The moment that Edmond had returned to the town house, he had sent his trusted servant to Lady Montgomery’s in the vague hope that the assailant might have been spotted by a servant, or careless enough to leave some hint of his identity behind.
Handing the half-filled glass to his obviously weary companion, Edmond perched on the edge of the desk.
“Well?”
Boris grimaced as he set aside his empty glass. “There was nothing to be discovered in the garden, but it was too dark for a thorough search. I will return at first light.”
“Did you speak with the servants?”
“As many as would talk with a foreigner.”
Edmond grimaced. There were some things that were as predictable as the sun rising in the east, and the Englishmen and their inbred disdain for anyone they deemed as foreign was one of them.
“I suppose that none of them had the good sense to notice a stranger lurking in the gardens?”
Boris shrugged. “Most of them had gathered in the kitchens, although there were a few of the more adventurous servants taking advantage of the housekeeper’s distraction to slip into the mews and enjoy a bit of privacy.” Boris deliberately paused to assure Edmond’s full attention. “One of the maids distinctly recalls hearing the sound of running footsteps coming out of the stables and entering the garden just moments before the shot was fired.”
“From the stables? Then the shooter was not waiting in the garden?”
“Not if the footsteps belonged to the shooter.”
“Is it possible to see someone on the balcony from such a vantage?”
“Yes.” Boris gave a sharp nod. “In fact, if I were attempting to keep watch on someone within the town house, the mews would be the perfect location to choose.”
Edmond abruptly straightened from the desk, pacing the room as he considered the implication of Boris’s discovery.
“So it was sheer fortune for the assassin that I was careless enough to step onto the balcony and offer such a ready target?”
“Your cousin did not request that you join him on the balcony?” Boris asked, troubled.
“No.” Edmond stilled, meeting his companion’s narrowed gaze. “Actually, he was quite reluctant to brave the chilled night air.”
Boris gave a slow shake of his head, his tight expression revealing his frustration at the peculiar attack. A frustration that echoed within Edmond.
Not just the fact that someone was brazen enough to take a shot at him in the middle of London. Or that the bullet had strayed and wounded Brianna. But the seeming randomness of the shooting.
It was hardly a brilliant scheme to lurk about a town house crowded with guests and servants on the off chance that the Duke of Huntley might offer himself as an easy target.
“So, if Summerville had been the one to pay the villain to shoot you, it was not intended to occur on the balcony,” Boris muttered.
“Not unless he possessed an inordinate amount of faith in the shooter,” Edmond said dryly. “We could not have been more than a few feet from one another when the gun was fired.”
Boris shrugged. “Of course, if he were standing at your side when you were murdered, it would give him an unshakable alibi.”
“Howard does not possess the wits, let alone the courage to plot such a dangerous scheme. Damn. This was not supposed to be so complicated.”
For long moments, nothing but the occasional pop of a burning log broke the silence in the room. Then, awkwardly, Boris cleared his throat.
“You are certain you were the intended victim?”
“Who the hell would waste a bullet on Howard Summerville?”
“It was Miss Quinn who was actually shot.”
Edmond stumbled to a halt, his blood running cold. “Christ, Boris, it’s bad enough to accept that Brianna was hurt because of me. I cannot even consider the possibility that someone had deliberately attempted to kill her.”
“Not wishing something does not make it so.”