
“Well, he
has
earned a dreadful reputation.”
“—For shearing sheep?”
“No. For raping the unwilling.”
There it was again—Georgie's appalling
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