“A bit of a challenge for you, I’d think, considering you’ll be swinging from a rope soon,” Henry murmured.
“You bastard.” Robert threw his fist into Henry’s jaw, knocking him back into Viola. She stumbled slightly, but managed to regain her balance and add some distance between herself and the men who were now fighting like bare-knuckle boxers keen to draw blood.
“Stop it,” she cried, but neither man listened.
“Get out of my house,” Henry growled as he placed a sharp jab above Robert’s right eye. The skin broke and blood trickled down the side of his face.
“Not until I’ve given you the thrashing you deserve.” Robert rushed forward, jamming his head into Henry’s abdomen, throwing him back.
Viola barely managed to get out of the way before they went down, landing with a thud on the floor. Robert leaned back and pinned Henry down with his body. A crack sounded as bone connected with bone, the knuckles on Robert’s right hand reddening further with each successive strike to Henry’s face.
“No!” Viola flung herself at him.
“Oh dear merciful God.” The exclamation came from one of the maids who must have heard the ruckus and come to see what was going on.
“Go and fetch help,” Viola yelled, and the maid quickly complied.
Viola latched on to Robert’s shoulders with her hands, desperate to make him stop hitting Henry, but her weight was too slight and he easily pushed her aside.
Struggling to her feet, she made another attempt, pulling at his shoulders with all the strength she had in her. The effort allowed Henry to pull his hands free and place them around Robert’s neck. Robert roared in frustration. His elbow came back, hitting Viola in the chest. She fell back onto her bottom..
A cry of outrage ricocheted off the walls. Viola shifted her weight. She had to stand—had to help Henry. Her feet found the floor and she pushed herself up, ignoring the dull ache in her chest. Something silver gleamed in the evening. It moved smoothly through the air, elegant but deadly.
Viola screamed as the blade went down with a clean stab to Henry’s chest. His agony filled the air as Robert retrieved the blade. Everything slowed, the world fell away and all Viola could see was time running out—the last grains of sand spilling through the hourglass—taking her future with Henry with it.
Aware that she lacked the strength to overpower the madman before her, Viola sprinted toward Henry’s study. She flung his desk drawer open and grabbed the pistol he kept there. Panting, she hurried back into the hallway, arriving just in time to see Robert prepare to stab Henry again.
Without hesitation, she aimed the pistol with trained precision and drew a deep breath, steadying herself so she would not tremble.
One shot. That was all she had. And she took it without even blinking as Robert’s hand came down once more. He stiffened and the blade fell to the floor with a clatter as Robert slumped awkwardly to the side. He gasped as he rolled back against the wall, clutching at his chest while trying to rise.
Viola paid him no heed. She rushed toward Henry and tore his jacket and vest wide open. “You will survive this, my love,” she croaked as she pulled at his bloodstained shirt with quivering hands.
Across from her, Robert leaned crookedly against the wall. His breaths were short and fast. “You’ve killed me.” The words came haltingly from his throat.
Anger shoved pain and fear aside for a moment. “No, Robert. I’m not that kind.” Henry’s wound came into view and Viola’s lips wobbled as hot tears welled behind her eyes. When she spoke again, her words broke apart in anguish. “I want you to survive this so you can face the condemnation of your peers in court.”
He flung his arm out toward her as if to attack, but it was a futile attempt as strength failed him this time. Choking back her emotion, Viola reminded herself to stay calm. Panicking wouldn’t help Henry right now, so she ripped his shirt with methodical movements, wiping the blood from his chest and adding pressure where it was needed.
“Viola.” Her name was but a croak.
“Hush now, my love.” She pressed one palm to his cheek. “You need to preserve your strength.
Seconds later, Viola heard voices and footsteps approaching and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Jesus,” a man’s voice exclaimed. He sounded vaguely familiar, and when she looked up, she recognized him as the Earl of Wilmington, one of St. Agatha’s committee members. Another committee member, Baron Hawthorne, stood beside him.
“I brought the first men I could find,” the maid said from somewhere near the front door.
“My husband is seriously injured,” Viola informed them, even though the fact was blatantly obvious. “I need to get him to St. Agatha’s right away.”
“Fielding. Go call a carriage,” Wilmington yelled to another gentleman who’d come with them. “Hawthorne. You’re with me. Let’s see to it that Lowell survives.”
A hand caught Viola’s elbow, urging her to rise. She resisted until she realized she was impeding all effort to help by being in the way. Wilmington and Hawthorne bent to pick Henry up. He groaned in response and Viola pushed her way forward again, doing her best to keep pressure on the wound as the men proceeded to carry him out of the house.
“Good God, what has happened?” Mr. Andrews exclaimed as he met them by the carriage Fielding had procured. He was carrying a couple of parcels, both clearly marked with labels from Henry’s favorite tailor.
“The Duke of Tremaine tried to kill him,” Viola explained while Henry was handed up into the carriage and placed upon one of the benches. “He’s still inside and badly wounded. He’ll need medical care as well.”
