William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

misjudged the step, tripped over her skirt, and pitched forwards, only just saving herself from serious hurt by dragging Hester with her, and at the last moment by putting out her hands to break her fall.
    Hester landed hard, knocking the breath out of her lungs. This saved her from using a word that had not passed her lips since the days in the army that Rose had referred to. Struggling to disentangle herself from her skirts and stand up without treading on Rose and falling flat again, she rose with great difficulty to her feet. “Get up!” she commanded furiously.
    Rose rolled over slowly and sat up, looking stunned, then began to laugh again.
    Hester leaned forward, caught Rose’s hand, and jerked hard. Rose slid forward but remained on the floor.
    It was Alan Argyll who came out of the crowd. Everyone else was milling around, trying to pretend nothing had happened, and either surreptitiously looking at the spectacle or studiously avoiding looking.
    “For God’s sake get her out of here!” he snarled at Hester. “Don’t just stand there! Lift!” He bent and hauled Rose to her feet, balancing her with some skill so that she would not buckle at the knees. Then, as she began to subside again, he picked her up, put her over his shoulder, and marched her towards the door. Hester could do nothing but follow behind.
    Outside it was not a difficult matter to send for Rose’s coachman. Ten minutes later Argyll assisted her, with considerable strength, into the coach.
    “I assume you will go with her?” he said, looking at Hester with disdain. “You seem to have arrived with her. Somebody needs to explain this to her husband. She can’t make a habit of it, or she’ll be locked up.”
    “I shall manage very well,” Hester assured him tartly. “I think she has gone to sleep. Her servants will help as soon as we get that far. Thank you for your assistance. Good night.” She was angry, embarrassed, and, now that it was over, a little frightened. What on earth was she going to say to Morgan Applegate? As Argyll had pointed out, his political career would never recover from this. It would be spoken of for years, even decades.
    The ride was terrible, not for anything Rose did but for what Hester feared she would do. They sped through the lamplit streets in the rain, the cobbles glistening, the gutters spilling over, the constant sound of drumming on the roof, splashing beneath, and the clatter of hooves and hiss of wheels. They lurched from side to side because they were going too fast, as the coachman was afraid Rose was ill and needed help.
    Hester was dreading what Applegate would say. No words had been exchanged, but she felt he had trusted her to care for Rose. From the first time they had met, Hester had seen a protectiveness in him, as if he was aware of a peculiar vulnerability in his wife, one he could not share with others. Now it seemed that Hester had quite extraordinarily let them both down.
    Except that she had had no idea how it had happened.
    The carriage came to an abrupt halt, but Rose did not seem to wake up. There was shouting outside and more lights, then the carriage door opened and a footman appeared. He leaned in without even glancing at Hester, lifted Rose with great care, and carried her across the mews and in through the back door of the house.
    The coachman handed Hester out and accompanied her across the yard and through the scullery. Her skirts were sodden around her ankles; her shoulders and hair were wet. Nothing had been further from her mind on leaving the memorial reception than sending someone to fetch her cloak—or to be more exact, Rose’s cloak.
    Inside the warmth of the kitchen, she realized how very cold she was. Her body was shuddering, her feet numb. Her head was beginning to pound as if it were she who had drunk far too much.
    The cook took pity on her and made her a hot cup of tea, but gave her nothing to go with it, no biscuit or slice of bread, as if Hester were to blame for Rose’s condition.
    It was half an hour before Morgan Applegate came to the kitchen door. He was in his shirtsleeves, his face flushed but white about the lips, his hair tangled.
    “Mrs. Monk,” he said with barely suppressed rage. “Will you be so good as to come with me?” It was a command rather than a question.
    Hester rose and followed him. She was deeply sorry for his distress, but she had no intention of being spoken to like a naughty child.
    He walked into the library, where there