The Duke's Affair

XXVI

It took only a split second before Lauren understood what was going on. The man, whose head she couldn't see, was prodding the air at her window with the gun. She could hear him shouting and was aware that another man, also dressed in a dark suit, was approaching the first.

Her door was open, the gun still pointed at her face, as one of them said: "Get out." His tone struck Lauren as odd; it wasn't angry or aggressive. More matter-of-fact. All he needed her to do was get out of the car, and she wasn't in a position to disagree. She noticed it was the man who wasn't holding the gun that had spoken.

With fingers that refused to obey in the normal manner Lauren fumbled with her seatbelt, unable to take her eyes from the gun that pointed at her face, feeling it searching out her nose, her eyes. If he took a shot now, what would happen to her face? What would be left?

Outside the car the men's breath steamed up the air in front of them and frozen snow lay crusted on the ground. The sun was still low in the sky, the light watery and cold over the horizon, an unbroken sheet of frosted grey pierced only by the bare branches of leafless trees. In the distance Lauren could see the house. Would Henry even hear a gunshot from up here?

The man with the gun touched it to her cheek, almost caressing it, to turn her face back to look towards him. The metal was cold, unused. His hair was dark, his eyes darker still. Neither of them had taken care to cover their faces and a memory of something her mother had once told her surfaced in Lauren's mind: you should always be more afraid when a gunman didn't cover his face. It meant you weren't going to live to tell anyone what he looked like.

"On the ground," he said, jerking the gun to the floor. "Hands out in front. Face down."

Lauren raised her hands but for a moment too long, didn't move. The man's fist landed across her jaw with a crack, and she felt her skin split, her lip swelling. And then again, the other side this time, roughing her up symmetrically. She let out a groan and lowered herself to the floor, knees first, hearing him shout at her. Through her jeans she felt the chill as the snow melted beneath her knee caps. She lay on her front, her cheek pressed into the snow, her hands flat on either side of her head. She could just see the man's feet, splayed, almost so he stood straddling her. She didn't have to look to know the gun was still pointed at the back of her head.

She found it difficult to breathe, her body trembling. Was this how she was going to die? Lying out here in the snow on the grounds of Henry's estate? What was going on? Why would anyone want to kill her? She had done nothing wrong...Lauren heard the click of the gun and closed her eyes.

"You can't kill her," said the other.

"What? He said to deal with it."

"He also said the woman was blonde. Skinny. This one's neither." Lauren tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, and in her peripheral vision she could see the two men. The gun was no longer directed at her. "You can't kill the wrong one."

"But she's in the right car. Number plate and everything."

And that was it. Lauren knew. They thought she was Annabel. And someone had ordered her killed. 'Dealt with.' Henry? Could it have been Henry? Lauren wondered if they would listen to her if she spoke up and told them who she was, or would any sound from her induce the more rash of the two men to put a bullet in her back?

The snow was chilling her body, reducing it to a state of inertia. If she got up, would her limbs be slow, useless? Her heart started to beat faster, panicking at the thought that she might never get up again. Her last moments could be spent face down in the snow. The two men above her were still arguing; one of them, it seemed, was keen on bloodshed, the other more cautious.