Page 11

Damn it.

"Step away from him!"

The rough voice came from behind the fallen man.

Sutton raised his head. The short man had emerged from the shadows, the cowardly lanky man's pistol steady in his hand, aimed at Sutton's chest.

"Raise your arms. I don't want to miss your heart," the short man growled. "Trust me, it will hurt less if I shoot straight to the heart."

Sutton didn't move. "I think I'll take my chances."

This was it.

That's how he was going to die. Alone in a dark alleyway. Shot by a random footpad.

What a waste of life.

His last thought, absurdly, was of his wife.

She had returned to him just last night, and he had foolishly spent the entire day away from her.

It was as if God were giving him another chance—to hold her, to kiss her, to spend the night in her arms.

Instead, he had rejected her.

And now he was not going to see her ever again.

He remembered her beautiful face framed with golden-blonde hair, her full lips, a tentative smile on her face.

He was glad he had seen her again, and that this would be his last memory of her.

The shot rang out.

Sutton flinched, every muscle in his body clenching, waiting for the impact of the ball against his chest.

The burning sensation of the bullet.

The cold that must inevitably follow.

Only it didn't.

Instead, the man in front of him stiffened, his eyes going wide with surprise, and then his knees folded and he crumpled onto the ground like a dropped coat. The pistol rattled from his fingers.

Sutton stared down at him. Then he lifted his eyes.

Marie stood a few paces behind where the man had been, perfectly composed, holding a small brass pocket pistol with a thread of smoke curling from its muzzle.

"I thought I told you to run," Sutton said flatly.

A small smile touched her lips. "You're welcome."

Heavy boots suddenly echoed from the mouth of the alley, accompanied by shouting. Sutton's driver and a footman rounded the corner, lanterns raised and cudgels drawn, having finally caught up to the gunfire.

"Where is the...?" Sutton glanced up just in time to see the brawny man he had run through the thigh hauling himself up and limping around the corner.

"I shall call the constables," the footman said, heading toward the theater, where a constable would be.

Sutton didn't even have time to respond.