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onto the blade, sliding sideways along the seat instead. From there she started to tumble off the cushion onto the floor.
    “Bloody hell,” the Bridegroom grumbled.
    He moved instinctively to avoid the weight of her body.
    The blade of the scalpel was no longer pointed directly at her throat. As if in answer to her silent prayers, the coachman turned a sharp corner at speed. The vehicle lurched to one side. The Bridegroom automatically sought to steady himself.
    It was now or never.
    She straightened, twisted and stabbed the sharpened steel ribs of the folded fan into the nearest target, the killer’s thigh. The points bit deep through clothing and flesh.
    The Bridegroom screamed in surprise and pain. He slashed at her with the scalpel but she already had the tessen open. The steel leaves of the fan deflected the blow.
    “Bitch.”
    Startled and off balance, the killer tried to ready himself for another strike. She snapped the fan closed and stabbed the points deep into his shoulder. The hand holding the scalpel spasmed in a reflexive action. The blade landed on the floor of the vehicle.
    She yanked the tessen free and stabbed wildly a third time, heedless of her target. She was in a panic, desperate to free herself from the carriage. The Bridegroom shrieked again and batted at her, trying to ward off the blows. He groped for the fallen scalpel.
    She opened the fan again, revealing the elegant garden scene etched into the steel, and slashed at the killer’s hand with the edges of the razor-sharp leaves. He jerked back, shrieking in rage.
    The carriage slammed to a jarring halt. The coachman had evidently heard the screams.
    She clawed at the door and managed to get it open. She closed the tessen and let it dangle from the chatelaine. Seizing handfuls of her skirts and petticoats in one hand to keep the yards of fabric out of the way, she scrambled out of the vehicle.
    “What the bloody hell?” The coachman stared at her from the box, rain dripping off the brim of his low-crowned hat. He was clearly stunned by the turn of events. “Here, now, what’s this all about? He said you was his lady friend. Said the two of you wanted a bit of privacy.”
    She did not stop to explain the situation. She dared not trust the coachman. He might be innocent, but he might just as easily be in league with the killer.
    A quick glance showed her that the vehicle had come to a halt in a narrow lane. Once again she hiked up her skirts and petticoats. She fled toward the far end where the cross street promised traffic and safety.
    She heard the coachman crack his whip behind her. The horse broke into a frenzied gallop, hoofs ringing on the stones. The carriage clattered away in the opposite direction. The anguished, enraged howls from inside the cab grew faint.
    She ran for her life.
    There was more screaming when she reached the cross street. A woman pushing a baby in a perambulator was the first person to see her rush out of the dark lane. The nanny uttered a high, shrill screech.
    Her horrified cry immediately attracted a crowd. Everyone stared, shock and fascinated horror etching their faces. A constable appeared. He hurried toward her, baton in hand.
    “You’re bleeding, ma’am,” he said. “What happened?”
    She looked down and saw for the first time that her dress was splashed with blood.
    “Not mine,” she said quickly.
    The constable assumed a forbidding air. “Who did you kill, then, ma’am?”
    “The Bridegroom,” she said. “I think. The thing is, I’m not certain that he’s dead.”

    The following morning, Amity Doncaster woke up to find herself notorious—for the second time that week.

Four
    H e came awake again to the same oppressive cloud of pain and confusion that had overwhelmed him on previous occasions. But his head was somewhat clearer this time. There were voices in the mist. He kept his eyes closed and listened hard. Two people were speaking in hushed tones. He knew them both.
    “He will live.”