“Ready, my love?” James lifted his brows.
“As ready as I shall ever be.”
He inserted the key and opened the door.
“How many times must I tell you that I don’t want that slop you call supper?” The man hunched over the table continued scribbling in a journal and didn’t bother to look at them. “Go away and leave me to my privacy.”
“Hello, stepfather,” Evie said.
The man jerked up, stumbling from his chair, his face shocked…and menacingly familiar. The intervening years had added grey to his hair, deepened the lines of discontent on his noble brow, and added a sag to his jowls. But the eyes…the eyes were the same. Under slashing dark eyebrows, the pale, hard orbs sent a chill down Evie’s spine, and she braced against the instinct to run and hide.
“Evelyn.” Recovering his composure, Wilmington managed a sneer. “My, you have grown up, haven’t you?”
“And you are not dead.”
“What can I say? I experienced a miraculous recovery.”
When he sauntered toward a dresser, James pulled out a pistol. Cocked it with cool intention.
“Stay where you are,” he said.
“Is that any way to greet your father-in-law?” Wilmington spoke in mocking tones, but he stayed where he was. “You should know that Evelyn has always had an active imagination. Whatever she told you?—”
“I would believe it. My wife has my full confidence. You will rot behind bars for your crimes.”
“You killed Mama.”
A floodgate opened, fury pouring through Evie. She advanced toward him, her shoulders set, her hands balled at her sides.
“You smothered her to gain control of my dowry. Then you abused me and tricked me into thinking I had poisoned you. I suppose you didn’t think I was useless after all, for you planted the seed of guilt in me so that you could reap the rewards. So that when the time was right, you could threaten, terrorize, and extort me from beyond the grave.”
“Rather clever of me, wasn’t it?”
Wilmington smiled—then lunged.
He clamped his hand on Evie’s throat, yanking her back against his chest, using her like a shield.
“Put your pistol on the ground,” he snarled. “Now. Or I’ll snap her neck.”
The promise of retribution flashing in his eyes, James crouched and laid down the weapon.
Gasping, Evie clawed at Wilmington’s iron grip with one hand. She slid the other into the pocket of her skirts, closing her fingers around the pistol’s handle. Blindly, she rotated the pistol until the barrel pointed backward.
“Hurt her, and you will die slowly,” James said.
“Kick over your pistol,” Wilmington barked.
James flicked his gaze to Evie—and she acted. Tightening her grip, she pulled the trigger. The crack of the bullet, muffled by the layers of her gown, was followed by Wilmington’s guttural howl. His hand spasmed around her throat, and she broke free as he collapsed to the floor. Lying on his back, he clutched his bleeding thigh, whimpering in agony.
Evie stumbled over to look at him, her bosom surging and pistol drawn. Drawn and ready to fire the second round. On the ground, Wilmington writhed, pale and sweating, hatred twisting his features.
“Finish it,” he spat. “Do it, you worthless cunt.”
Evie’s finger trembled on the trigger. For an instant, she imagined the sweetness of vengeance—of paying back Wilmington for all the pain he’d inflicted. With a gentle motion, no more force than she would use to pluck a spent blossom from a stem, she could put an end to him and his villainy. She felt James standing behind her—felt his strength and support, the gift of his love.
“I make my own choices. I always have.”
She lowered her weapon.
