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Killian O’Flannagan stood in the doorway of The Arc, staring at the scene before him in utter amazement.

Chapter 38

Conor didn’t know what O’Flannagan was doing here, but he didn’t care. He tore across the room to Astrid’s side and flung his arms around her. “Astrid!” he cried, peppering her cheeks with kisses. “Are you all right? Can you hear me?”

She stirred a little in his arms, but didn’t wake.

He kept both hands on her—he felt as if he might never let her out of his arms again—and turned to face O’Flannagan. “Why are you here?” he asked. “Were you in cahoots with him?”

“With Wilson?” O’Flannagan huffed out a laugh. “Certainly not. I was walking by—”

“You were walking by at one in the morning?”

“I sometimes enjoy an evening constitutional,” O’Flannagan said archly. “As I was saying—I was walking by and I saw that a lamp was lit. That seemed strange to me, and of course I remembered there had been a murder in this club not all that long ago. Then I walked in and saw your man there holding a gun to the girl’s head.”

“It was him,” Conor said. “He’s the one who killed Lord Hayward. He confessed it all to me before you came in.”

“I suppose the fact that he had a gun on your wife is compelling enough evidence to at least make a case against him,” O’Flannagan agreed. “And I can certainly testify to that fact.”

“You would do that? For me?”

“Spare me. I have no desire to see you in prison, Lord Middleborough,” O’Flannagan said, waving a hand dismissively. “It seems things may have gotten a bit…dramaticbetween the two of us.”

“I’d say that’s fair,” Conor said weakly.

O’Flannagan gestured to Astrid. “Is she hurt?” he asked.

“I think she’s just overcome.”

“We should untie her.”

Conor nodded and loosened the ropes that bound Astrid’s wrists. As soon as she was free, she slumped forward and began to fall. He caught her, lifted her in his arms, and carried her to one of the tables, where he laid her down to conduct an examination.

O’Flannagan cane and stood beside him. “Her breathing seems fine,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll come around before long.”

Conor hesitated. He knew what he needed to say, but it did not come easy. There was so much bad blood between himself and Killian O’Flannagan. They had been rivals for so long. It felt almost unnatural to stand next to the man now, knowing that the real enemy had been Henry.

How could it have been Henry?

That question was going to take much longer to grapple with, and Conor wasn’t really ready for it. He would have plenty of time to think about it later, once he was back at home.

For now, though, he faced O’Flannagan. “I owe you my life,” he said. “And my wife—you saved her. You saved us both. I don’t know how to begin to thank you.”

“Forget it,” O’Flannagan said. “I certainly have no desire to see the girl killed. She irks me, but she’s a spitfire.”

“You know my wife?”

“That is a longer tale than you and I have time for right now, I believe,” O’Flannagan said. “I’m sure she’ll be willing to tell you all about it once she's awake and feeling a little better.”

Conor nodded, feeling confused.

“And what about your man there?” O’Flannagan nodded in Henry’s direction. “What are we to do with him?”

“You’ll testify that you saw him holding the gun on Astrid?” Conor asked.

“I will,” O’Flannagan said. “I’m always willing to tell the truth in the service of the law.”

Conor went over to Henry’s prone body, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out the contracts he had been forced to sign.