Page 65 of The Courtship Dance

“I am sending you back to the Continent.”

“What? I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh, but I think you are. First, you are going to give me the note that Lord Haughston supposedly wrote turning over his house to you. Then you are going to leave this country and never return.”

“The hell I will!” Perkins’ defiant cry would have been more effective if he had not staggered when he jumped to his feet and had to grab the bedstead to stay upright. “You can’t make me go anywhere.”

Rochford cocked one eyebrow expressively. Perkins regarded him stubbornly for a moment, then turned away.

“All right, all right,” he whined, making his way to the wardrobe and pulling a handled cloth bag from the bottom of it.

Opening the bag, he set it down on the bed, then turned to the small table beside it. His back turned to Rochford, he reached inside. As he pulled his hand out of the drawer, he whirled and charged Rochford, a blade glinting in his grasp.

Rochford sidestepped neatly and sent a sharp jab into his kidney as he passed. Perkins stumbled forward under the force of the blow, and Rochford followed, grabbing the arm that held the knife and twisting it behind his back. His hand was like iron around the other man’s wrist, and he jerked Perkins’ arm up painfully, pulling the knife from his fingers.

“Now,” he said, dropping the knife into the pocket of his jacket. “I hope we can proceed to your packing. Another stunt like that one, and you will be departing without any of your things.”

“You nearly wrenched my arm out of the socket,” Perkins whined, rubbing his shoulder. “Have you gone mad?”

“I am quite sane, I assure you.”

“I never did anything to you. You’ve no right to be pushing me about.”

“You have offended a lady of my acquaintance. That gives me every right. Now, hand over the note.”

Perkins’ mouth twisted bitterly. “That doxy! So that’s her price for becoming your plaything, eh?”

Rochford’s fist shot out, slamming into Perkins’ cheek and knocking the man flat on the floor. Before Perkins could move, Rochford strode forward and set his boot across the other man’s throat.

“I could do whatever I wished to you,” he pointed out conversationally. “I hope you are intelligent enough to understand that. If I wanted, I could crush your throat right now.” He pressed harder against Perkins’ wind-pipe. “I could kill you in an instant and then have my servants toss your body in the Thames. And no one would either know or care that you are gone.” He paused, then went on. “Now…I will tell you one last time. Give me the note.”

Perkins had turned as white as chalk during the duke’s speech, and now he dug frantically in his inner pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He held it upward, waving it.

Rochford relaxed his pressure somewhat and reached down to pluck the note from the other man’s fingers. He unfolded and perused it, his mouth tightening as he read; then he folded up the paper and stuck it in his pocket.

“Tell me,” he said conversationally. “Just as a point of curiosity…was Haughston really so great a gudgeon as to write that note?”

Perkins set his jaw stubbornly, and Rochford pressed his foot down harder.

“No!” Perkins gasped. “I wrote it. I could always do his hand. The bird-witted clunch! I don’t know how many times I wrote his vowels. He was always too disguised to remember.”

With a noise of disgust, Rochford removed his foot from the other man’s throat, and Perkins rose gingerly to his feet.

“You will leave England tomorrow,” Rochford told him in icy tones. “And if you ever come back, I can promise you that I will put the full weight of my name and my fortune to seeing that you are prosecuted for murdering Avery Bagshaw. Do I make myself clear?”

Hatred shot from Perkins’ eyes, but he nodded, reaching up to wipe the fresh blood from his mouth.

“Good.” Rochford nodded. “It is my sincere hope never to see you again. Make sure I am not disappointed.”

He turned and strode out the door. Behind him, Perkins glared at the door for a moment, then turned and walked stiff-legged over to the bag on the bed. He picked it up and flung it against the wall.

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered sullenly. “We’ll bloody see about that.”

FRANCESCA SAT IN the drawing room, not bothering to go upstairs and change. She was certain that Rochford would come to her when he was finished with Perkins, and if he did not, she feared that it would mean the worst. She could not possibly go up to bed with that hanging over her head.

So she kicked off her shoes and curled up in the most comfortable chair in the room, angling it so that she could keep watch out the front bow window. Time moved by at an agonizing pace.

She told herself that she did not need to worry. Rochford would take care of Perkins without coming to any harm. She had never known him to be unprepared or caught off guard. He was intelligent, as well as strong, and he would not let Perkins get the better of him, no matter how underhandedly Perkins went about it.