“You’re safe,” Gabriel said. “I have you.” He conveyed her down the path, leaving the chaos behind. Leaving everything behind. He strode toward the tall trees and rolling lawn that lay away from the orchestra pavilion, the restaurants, and the colorful lights of the exhibition grounds. He didn’t stop until they were exactly where they needed to be.

Alone.

18

After eleven, the densely planted tangle of trees off the main avenues of Cremorne Gardens became the preferred haunt of prostitutes. There, dark walks abounded, and foliage provided ample cover for illicit dealings. But not now. It was hours until the fireworks, and the sordid elements hadn’t yet staked their claim. Until they did, the woods were merely secluded, and comparatively quiet. A place one could catch one’s breath.

Gabriel set Effie down on the ground beneath an enormous oak. Colored glass oil lamps illuminated its heavy branches in soft shades of yellow, red, and green. She offered no objection, merely slumped there, pale and trembling, in her thin velvet cloak.

She’d witnessed a man’s death. That alone was a debilitating enough shock for a lady. But this man hadn’t just died. He’d met his end falling from a great height. It was Effie’s worst fear in the world, Gabriel suspected.

Taking off his coat, he draped it over her shoulders. “Don’t move,” he commanded.

He strode off to the nearest restaurant tent where, for a few coins, he procured a bottle of cheap champagne and an empty glass. Promptly bringing it back to Effie, he filled the glass and pressed it to her lips. “Drink.”

“I don’t—”

“Drink.”

A line formed between her ebony brows as she obeyed him. She began with a small sip. He tipped the glass, encouraging her to swallow the whole of it. She grimaced, turning her face away. “It’s dreadful.”

“It’s swill,” he allowed. “But it will do the trick.” He waited until she’d finished and then, casting aside the glass, sank down on the ground beside her.

She bent her head, her eyes squeezing shut. “I feel as though I’m going to be sick.”

“Give it five minutes.”

“You imagine strong drink will make things better?”

“It generally does.”

She buried her face in her gloved hands. A sob emerged from behind her fingers. “I can’t get his face out of my head.”

Gabriel’s chest constricted at the sound of her tears. He set his hand on the narrow curve of her back. “Don’t think about it.”

“Was he—”

“The doctor is with him. There’s nothing we can do.”

“He can’t have survived, can he?” Her quaking voice choked with emotion. “That poor man. He wasn’t much more than a boy.”