“I have not seen Miss Harris come downstairs, no.”
That sounded a bit… precise. Aden sent the butler a sideways glance, uneasiness trickling up his spine. He’d checked the bedchamber before he’d allowed her inside, and it had been free of possible angry navy men or henchmen or nosy MacTaggert females. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep, though. They devil knew they’d been awake most of the night. “Let me know when she does.”
“I shall do so. And there’s something else you should—”
The brass door knocker thundered up the hallway, slamming against the front door at least half a dozen times in rapid succession. Hmm. It was early for callers, and he hadn’t put his name or address on any of the notes. Lord George would know where any missive came from, though, as would Matthew Harris.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Smythe said, leaving the library as the loud rapping repeated.
The front door opened, followed by a loud exclamation and what sounded like a scuffle. Aden shoved to his feet and was halfway to the library door when the butler stumbled through it and fell to his knees, a pistol and then the blue-clothed arm of Captain Robert Vale directly behind him. Aden helped the butler to his feet, then stepped between him and the captain. No one else was going to be hurt.
“Where are they?” Vale snarled, the pistol moving to aim squarely at Aden’s head.
“If ye shoot me ye’ll nae find out, will ye?”
“A ball in the leg will persuade you. Give them back. I’m not asking again.”
This was the way Aden had wanted it, with Vale’s anger turned on him. Thank the devil Miranda was still upstairs. “Ye look a bit disheveled this morning,” he noted, taking in the poorly knotted cravat and missing regal captain’s hat. “Did ye get booted out of bed or someaught?” If that was how it had happened, he would have loved being there to see Lord George toss out his unwanted houseguest.
“Do I look like I’m playing?” Vale enunciated, waving the pistol a little for emphasis.
“Nae. Ye look like a man who’s nae thought through his next couple of moves. Mayhap this’ll help ye.” Moving slowly on the chance the captain might panic and fire, Aden reached over to the table and retrieved the letter he’d just written out. “I’ll read it to ye, so ye dunnae have to look down.” He lifted the paper. “‘Admiral Jonathan Kenny, Bombay, India. This missive is to inform ye that the promissory notes in yer name and possessed by Captain Robert Vale, née Tom Potter of Polperro, Cornwall, have been destroyed. Ye may be interested to know that while I’m nae aware of his current location, Vale was last seen in Mayfair, London, on the ninth of June. He nae longer possesses any promissory notes at all, and nae any friends, either. Best of luck in yer future endeavors. A friend.’”
Vale stared at him, his face pale and a vein pulsing visibly at his temple. “Give me that.”
“Nae. I willnae. I’ve already had seventeen or so of them delivered—which ye already know, since I reckon Lord George bade ye goodbye—and this one looks quite proper. My ma would be proud of my penmanship, I reckon.”
“I am going to… kill you, and then I will kill Miranda Harris.”
Something cold and hard settled in Aden’s chest, and he altered what he’d been about to say. The time for baiting and jests was over with. Vale had just put a stop to it. “Ah. Now ye have two choices, Tom Potter,” he said, noting that his voice sounded perfectly calm despite the black fury in his heart. “Ye—”
“‘Two choices’?” the captain repeated, snarling. “I’m giving you none at all, you bastard.”
“I’m talking now,” Aden cut in sharply. “If ye interrupt me again, we’ll be down to one choice. Now. As I was saying, ye can put that pistol on the floor and leave, leave London, leave England before I catch a whiff of where ye’ve gone. Or ye can go with yer second choice, and fire that pistol and pray to God ye kill me. Because if ye flinch, if ye miss me or but wound me, I am going to put a knife through yer chin and up through yer brain and ye’ll be dead before ye hit the floor. And if ye don’t miss, one of my brothers will see ye dead before ye get ten feet out the front door. Those are your two and only choices. You, alive, or dead by a MacTaggert’s hand.”
Aden took a slow breath, giving what he’d said time to sink in past Vale’s desperation, time for the man to consider where he was and whether he had the spleen to shoot a man who stood there looking him in the eye. Because Vale was a man who prided himself on being roundabout, who made other men dirty their hands so he wouldn’t have to. Except that this time he’d put the pistol into his own hands. “Now choose which one it’s to be.”
“You—”
“I said,choose, ye mealymouthed coward!” Aden bellowed. “You, alive, or dead?”
Vale flinched, opened his mouth, and shut it again. After six loud ticks from the clock on the mantel thepistol fell to the floor with a dull thud, and Robert Vale turned on his heel and fled the house.
“My… Thank you, Master Aden,” Smythe said faintly behind him.
A door opened to his right, and he turned just as Miranda slammed into him. “Aden!” she sobbed, flinging her arms around him like a woman drowning.
He held her close. If he’d known she was in the next room, that a stray shot might have…God’s sake.Aden lowered his face into her hair. “It’s over,” he whispered, his voice only now beginning to shake.
His mother and the Harris parents and Matthew piled out of the adjoining sitting room behind Miranda, but other than noting that someone—Francesca—had been maneuvering behind his back, he ignored them. Miranda was safe. Now she was safe.
Coll thundered in from the direction of the stairs, a claymore in one hand and wearing nothing but a scowl. “Where is the bastard? I’ll cut him in half!” he roared.
“He’s gone,” Francesca answered, one hand over her heart. “He… Your brother threatened him, and he fled.” She sat down hard in the nearest chair.
“Fuck. Mayhap I can catch him.” Coll ducked back into the hallway, calling for his horse.
“He’s… he’s naked,” Elizabeth Harris said faintly.
