He ripped through the remaining ropes, clenching the knife in his palm. Before he could reach Nigel, Anant attacked, throwing him to the ground. The weapon slipped out of his grasp, and Stephen cursed, rolling sideways. When he rose to his feet, Anant now held the knife in his hands. His assailant struck with practiced assurance, moving in a deadly circle.
Weaponless, Stephen had no choice but to wait for his enemy to attack. When the blade swung toward his head, he blocked the strike, grasping the man’s forearm and wrist. Sweat beaded upon his forehead as he struggled to overpower the man.
“Stephen—” The words erupted from Emily’s mouth in a terrified whisper.
With a burst of strength, he rotated Anant’s arm, driving the blade down. The pair stumbled over Freddie’s body and Anant twisted, falling to the ground. Stephen seized control of the weapon and rolled, driving the knife into Anant’s chest.
He jerked at the sound of the revolver’s hammer drawing back.
“Quite impressive,” Nigel said, waving the gun in a mock salute. “But rather irrelevant, all things being equal.” He pressed the barrel to Emily’s forehead. “The only dilemma is which of you to kill first?”
“I was never a threat to you, Uncle,” Emily whispered. Her mouth trembled, and Stephen moved toward her.
“Take another step, and I’ll pull the trigger, Whitmore.” Nigel’s countenance appeared almost grey, his hands shaking. Stephen froze, not wanting the man to inadvertently harm Emily. Terror lanced him at the idea of her dying.
His friend Michael burst through the remains of the shattered window, holding his own gun. He was followed by two of Stephen’s men. The three kept their weapons trained upon Nigel.
“Release her, Nigel,” Stephen said.
“I believe I shall kill her first,” Nigel said. “My apologies, Emily.”
And he pulled the trigger.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Miraculously,hiswiferemainedstanding. The empty click of the revolver stunned all of them. No more bullets remained in the chamber.
Nigel’s eyes rolled backwards, and he collapsed to the floor. Emily’s hands shook, her arms holding her waist as if to keep from screaming.
Stephen pulled her away from Nigel’s body, holding her tightly against him. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, and he pressed a kiss against her temple. Nigel lay on the floor, unmoving. Yet there was no stain, no mark upon him.
The three men stared down at the fallen body, unable to understand what had happened. Nigel had ceased to breathe.
“Perhaps his heart stopped beating,” the marquess offered.
“Or perhaps he drank too much laudanum,” Emily returned.
Stephen eyed the teacup upon Nigel’s desk. “You didn’t—”
Her mouth creased in an awkward expression. “I suppose I shouldn’t have. I didn’t know how much to add. I was hoping to drug him.”
“How much did you put in?” the marquess asked.
“Two bottles. With a great deal of sugar to mask the flavor. He always did take too much sugar with his tea.”
His father coughed, but Stephen noted the look of admiration. The gruff demeanor appeared to have softened somewhat. “Not a bad idea, I must say.” From Alfred Chesterfield, the words were no less than a high compliment.
“Where is Quentin?” Stephen asked.
“He stayed to protect the children,” Michael interjected.
“How badly was he hurt?”
“One of our other men was shot, not Quentin,” his friend corrected. “And he’ll live, I should think.”
Stephen’s hand caressed Emily’s nape. In her ear, he whispered, “I should have you horsewhipped for interfering. You could have been killed.”
