“You belong in Bedlam!” She pointed in his direction. “Better yet, Newgate!”
“Emily.” Marcus attempted to pull her back, but this horrible, horrible man had taken it upon himself to attempt to murder another human being. And in doing so, was torturing the man. The Duke of Waters might not be the nicest man in the world, but he was Marcus’ very own father!
Fury roared in her ears. And he would kill her even! Poison her! All so that his daughter could marry Marcus!
“Do you really think your daughter would wish to marry the son of the man you murdered? How could any woman live with something like that on her conscience? I’ve seen her! Your daughter is a beautiful girl! She doesn’t require you to find her a titled husband! Likely you’ve ruined her prospects now, though!”
She couldn’t see Quimbly but that wouldn’t stop her from delivering the brunt of her temper.
“Emily.” Marcus’ arms wound around her waist. “He’s a pistol aimed at you.” His whispered words barely penetrated her anger and disgust.
A what?
“You’d best listen to your husband, Lady Blakely.”
Now he calls me Lady Blakely. Emily let out a breath, blowing the curling tendrils of hair off her forehead, and attempted to focus on Quimbly’s hands.
“Does he really?” she mumbled over her shoulder at Marcus.
Marcus groaned and maneuvered so that she stood behind him. “Don’t do anything rash,” he told her, all the while placing his own body in the pathway of Quimbly’s bullet.
“What are you saying over there?” Quimbly’s voice trembled with anger.
“He’s saying that you have white powder on your mouth.” Emily peeked out from behind Marcus, even though she could not see more than twelve inches in front of her face. “Did you ingest the poison yourself?”
The blur moved, as though he was wiping his mouth.
In the flash of an instant, Marcus lurched at the blur. Apparently, her tactic had worked as she’d hoped. Emily could only pray the earl had been frightened enough by her suggestion that he’d let down his guard enough.
Enough for Marcus to wrestle the pistol away.
“Grab it, Emily. Grab the pistol.” Marcus’ voice reached through the blur of her reality. “It’s on the floor. Grab it, Emily!”
Emily dropped to her knees and began feeling around frantically. “Where?” She held her face so close to the floor that she could see the individual fibers of the carpet.
“Forward. To your left.”
And there it was. Cold, black metal.
Sure enough. Quimbly had been in possession of a pistol. Emily grasped it in her shaking hands and held it ominously in the direction of the kerfuffle.
“Not at me! Emily! Good God, love, don’t pull the trigger!”
“I won’t shoot you, Marcus. Just stay out of the way!” She could just make out Quimbly’s silver head and Marcus’ dark brown one.
She thought.
She wasn’t quite sure.
“Are you winning, Marcus?” She couldn’t be certain. “Marcus!” More thuds and oofs.
Frightened by the sounds she was hearing, and unable to stand by idly, she resolutely aimed the gun toward the ceiling, squeezed her eyes closed tightly, and pulled the trigger.
The shock of the explosion in her hands caused her to drop the weapon onto the carpet. Her fingers vibrated painfully.
Silence.
“I’ve got him, love. Don’t move.”
