“Don’t move,” Valentine shouted. The boy’s gaze darted to him and narrowed. In recognition? In surprise? It was definitely with something, though he’d never seen the young man in his life. “Who are you? Who sent you?”

The assailant’s face went slack, right before he kicked open the large pair of ornate windows. “He’s coming for her and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

And then he jumped.

Seventeen

“Bronwyn, let the doctor look at you, for the love of God,” her aunt screeched. “You have blood on your dress.”

“I’m fine, Aunt. It’s a scratch.”

A scratch from a window that had shattered from a bullet meant for her. In fact, she was lucky that she’d escaped with just the thin nick on the underside of her jaw. By all accounts, she should be dead, bleeding out on the boulevard. Instead she was at home, safe for the moment, and being bombarded by a doctor who wouldn’t stop pestering her. She wanted to hear what the police were saying to the duke in the foyer.

From what she could overhear, the French Sûreté had confirmed that the shooter was unconscious and had been taken to the local hospital. Despite the fact that he’d tried to kill her, Bronwyn was glad the boy had survived the fall. He was so young. Less than a few years younger than her, true, but still. From the look of him, he wasn’t poor, and his crisp English had carried a distinct upper-class accent. Was he gentry? The son of an English peer? Why would he shoot at her? Then again, indoctrination began at early ages…and she was the daughter of an English peer.

The tumble from three stories had not killed him, but for the moment, he could not provide any answers as to who had employed him or why he was after her. And his last words before leaping had been ominous, suggesting that someone else would come. Bronwyn rubbed her arms and suppressed a shiver.

“See! You’re catching a chill.” Her aunt’s voice had risen an entire octave. “It could be the fever setting in, you wretched child.”

“I am fine, Aunt Esther, I promise you.”

For now, the Duke of Thornbury had taken up uninvited residence at her aunt’s domicile and seemed to think that he was in charge of everything, as indicated by his heavy frown in her direction as he strode toward the library. Bronwyn took a few hurried steps back as if that could prove she hadn’t been shamelessly listening to every word.

“I heard shrieking. What is the problem?”

Bronwyn clenched her jaw at his tone. “This does not concern you, Your Grace.”