Catching. She liked that. Catching happiness.

She smiled. She couldn‘t help it. She looked up at him, because she couldn‘t quite help that, either, and he looked down, his eyes curious. He was about to ask her a question, probably about why she‘d suddenly started smiling like a loon, when—

Annabel jumped back. ―Was that a gunshot?"

He didn‘t say anything, and when she looked at him closely, she realized he‘d gone terribly pale.

―Mr. Grey?" She placed a hand on his arm. ―Mr. Grey? Are you all right?"

He did not speak. Annabel felt her eyes widen, and even though she knew he could not possibly have been shot, she found herself looking him up and down, half expecting to see blood.

―Mr. Grey?" she said again, because she‘d never seen him like this. And while she could not claim an extensive acquaintance, she knew that something was terribly wrong. His face was still and taut, and his eyes were somewhere else.

They were right there in his head, looking at a spot beyond her shoulder, and yet it was as if he wasn‘t there at all.

―Mr. Grey?" she said again, and this time she gave his arm a little squeeze, as if she might wake him up. He jumped, and his head snapped in her direction. He looked at her for several seconds before she thought he actually saw her, and even then he blinked several times before saying,

―My apologies."

She did not know what to say to that. There was nothing he could possibly need to apologize for.

―It‘s that bloody competition," he muttered.

She knew better than to scold him for his language. ―What competition?"

―Some stupid shooting contest. In the middle of Hyde Park," he snapped. ―A pack of idiots.

Who would do such a thing?"

Annabel started to say something. She felt her lips move, but nothing really came out. So she shut her mouth. Better to stay silent than to say something foolish.

―They were doing it last week as well," he muttered.

―I think they‘re just over the rise," Annabel said, motioning behind her. The shot had seemed rather close, actually. Nothing to make her go pale and shaky; a girl did not grow up in the country without hearing rifles discharged with a fair bit of regularity. Still, it had been rather loud, and she supposed that if one had returned from the war—

The war . That was what it had to be. Her father‘s father had fought in the colonies, and until the day he died he‘d jumped every time he heard a loud noise. No one ever said a thing about it. The conversation would miss a beat, but never more than that, and then everything would go on as if nothing had happened. It had been unwritten rule in the Winslow family. And it had suited them all quite well.

Or had it?

It had suited the rest of the family, but what about her grandfather? He never quite lost the hollow look in his eyes. And he did not like to travel after dark. No one liked it, Annabel supposed, but they all did it when necessary. Except her grandfather. When night fell, he was in the house. Any house. More than once he‘d ended up as someone‘s unexpected house-guest.

And Annabel wondered—had anyone ever asked him about it?

She looked up at Mr. Grey, suddenly feeling as if she knew him a great deal better than she had just a minute earlier.

But perhaps not well enough to say anything.

He dragged his gaze back to her face from whatever it was he was staring at, and he started to say something, but then—

Another gunshot.

―Goddamn it."

Annabel‘s lips parted in surprise. She looked this way and that, hoping no one had heard him curse. She did not mind, of course, she‘d never been overly fussy about such things, but—

―Excuse me," he muttered, and then he took off in the direction of the shots, his gait long and purposeful. Annabel took a moment to react, then bounced to attention and hurried after him.

―Where are you going?"

He didn‘t answer, or if he did, she couldn‘t hear it because he did not turn around. And it was a stupid question, anyway, because it was perfectly clear where he was going: over to the shooting competition, although why, she had no idea. Was he going to scold them? Ask them to stop?

Could he even do that? If people were shooting in the park, they would have had to get permission to do so. Wouldn‘t they?

―Mr. Grey!" she called out, trying to keep up. But he had long legs, and she had to move hers nearly twice as fast to match his stride. By the time she made it over to competition area, she was out of breath and perspiring under her corset.

But she soldiered on, chasing after him until she was but a few steps behind. He had stomped over to the gathering of participants—about a half dozen young men, none of them a day over twenty, if Annabel was any judge.

―What the devil do you think you are doing?" he demanded. Except that his voice was not raised. Which Annabel found odd, considering how obviously angry he was.

―Competition," one of the young gentlemen said, affecting the sort of annoyingly jaunty grin that always made Annabel roll her eyes. ―We‘ve been at it all week."

―So I‘ve heard," Mr. Grey responded.

―We‘ve got the area behind cleared out," the gentleman said, waving his arm toward the target.

―Don‘t worry."

―And when will you be done?" Mr. Grey asked coolly.

―When someone hits dead center."

Annabel looked down toward the target. She had seen her fair share of shooting contests, and she could tell that it had been set uncommonly far away. And she suspected that at least three of the men had been drinking. They could be here all afternoon.

―D‘you want to have a go at it?" another of the young men asked, holding a pistol out toward Mr. Grey.