"That ain't fair."

"Life isn't fair. If it were, I'd be spending my evenings deflowering virgins instead of cleaning up the sick of a gutter snipe."

"Ha! You couldn't deflower a flower."

"That doesn't make sense. And I'll have you know, the ladies fell over themselves to get to me when I used to attend balls."

"You had money and a good name, then," Gus said, striding for the door. "Course they're going to throw themselves at you. Weren't nothing to do with that ugly face of yours."

Seth looked offended, and I couldn't blame him. He wasn't ugly in the least. He trailed after Gus. "I'll have you know I had an indecent encounter with a lady three nights ago. And no, I didn't pay her a penny. She gave herself freely to me."

"Gave you the French disease for free, more like." Gus's chuckles faded as he closed the door.

Finally I was alone again. I settled on the bed with the book and removed the pistol from the waistband at my back. I checked the barrel to see if it was loaded—it was—then slid it beneath the pillow beside me. I tried not to think about it and concentrated on the book instead, but it wasn't easy. I'd never shot anyone before.

Despite the apprehension curdling in the pit of my stomach, the afternoon didn't drag. The book was riveting, and I found myself reading as quickly as possible.

The clicking of the key in the lock startled me. How much time had passed? I took note of my page then closed the book and slipped my hand beneath the pillow. The metal of the pistol felt cool in my fingers. My pulse quickened.

Death walked in. His assessing gaze took in the book and my relaxed repose. "You met Lady Harcourt." He did not mention my attempted escape.

"She's very nice."

Behind him, Seth and Gus crowded in the doorway.

"I'm hungry," I said.

"I'll fetch you something from the kitchen." Seth trotted off.

"My chamber pot needs emptying," I told Gus.

He screwed up his nose. "Should've offered to get the food." He slid the pan out from beneath the bed and left the room in much less of a hurry than Gus. I was alone with Fitzroy. With Death.

He moved toward the bed, his long, easy strides bringing him close to me much faster than I anticipated. With my heart in my throat, I pulled the pistol out from under the pillow, aimed at his shoulder and fired.

Next thing I knew, he was sitting on top of my thighs, pinning my wrists to the headboard. I bucked but couldn't dislodge him. I went to butt my forehead into his nose, but he dodged the blow. I hawked up a glob of saliva, but before I could spit it into his face, he'd shifted his weight, lifted me, and threw me face down onto the mattress. He resettled his weight on my legs and pressed a hand into my back. He took the pistol off me. Just like that, I was rendered immobile and defenseless. It had been far too easy for him.