Air hissed through William’s teeth. “Call my mother a whore again and it will be your last word, Lethbridge.”
“William,” Lanora asked, stunned, “is it true?”
William didn’t look at her.
Lethbridge smirked.
Red anger made the edges of William’s vision fuzzy, but he could see the attorney with clarity. “How long have you known? The marquess would never have told you.”
“She told me. When she lay dying in that cell. I pretended I was there to help her and she told me everything. About your brother, the life you’d been leading. How you begged for bread. Everything. I’ve spent years kowtowing to you, a man hardly better than street scum.”
“William.” Lanora’s voice was soft.
He couldn’t look at her. He had to focus on Lethbridge, his enemy. More than that, he feared Lanora’s expression. There would be pity there, if he was lucky. More likely, disgust. It was one thing to hand out bread and treat her gentrified staff as human. It was another to have kissed a man who’d lived in the squalor of London, begging for his food.
“Shoot him, Lady Lanora,” Lethbridge urged. “Set yourself free of this lying scum.”
“It all makes sense,” Lanora said, her incredulous tone finally drawing his gaze. “William, you’re—” She broke off, looking from Lethbridge back to him. “It all makes sense now.”
Was that respect in her voice? Now that William looked, he couldn’t read her face.
“Yes, now you know.” Lethbridge was triumphant. “He was about to trick you into marrying him, a man unfit for the daughter of a duke. No one will blame you for killing him.”
“Do you know what I think, Mr. Lethbridge?” Lanora said, her voice firm, strident. “It’s not having to work for Lord William that embitters you. It’s knowing that you, no matter what path you take in life, will never be his equal. No amount of fortune or education will ever make you half the man he is. Not even half the man he was as a boy raised on the streets of London. And you can’t live with that.”
Lethbridge turned on her, eyes wild with rage. William lunged forward, dove across the desk. He crashed into Lethbridge. A pistol fired. They slammed into Lethbridge’s chair, the wall, the floor. Coming up on his knees, William grabbed Lethbridge by the collar. His fist smashed into the attorney’s face. Bright blood sprayed from Lethbridge’s nose.
William released the torn fabric. Lethbridge’s head dropped to the floor, bouncing once beside the shattered inkwell. William stood. Pain lanced through his side. He winced, pressing his hand to the gunshot wound to find fresh blood. His leap over the desk must have torn his stitches.
He prodded Lethbridge with his boot. The man was out cold. Nearby, the pistol lay spent. A glance upward showed the bullet lodged in the ceiling. Finally, reluctant in spite of her speech, he turned to Lanora.
She still held a gun, pointed right at him.
