Page 40 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

The first part of Hardwicke's plan had worked surprisingly well.

Divide and conquer.

After the man had fallen onto the balcony, instead of sitting clustered in just three locations, the bandits were now scattered throughout the house, searching for him.

This made it easier for him to pick them off one by one.

He had incapacitated two of their men in isolated corners of the house, binding, gagging, and stuffing them into separate linen closets like discarded bedsheets. He ran the risk of having them discovered, but he hoped to disarm the remaining brigands before that became an issue.

Now came the second part of the plan.

Distraction.

He made his way through the secret passage into the library. Closing the damper of the hearth, he stacked armfuls of evergreen boughs that had decorated the house for the Christmas season inside and lit the fire.

The dry branches caught immediately, flames leaping hungrily from needle to needle. Within moments, the entire arrangement was ablaze, smoke beginning to billow toward the ceiling.

He then sprinted for the nearest secret passage entrance.

Hardwicke moved as quickly as he dared through the narrow, twisting passages.

His ribs burned from the blows he'd taken during his fight with the brigands, his back ached, and his arms and legs protested every movement.

He was certain he'd find bruises covering his entire body come morning—assuming he lived to see it.

The cramped space forced him to duck and weave around supporting beams, his shoulders scraping against the rough walls. A sharp twinge in his knee—an old injury that flared in cold weather—forced him to pause and shift his weight.

He pressed his back against the wall and let out a ragged breath, allowing himself a moment's rest.

"Why don't you go to the Thornbury Christmas House Party, Your Grace?" he muttered under his breath, mocking his valet's earlier words from what felt like a lifetime ago. "Her Grace is going to be there. It could be a rather tender reunion. You don't want to spend the holidays alone, do you?"

He let out a dry chuckle.

He could have been sitting by the hearth, reading a book, and enjoying a goose all by himself in the comfort of his own home.

Instead, here he was, crawling through dusty secret passages like a character from a Gothic novel, pursued by murderers and brigands, all because he'd followed his valet's well-meaning advice about reconciling with his estranged wife.

Another sharp pain lanced through his knee, and he bit back a curse.

The valet had been right, though.

He didn't want to be alone. Even after riding through a blizzard and fighting armed brigands who had left him battered and bloodied, he would still rather be here, in the same house as his Fiona, than safe in the lonely comfort of his own estate.

The truth was, he couldn't bear the thought of being miles away, not knowing she was in danger. He couldn't imagine sitting by his own fireside while she faced God only knew what horrors at the hands of these monsters.

No. He would not let anyone hurt his wife. Not while there was breath in his body.

From somewhere in the house came the sounds of shouting and running feet. Ah, they must have noticed the smoke.

Now it was time to act.

Hardwicke quickly reached the music room, observing the chaos he’d created through the keyhole.

His plan seemed to have worked. The bandits were in panic, abandoning their posts in search of the source of the smoke, thinking the house was on fire.

Instead of the four guards who had been stationed in the ballroom earlier, only two remained by the main doors—and both were clearly agitated.

"—told ye we should've searched the whole bloody house from the start," one was saying to the other, his voice tight with anxiety.

"Shut it, Davies. ‘arry knows what he's about."

"Does he? Because it sounds like the place is burning down around our ears, and we're stuck here playing nursemaid to a bunch of toffs."

Hardwicke smiled grimly. Fear was creeping into their voices. Nothing destroyed unit cohesion faster than uncertainty about their leadership.

Through the walls, he could hear more distant shouts: "Fire in the library!" and "Where's Rodge? Has anyone seen Rodge?" Were they looking for one of the men he'd captured?

The guard called Davies was pacing now, his weapon clutched in white-knuckled hands. "What if whoever's doing this comes for us next? What if—"

"I said shut it!" his companion snapped, but Hardwicke could hear the worry in his voice as well.

Hardwicke settled back on his heels, watching and waiting for the perfect time to strike.

More shouts echoed from deeper in the house, accompanied by loud coughing.

“Bloody ‘ell,” one of the men said. “Ye stay 'ere, I’ll see what’s goin' on.”

“Wait!” Davies chased after his companion. He was still in the room, but his back was to the music room doors, his head peeking out into the ballroom.

Hardwicke smiled.

Time to act and make good on the promise he made to his wife.

“I'll come for you,” he’d said.

Well, here I come.