In that instant, something caught the light and, on instinct, Robert shoved hard against Lord Watt, pushing him away from the window. Lord Watt stumbled back, crashing into a small table and knocking a good many glasses of whisky and brandy to the floor, some of which shattered. Everyone in the room turned to face him, everyone turned to watch Robert and to stare down at Lord Watt—and just as he was about to explain, the glass behind him shattered.
Everyone moved at once. Gentlemen crouched down, their hands over their heads, whilst some moved towards the door, ready to run out into the London street to find the perpetrator. Robert, pinning himself to the wall beside the now shattered window, stared furiously at Lord Watt, who was still attempting to push himself up from the floor.
“Stay there,” Robert shouted, feeling the cool night air come spiraling towards him through the broken window. “Do not move. There is no reason to believe that the fellow has gone.”
He had only just finished speaking when another pane of glass shattered, the bullet whizzing across the room and embedding itself into the wall opposite Robert. Then there came all manner of shouting, the sound of running feet and the loud exclamations from the gentlemen who had gone in search of the person shooting the gun at the house.
Slowly, Robert peeled himself away from the wall, looking around the room in horror. One of the gentlemen from the League had his hand pressed to his shoulder, blood seeping out from between his fingers. Apparently the first bullet had found a mark.
“Lord Millerton,” Robert muttered, hurrying towards the man and having no concern that another bullet would come given what had just happened outside. “Are you all right?” Seeing the footmen come pouring into the room, Robert threw a glance towards Lord Watt, who was finally on his feet, brushing glass from his clothes.
“Send for a doctor at once,” Lord Watt demanded, as one of the footmen began to nod. “And have more brandy sent up. This glass will need to be cleared away. Bring a towel and a bowl of water. Hurry now!”
The footmen turned, as Robert pulled out a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it against Lord Millerton’s shoulder. The man let out a grunt but did not say anything more, his teeth gritted hard against the pain.
“Shot, then,” Lord Watt muttered, looking towards his window with a dark expression on his face. “By someone unknown.”
“Let us hope that those who went out after him manage to find the man in question,” Robert answered, darkly, praying that the doctor would not be long. The wound to Lord Millerton’s shoulder was not deep but it would require cleaning and stitching, he was sure of it. “There must be a reason for someone to shoot into the house like that, although what their intention was, I could not say.”
Leaving Lord Millerton in the hands of another gentleman from the League, Robert rose and accepted the bowl of water that Lord Watt had sent for, taking it and a small, white towel to one side of the room. Washing his hands, and seeing the water turn pink from the blood that had stained his hands, Robert closed his eyes for a moment, feeling shock run through him. Gentlemen of the League were required to have strong constitutions, to have all manner of strength and inner determination, but there was still that sense of shock over what had just occurred. Behind him, he could hear the other gentlemen of the League begin to speak about what had happened, hearing them trying to come up with some sort of explanation.
“Someone must know that we are meeting here as The King’s League,” said the first. “We are meant to have a secrecy about us that is not broken by anyone, and yet someone has done so.” There was now an accusatory note in the gentleman’s voice and Robert winced, drying his hands quickly and then turned back to where the other gentlemen were now standing, all crowded together close to the fire. Some were sitting, some were standing, and one or two were pacing up and down. The drapes were now pulled closed on each of the windows, and Robert knew that the staff would soon be attempting to board up the hole in the window where the bullet had shattered the glass. He winced inwardly, knowing just how costly it would be for such a thing to be replaced.
“There is no use in attempting to blame someone within this group,” Lord Watt said firmly. “We may have had one traitor some time ago but that does not mean that we allow suspicion to float around us, as though we distrust each other. That cannot be the way this group works.”
“It will not work, if such a thing happens,” Lord Millerton said, speaking loudly despite his injury. “I do not believe that this bullet was intentionally for me. It was simply where the bullet went.”
Robert bit his lip, suddenly fearing that what Lord Millerton had said might now be true of him. Had the bullet been intended for himself? After all, he had been the one standing at the window, looking out into the darkness! He had lingered there for some time, having seen something that bothered him, something that had needled his senses. It had only been sheer luck that had allowed him to see the glint of light on the barrel of the gun, allowing him enough time to instinctively move before the bullet shattered the glass pane.
“We must trust each other,” said Lord Watt, decisively. “But this may very well be an attack by those who know that the League has caught one of their accomplices, one of their friends. Mayhap they know that it was I who brought their associate to justice.” He shrugged, his gaze snagging Robert’s. “Mayhap they knew that Lord Franks was the man who sent some of their friends to the continent, to work out their punishment under the hot sun.”
Robert nodded, feeling as though this explanation was as good as any other. It was, he considered, an explanation that made sense. The League had been operating for a good many years, so surely it was reasonable to think that some of those they had captured, some of those they had brought to justice, might well have friends or associates who would seek retribution in some way. Although, he considered, twisting his lips for a moment, there was still the chance that someone had sought him out specifically, had been waiting until he had drawn close to the window before taking a shot at him.
He swallowed hard, not very certain what he ought to think. If someone had been waiting for him, had deliberately set out to send a bullet in his direction, then that meant that London was not as safe as he might have thought it. He would have to be even more on his guard. Looking towards Lord Watt, he saw the gentleman watching him closely, as though he expected Robert to say something pertinent.
The door to the drawing room opened and the other gentlemen returned, with Lord Monteforte at the helm. Each of them was puffing and blowing, clearly out of breath from their chase—but there was no success with their endeavors, Robert realized, disappointed. They held no man by the arm, did not hold out the gun that had been used. He could see the frustration in their eyes and so, wisely, held his tongue.
“It was too dark to see by,” Lord Monteforte said, by way of explanation. “The fellow must have heard us coming and slipped away. We spread out across the streets and alleyways but have found nothing. Lord Rushton is still out of doors but I do not expect him to have any success.” Rubbing one hand over his face, Lord Monteforte let out a long, frustrated breath. “I am sorry.”
“It is not something you need apologize for,” Lord Caravel answered, waving one hand from the chair he sat in, as Lord Watt nodded profusely. “The man in question clearly knew that he would be pursued.”
“That is quite correct,” said another gentleman, agreeing with Lord Caravel. “A man does not shoot a gun—twice—into another gentleman’s home without being expected to be pursued!”
“Twice?”
Lord Monteforte stared at the fellow for a moment, before looking towards the drape-covered window. “He shot again?”
“He did,” Robert answered, as Lord Monteforte looked towards him. “But the bullet only harmed the wall—unlike the first.” He gestured towards Lord Millerton, catching the attention of those who had gone outside. “A doctor will be here very soon.”
Lord Monteforte said nothing for a moment or two. Then, he poured a brandy and walked towards Lord Millerton, holding it out to him. Robert watched in silence, half wishing that he had thought of doing the very same.
“I am quite all right,” Lord Millerton said, as though he were answering an unspoken question. “You need not concern yourselves any longer. It has only injured my shoulder.”
Lord Watt blew out a long breath and for some moments, there was nothing but silence. Robert looked around the group, seeing the gravity on each face and feeling his heart begin to beat with a steady determination. A determination that he would have to discover the person responsible for such a thing, before they attempted to do something similar again. He did not want to have any such gentlemen here lying dead at his feet, not if he would have been able
to prevent it.
“We must discover this person,” Lord Huddington said, softly, drawing murmurs of agreement from the room. “We must know why they did such a thing and what it is that they hoped to achieve. And we must do so before there is any danger of them becoming all the more dangerous.”