The Trouble With Being a Duke by Sophie Barnes Page A

where Neville stood, his eyes wide open in shock as he held the limp lady in his arms. “Oh Jesus!” His eyes met Anthony’s in a frantic plea for help. “Someone shot her. Someone bloody shot her!”
    Seeing the red patch of blood at the lady’s shoulder, Anthony knew he was right. “Get her on the ground,” he said as he removed his jacket for her to lie on. Next, he undid his cravat, bundled it into a tight wad and shoved it toward Neville, who was now kneeling at the lady’s side together with Roxberry, Winston and Casper, who’d all come to offer their assistance. “Put this on her wound, add some pressure, and try to stop the bleeding. Winston, I’m leaving you in charge here while I try to find out what the devil happened.”
    Without a backward glance, Anthony started toward the steps leading up to the terrace. The majority of his guests were still congregated there, gazing up at the sky in expectation of the next firework, oblivious to the fact that a woman had just been shot. Taking the steps two at a time, Anthony quickly reached the terrace. He stopped to look around, searching the crowd for any sign of a perpetrator. Whoever had fired the pistol would have had to stand right at the edge of the terrace, up against the railing where the crowd was most dense.
    Signaling a footman, he told the man to alert the guards and close off all the exits. He then pushed his way past the first few people and made his way toward the front, looking around as he went, but nothing struck him as strange or unusual. Damn . Whoever he was looking for had probably run off already. Seeing Lord Frompton, Anthony patted him on the shoulder, drawing his attention. “There’s been an incident. One of my guests—a woman, to be precise—has been shot.”
    “Good Lord,” Frompton muttered. “Is she dead?”
    “I’ve no idea. I left my brother and a few others to tend to her while I went in search of the villain. The lady in question was shot in the shoulder as she was turned in this direction, indicating that whoever did it must have been standing up here amongst the rest of you. Did you happen to see anything unusual? Someone’s sudden departure?”
    Frompton shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but I’ll help you look. I’ll just inform my wife.”
    Grateful for the extra bit of assistance the earl offered, Anthony gave him a curt nod before making his way over to one of the stone benches that lined the periphery of the terrace. Climbing up, he scanned the crowd again, but nobody was in a hurry to depart. In all likelihood, the would-be assassin had already left the grounds.
    Jumping down, Anthony marched toward the doors leading back inside the ballroom. “Don’t let anyone else in,” he ordered the footman that he’d stationed there, “unless they’re a member of this household.”
    Back inside, he didn’t break his stride as he glanced briefly at the orchestra—nothing out of place there. Hurrying onward, he ran up the grand staircase leading up to the foyer, saying, “Did someone else just come this way, Phelps?” to the startled butler.
    “A lady, my lord, about ten minutes ago. She’ll be long gone by now though—her carriage was ready and waiting.”
    “Christ! One of my guests has been shot.” At this Phelps blanched. “Please dispatch two footmen to fetch the constable along with Doctor Harper.”
    “Yes, Your Grace,” Phelps said stiffly as he turned about and hurried off.
    Heading back toward the ballroom, Anthony was met by Neville, who was carrying the shooting victim in his arms, his face pale and filled with a desperation that Anthony had never before seen in the reprobate. He was accompanied by Winston, his mother and . . . Lord and Lady Grifton? Why on earth were they hurrying after Neville with such sour expressions?
    Anthony frowned. He’d never cared for how miserly, selfish and arrogant they’d proven themselves to be in the time he’d known them, but their estate was close to