“Or,” Mel insisted, “we can defeat your father and you can all stay. Lord Cornelius, if you and I meet with your wife tonight, she will know me, and will be able to tell you I can be trusted. Is that what you meant by ‘test’?”
Cornelius nodded.
“And Lady Andromeda, too,” Frank said. “You know her, you said, Mrs. Blackmore.”
“She is a friend of mine,” Mel confirmed. “She will vouch for me, and so will Lady Thisbe.”
“Good,” said Lord Kemble. “Tonight, at the club, we shall confirm your identity and your character.”
“Don’t discuss my wife’s identity or presence in London,” Cornelius warned. “Even among yourselves.”
At that point, the bell rang. The growing amity in the room vanished as Ernest hurried upstairs to use the peephole.
“It is Farnham,” he reported. “On his own.”
Most of the brothers paused in their hurried tidying to glare at Mel. “Sent by the marquess or here of his own accord?” she wondered. “I didn’t think he would report his failure to beat me to the marquess, nor how—and where—I wounded him.”
“He probably didn’t,” Lord Kemble theorized. “If the marquess sent him, I’d expect him to have reinforcements. But he has come on his own. Rather daring of him.”
“He thinks you are cowed and without power,” Mel suggested. “My guess is that he’ll demand you turn me over.” Botheration. Leaving her pistol upstairs had been an act of good faith, but she regretted it now.
“Open the door,” Lord Kemble said to Baldwin.
The second brother shook his head and scowled, but followed the instruction.
Farnham stormed through the door, brushing Baldwin to one side, heading straight for Mel. Lord Kemble stepped in his way, and when the steward tried to dodge around him, moved to prevent him.
“Out of my way,” Farnham snarled.
“My lord,” Lord Francis suggested. “That should be, out of my way, my lord.”
Farnham aimed a punch at Lord Kemble, who dodged and punched him back, knocking Farnham off his feet.
Mel decided it was time to take a hand. She skirted Kemble, who was standing over a groggy Farnham, waiting for him to recover enough to get up. “Farnham, I take it you were not satisfied with the outcome of our last meeting,” she said.
“You bastard,” Farnham complained. “I’m going to beat you to a pulp. You, too, Kemble.”
With a flick of her wrist, Mel activated the catch on the sheath of the knife she wore strapped to her right forearm. The knife dropped into her hand. “Or,” she said, holding it up so he could see it, “I could skin you. You’d be more use as a lampshade.”
She shook the knife from her other arm down into her left hand.
“My lords, if any of you are sensitive around blood, you might wish to look the other way.”
“I’d be happy to hold him for you,” Kemble said.
“I’ll help,” said Baldwin. “Do you happen to have a spare knife, Mr. Black?”
Farnham was scooting backwards towards the door, with his rump on the floor and both legs working furiously. “I’ll tell the marquess,” he threatened.
“What? That you were fool enough to come here alone, unarmed and without his orders, after I had already beaten you once?” Mel chuckled. “From what I observed, the marquess is not one to tolerate stupidity, but try it, by all means. I shall watch with interest.”
Farnham kept going until he was in the anteroom. Baldwin shut the door and locked it.
“That,” he said, “was very satisfying.”
*
When Mrs. Blackmorecame downstairs dressed in her red gown, her mask in her hand, Allan had to wonder how any of them had mistaken her for a man.
