Page 38 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

"I'll come for you,” Hardwicke whispered to the door, his fingers clenched against the doorframe until his knuckles turned white.

It took all his self-control to step away from the door behind which sat his wife.

But he did step away and hurried back to his secret passage, grabbing a tinderbox from the nearby table along the way.

God, how he missed Fiona’s voice. Warm, comforting, fierce.

Of course, she was the one to stand up for the poor girl. Of course, she had helped the man who was shot, and of course, she comforted the elderly Lady Pelham. It was so perfectly, heartbreakingly her—always thinking of others before herself, always trying to ease suffering wherever she found it.

She was fearless.

And sometimes he wished she weren’t. In situations like this, he longed for her to be quietly and safely tucked away in the corner, hiding from sight and not drawing any attention to herself. But then she wouldn’t be the woman he loved.

They had not survived wars, hardships, and the bitter dissolution of their marriage for him to lose her here, in Thornbury's gilded ballroom, to common brigands.

But he wasn't twenty anymore, full of righteous fury and reckless courage. He knew that foolish charges got men killed. He had learned patience, tactics, and the invaluable skill of striking where it would hurt most.

Hardwicke closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to think past the red haze of fury threatening to cloud his judgment. He had a new mission now—not merely to save Fiona from harm, but to ensure that every one of these monsters paid for what they planned to do.

Kill them all.

He took the candelabra from the wall and lit it. With the steady flame to guide him, he could move much more quickly through the narrow corridors that honeycombed Thornbury's mansion.

He found his way to the third floor, which housed only an art gallery directly above the ballroom and Lord and Lady Thornbury's private apartments. The secret passage led straight to Lady Thornbury's bedchamber, emerging behind a false panel disguised as part of the wainscoting.

Hardwicke positioned himself by the secret door and pressed his ear against the wood, straining to hear any sounds from the chambers beyond. For long moments, there was nothing but his own harsh breathing and the thundering of his pulse in his ears.

Then—bam!

A door slammed shut in the adjoining room with enough force to rattle the walls. Almost immediately, muffled shouts erupted, followed by the crash and scrape of overturned furniture. A woman's scream was cut off abruptly.

Hardwicke drew the dagger from his waistband and pushed the secret door open just enough to slip through.

The connecting door to Lord Thornbury's study stood slightly ajar. Hardwicke approached it on silent feet, his heart hammering against his ribs, and peered through the narrow slit.

What he saw there nearly cost him his sanity.

The bandit had the young woman bent over Thornbury's mahogany desk, his filthy hands pawing at her while she struggled desperately to escape.

Her dress was already torn at the shoulder, and the monster was kissing her neck with revolting enthusiasm as she flailed and sobbed, trying to push him away.

"Please," she gasped. "Please don't—"

"Hush now, sweeting," the bandit crooned. "It'll be easy if ye don't fight."

White-hot fury exploded through Hardwicke's entire being. He slammed the door open with enough force to crack the frame and charged at the vile cur.

The bandit didn’t even have time to turn around as Hardwicke seized him from behind, one arm clamping across his chest, the other forcing the dagger’s edge against his throat hard enough to draw blood.

"Keep absolutely still," Hardwicke hissed, his lips so close to the man's ear that his breath stirred the greasy hair. "One wrong move, and I'll slit your throat." He raised his voice slightly. "Miss, please go to the room next door and remain there. Stay silent, and you'll be safe."

The young woman nodded frantically, terror and relief warring in her wide blue eyes. She clutched the torn edges of her dress together and ran for Lady Thornbury's chamber.

Once she was gone, Hardwicke pressed the blade deeper, feeling the bandit's pulse flutter against the steel. "You'll continue breathing only as long as you answer my questions truthfully," he lied smoothly. "How many of you are there? Where are the others posted?"

The rogue let out a hoarse laugh that reeked of gin and rotting teeth. "Ye think I'm afraid of ye—"

Without finishing the insult, the bandit drove his elbow backward with vicious force, slamming it into Hardwicke's ribs and stealing his breath from his lungs.

Hardwicke grunted but tightened his hold, wrenching the man sideways and slamming him face-first into the desk. The impact scattered papers and writing implements in all directions, and a crystal inkwell tipped over, its contents spreading across the polished wood floor.

The bandit twisted like a feral cat, ramming his head backward against Hardwicke's chin. Stars exploded in Hardwicke's vision, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as his teeth cut into his tongue.

The sudden pain loosened Hardwicke's grip just enough for the bandit to escape. His dagger clattered to the floor as the man lunged free, spinning to face him.

"Should've minded yer own business, lordling," the bandit snarled, wiping blood from his throat.

Hardwicke seized the nearest weapon available—a heavy brass candlestick—and swung it at the man’s head, knocking him sideways into the towering bookshelves that lined the room.

Leather-bound volumes rattled in their places from the impact, and several tumbled to the floor.

The bandit snatched one of the heavy tomes mid-fall and hurled it straight at Hardwicke's face.

Hardwicke raised his arm to block the hit, but the momentary distraction was all his opponent needed. The bandit grabbed the iron fire poker from beside the hearth and lunged forward with a roar.

Hardwicke dropped to the floor, the poker whistling through the space where his head had been an instant before. He rolled desperately, his hand closing around the handle of his fallen dagger just as the bandit raised the poker for another strike.

This blow Hardwicke caught on his blade, steel ringing against iron in a shower of sparks.

Hardwicke shoved hard with both hands, putting his full weight behind it. The bandit stumbled backward, tripped over an overturned chair, and went down hard.

They both scrambled to their feet, breathing heavily, sweat and blood trickling down their faces.

The bandit flicked open his coat and pulled out a pistol. "No' so cocky now, are ye?" he wheezed, his thumb moving to cock the hammer.

