Free The Duke of Shadows by Meredith Duran Page B

a scrapbook clutched to her chest.
    A gunshot rang out behind her, greeted by a chorus of high-pitched female screams. Another whizzed by, so close she could hear it pass. Were they shooting at her? She spurred her mount into a canter, her lips moving in a silent prayer as she negotiated animals and people. God, don't let me hit anyone. There was no end in sight to the melee, but up ahead, she saw the opening to a small alley. She headed for it.
    It was another lane lined with havelis, much like the one she had explored with Usha. A weird quiet encapsulated her as she entered it. Scattered shafts of sunlight fell, illuminating aimless drifts of dust. The horse sneezed, startling her. She pulled him to a trot.
    Ahead, a woman stepped into the darkened street, her sari a vivid mélange of purple and gold. She waved at Emma, motioning for her to go back. Emma ignored her. The woman's motions grew more violent as she neared.
    "Jaaiye laut jaaiye vo maar daalenge aapko!"

    She swallowed nervously, uncertain what to do. Was she being warned, or threatened? No matter, for she could not return the way she'd come. Urging her horse onward, she galloped past the woman.
    No one else appeared as she thundered down the crooked street. After a minute or so the alley widened, dumping her into another great commotion of people.
    By the time she caught sight of the Jama Masjid ahead and realized she had blundered directly into the heart of the OldCity, near the spice market, it was too late. She was penned in by the crowd. Men—mostly Indian, though she saw two or three English faces—were climbing onto whatever heights they could find, screaming words that were completely inaudible. The sweet smell of incense floating out of vegetable stalls was mixing with the acrid tang of gunpowder. Across the plaza, the vibrant paintings of the blue-skinned gods, the paintings she had so admired during her visit, had caught fire. A group of people fought, sobbing and screaming, to put out the flames.
    The frantic jostling forced her forward, in the direction of the Jama Masjid. The great striped minarets of the mosque gleamed in the morning light. Around her she began to spot wounded, British and Indians as well, bloody and smoke-stained from battle. Blast it, where were they coming from? Lacking a choice, she speeded her progress toward the mosque, spying as she neared it a sizable group of Englishmen who were sheltering beneath the high sandstone archways.
    A man cried out as he sighted her, stumbling down the steps as he clutched his arm. It was the Commissioner. "Mr. Fraser!" Emma hauled back on her reins and threw herself down from the horse, grabbing the man as he stumbled. "What happened to you?"
    "I tried," he said wearily. "The first breach was at Daryaganj. We shut the Delhi Gate—but they went around to Raj Ghat. They'll be inside the city at any moment."
    Raj Ghat was not fifteen minutes away. "Lord above!" She turned to cast a desperate glance over the chaotic crowd. "We cannot stay here, Mr. Fraser!"
    He took her hands, pressing them in his own. "Pray my telegram went through to Ambala," he said, staring into her eyes. "Pray with me for reinforcements."
    "I will pray, but you must leave with me. Two can sit my horse. Come." She tried to pull him toward her mount, but he resisted, looking behind her. "You were right!" he panted, and pulled from her grip. She glanced down, shocked to find her hands coated in blood. "You were right, my lord! The troops have turned on us!"
    She turned. The Marquess was mounted on a huge black steed, and his face was smeared with soot. He looked astonished to see her. "What in hell are you doing here? Why did you not wait for me at the Residency?"
    "There's no time for this!" Sir Fraser yelled. "Holdensmoor, they're shooting their own goddamn commanders!"
    The Marquess's mount shied, skittish as hordes of people milled around them. He reined the horse in a tight circle, saying as he came back around, "Get out