Victor’s lip curled. “They risked their lives for you?”
“They did.” Neil’s voice was calm, almost flat. “It appears my reputation as the ‘Gambling Devil’ does not frighten my own household. You are, I think, out of options here, Victor. Lay down the knife and come quietly—there is no need to make this harder than it must be.”
For a moment, the room held its breath. Maggie’s foot moved against Emma’s back, a tiny, urgent pressure. She would shove the child clear. Neil noted it in the same instant Victor lurched forward—whether to seize the girl or to snatch Maggie was impossible to tell.
Maggie’s foot flicked. Emma rolled away into a dark niche, still bound but out of Victor’s immediate reach. Victor roared, fury loose in his throat; he seized Maggie by the arm, hauled her erect, and pressed the keen edge of the knife to her throat.
“Stand still, or she dies,” he snarled.
Neil did not dare take his eyes off Victor, not even to glance at Emma. He was aware of Simon rushing forward, snatching Emma up from the ground and into his arms.
Emma is safe,he told himself firmly.She is unhurt, as far as I can tell. Stay calm and focus on Maggie.
“You have no case against me,” Victor hissed. “No evidence. To convict a man like me, you’ll need evidence. Nothing ties me to the murder of Pemberton’s son, nothing excepthertestimony. Which, of course, is why she cannot be permitted to go on. You must see that, Neil.”
Maggie stilled, eyes wide but composed. If she struggled, she might cough and bleed; if she moved, she might be stabbed. She stayed as still as stone.
“She was meant to be mine,” Victor went on, voice flat. “What right had you to interfere? I should have been able to deal with my debtor quietly—marriage, settlement, no trouble. But she vanished; her father fled. I am generous with life where it profits me, but I will not endure embarrassment. I caught her father about to board a boat to France, did I tell you that? He would have left his only child to face me. I might have sheltered her, had he but shown a spine. A wretched coward, he is.”
Neil glanced at Thomas, who knelt the length of a man’s guilt and shame; the old man’s face was drawn and pale.
“Do not speak of him so,” Maggie said, hardness threading her voice. “He did what he could for me.”
“Silence,” Victor snapped, but his tone carried a tremor; he knew too well that a scene of blood would complicate his position.
Victor has killed before,Neil thought, and his mind filled with the knowledge of what the man was capable of.
As if reading the thought, Victor met Neil’s eye. “She must not be permitted to speak against me,” he said with appalling calm. There was no passion in it—only the flat conviction of a man arranging the next move. “Without her testimony, you are powerless, Neil. I am a survivor; that is the end of it.”
Neil’s mouth felt suddenly dry; his throat clicked as he swallowed. He took a tentative step forward, raising his hands in a helpless, desperate gesture. “I will do what you want, Victor,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t kill her. Please.”
A slow, contemptuous smile spread over Victor’s face. “My word—love? How quaint. But no amount of begging, tears, or devotion has ever swayed me from what must be done.”
At that moment, Thomas Camden lurched to his feet, one hand on the wall to steady himself.
“Don’t hurt my girl,” he rasped, his throat thick as though he hadn’t drunk even a drop of water for days. “I owe you my soul, you wretch. Don’t hurt my daughter.”
“Silence,” Victor returned, scarcely glancing his way. “I thought my men had beaten whatever spirit remained from you when you arrived. Evidently, they were not thorough.”
Maggie remained motionless, eyes wide but composed, every muscle controlled so that the knife’s razor edge would not nick her skin. Behind Neil, he could hear feet shuffling in the passage—perhaps the approaching footmen—and a muffled sound of Emma crying, her face likely buried against Simon’s shoulder.
Then a new factor entered the perilous account.
Thomas Camden moved again, pulling away from the wall and stumbling toward Victor and Maggie. From where Neil stood, it dawned with a cold jolt that Thomas was on the man’s blind side.
Do not look at him,Neil told himself, forcing his gaze to stay fixed on Bramwell.
“We can surely come to some arrangement,” he began, voice trembling only a little.
Whether Victor’s instincts pricked or fate simply obliged him, his eyes flicked to the side. He caught sight of Thomas—nearer than he had expected. If the old man had frozen, the moment might have passed. Thomas did not freeze.
With a strangled cry born of despair and love, Thomas threw himself at Victor.
Victor reacted on reflex, whipping his knife arm up. In the scuffle that followed, Maggie flung herself forward to get clear. The pair crashed to the floor, bodies rolling, hands scrabbling for the blade.
Neil seized the chance. He lunged, hauled Maggie free, and dragged her back with him, pulling her entirely out of the struggle. Victor tore an arm free and thrust his knife into Thomas’s shoulder—once, twice—each blow drawing a pained cry before the old man was flung aside.
Before Victor could steady himself, Neil’s fist met his face with a hard, decisive blow. The impact rattled the man; he collapsed, the knife clattering across the flagstones, and a stunned silence followed.