Cold dread shot through him. Oddly, he didn’t think he would die here; instead, he feared that if the other bandits hadn’t heard the fight yet, they would certainly hear the gunshot.

In that instant, Hardwicke lunged forward, driving the knife upward, angling it to slip between the ribs before the bandit's finger could tighten on the trigger.

The blade sank to the hilt just below the man's heart.

The bandit stiffened, his eyes widening in shock and pain. The pistol clattered to the floor as a choking gurgle escaped his throat, and then he collapsed against the carpet, releasing his final breath.

Hardwicke stood over the body, chest heaving, the knife’s handle still slick with blood in his trembling hand. His ribs screamed with every breath, and his lungs burned as if he had inhaled fire, but his mind raced ahead to the next challenge.

First, he needed to get the young woman to safety.

He cleaned the knife on the dead man's coat and made his way to Lady Thornbury's chamber. The girl was huddled in a corner, arms wrapped around her knees, rocking slightly.

"Miss?" He kept his voice gentle, approaching slowly with his hands visible. "I'm going to get you out of here, but I need you to be very brave. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded, though her eyes remained glassy with shock.

"What's your name?"

"M-Margaret," she whispered. "Margaret Harold."

"Well, Miss Harold, I'm going to take you somewhere safe. But we must be absolutely silent. Do you understand?"

Another nod. “B-but my father—”

“I will get your father, but I need your help, too. You must do as I ask.”

She nodded.

Hardwicke glanced down at his bare feet and grimaced. “Wait just a moment.”

He returned to Lord Thornbury’s room and glanced at the dead bandit's boots. They were dirty and worn down, likely smelling terrible. But Hardwicke needed proper footwear if he was going to lead Miss Harold outside.

He wrinkled his nose and looked around the room. He was in Thornbury’s bedchamber! Surely the man had a clean pair of boots? He rummaged through the room and found boots, shoes, and other footwear. Unfortunately, all of them were too small.

Cursing under his breath, he took off the bandit’s boots, but those didn’t fit him either.

Blast!

He rummaged through a chest tucked in the corner of the room and found a pair of clean stockings. That would have to do.

He tugged them on, then took a coat from Lady Thornbury’s wardrobe and wrapped it around Miss Harold’s shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Miss Harold followed him through the hidden doorway with wide-eyed wonder; her terror temporarily displaced by her amazement at the secret passages.

Hardwicke guided her through the maze of narrow corridors and down stone staircases until they finally emerged through a concealed door into the winter gardens.

The cold air hit them like a slap, leaving Hardwicke trembling in his shirtsleeves.

"This way," he murmured, leading her to the little shed behind the winter garden where Argyll should have left his chaise. If it wasn't there, perhaps he was in the stables.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to look for him long. He was sitting inside his chaise, reading a book.

"My lord! What in blazes—" He jumped out of the chaise as soon as he saw them.

“I thought I told you to come inside once you were done!” Hardwicke chastised him, though he was glad Argyll hadn’t listened.

“The footman didna look welcoming, and looking at ye, I made the right choice.”

“You did,” Hardwicke agreed. “We have approximately a dozen armed bandits holding hostages in the house.”

“What?” Argyll frowned.

"No time for explanations." Hardwicke’s voice was clipped. "Take this young lady to the stables, mount two of the fastest horses, and ride for the village. Alert every able-bodied man you can find and send for the doctor as well. There are bound to be wounded before this is over."

Hardwicke pressed a pistol into Argyll’s hand. “For the love of God, be careful. And if you see anyone resembling a bandit, shoot and flee.”

Argyll's eyes went wide, but he nodded grimly. "Aye, Yer Grace."

As they disappeared into the darkness, Hardwicke made his way back toward Thornbury Manor. But he had gone no more than fifty yards when he spotted a dark shape sprawled near the servants' entrance.

The butler lay crumpled against the kitchen door, his throat cut and his livery soaked with blood. Hardwicke knelt beside the body, feeling for a pulse he knew wouldn’t be there. The man’s eyes stared sightlessly at the stars.

By God, these are murderers and rapists, not merely thieves.

A chill settled into Hardwicke's bones.

He needed to act quickly. He had already killed one of them, and the others would soon discover the body. When they did, they would come for him with everything they had.

Panic surged briefly, sharp and hot in his chest. By his count, there were eleven bandits left: three in the ballroom, two in the study, four in the kitchen, and two more roaming the house, robbing everything in sight.

He was just one man.

The odds were impossible.

He forced himself to breathe slowly and think clearly. Calm down and concentrate.

They would eventually find the dead man; there was no avoiding that. But if he was going to be discovered, Hardwicke needed to ensure it happened on his terms.

He wanted to sow fear and confusion among the ranks of the bandits.

And he knew exactly how to achieve that.

Hardwicke entered the manor through the servants' exit and removed his wet stockings, trying to warm his feet. Though he wished for the warmth of his boots, he had to admit that being barefoot gave him the advantage of moving through the house without making any noise.

Navigating the passages with relative ease, he made his way back to Lord Thornbury's bedchamber. The dead bandit lay exactly where he had fallen.

Hardwicke stood over the corpse for a moment, shaking his head. Taking a human life was never easy, no matter how vile the person was.

He walked to the overturned desk and righted the inkwell, pleased to find it still contained a small amount of usable ink. Selecting a clean sheet of paper from the scattered documents, he picked up a quill and composed a brief message.

He pinned the note to the dead man's chest using one of Thornbury's gaudy jeweled pins that had spilled from an overturned jewelry box. Then, gritting his teeth against the pain in his injured ribs, he hoisted the body over his shoulders and moved toward the art gallery directly above the ballroom.