Page 46 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

They dozed off for a few hours, and when Fiona woke up, she felt cold and groggy. Edward brought a pitcher of water from somewhere—she didn’t dare ask where—and they freshened up.

“What do we do next?” she asked, hoping they could soon leave the cold confines of these secret walls.

“Actually,” he said, “I have an idea.”

It was a mad, desperate, utterly insane idea that could backfire catastrophically, Fiona thought as she pressed her eye to the keyhole of the music room door. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she watched the ballroom she had escaped just a few hours ago. It felt like it had been weeks.

This will never work.

But they were running out of options. The bandits had grown too cautious, hunting in pairs now, making their ambush tactics impossible.

Meanwhile, time was working against them; every minute that passed increased the likelihood that their bound captives would be discovered or that Lord Thornbury would inadvertently reveal the existence of secret passages or that Mr. Whitmore’s condition would worsen without help.

Smoke began billowing under the doors again—another fire set similar to Edward's earlier setup.

Right on schedule.

But this time, the reaction from inside the ballroom was different.

“Dun’t panic!” Harry’s voice was sharp and hard. “They’re tryin’ t’ smoke us out, bastards. If we’re t’ burn, they’ll burn wi’ us!”

Fiona's stomach clenched.

The ballroom door burst open with violent force.

The tall figure of a bandit stumbled inside, coat askew, handkerchief tied across his face.

Fiona held her breath.

"What? What's wrong?" Davies called out, squinting through the thickening smoke.

"Fire!" the newly arrived bandit gasped, bending over as if struggling to breathe. "Spreading fast... East wing's gone already and—"

Another man moved closer, suspicious. His eyes swept over the bandit from head to toe. "Wait a minute. What ‘appened to yer boots?"

Damn. They figured him out too quickly.

For, of course, it was Edward in disguise, wearing the coat of a man they’d stuffed in the closet and covering his face with the man’s handkerchief. Except that not one man’s boots fit his giant feet.

Fiona watched in horror as the bandit’s hand moved toward his pistol. Edward rushed toward him, pushing him against the wall.

The shot cracked like thunder, hitting the ceiling.

Fiona burst into the ballroom from her hiding spot, momentarily stunning both the bandits and the captives. It gave Edward the opportunity to disarm both his opponents.

Instead of attacking Edward from another side, as she had feared, their leader quickly slipped out of the room—to get reinforcements, no doubt.

Fiona would not let that happen.

As Edward lunged at Davies, tackling the bandit around the waist and sending them both crashing to the floor, Fiona yelled, "Help me barricade the doors!"

She didn't wait to see if anyone followed, throwing her full weight against a heavy refreshments table and pushing it toward the exit. The legs scraped across the marble with a sound like fingernails on glass.

When she looked back, most of the hostages were still cowering against the walls, frozen by shock and terror, while Edward was in a desperate fight against two men, and however many more were on their way.

Move, damn you all!

"Ye!" She pointed directly at Mr. Harold. "Help me barricade these doors!"

Something in her voice—perhaps the note of absolute command she'd acquired from being a duchess for thirty years—spurred Harold into action. He stumbled forward, adding his weight to hers as they shoved furniture against the doors.

“And ye—” She pointed at another man. “Help my husband!”

The spell of paralysis broke. Men and women found themselves hauling chairs and tables, desperately shoving them against the doors, a few even jumping into the fray against the brigands.

But it was Lady Pelham who surprised everyone.

The elderly woman, who had seemed near collapse only moments before, picked up a heavy wooden chair, raised it above her head, and brought it crashing down on Davies' back.

The bandit howled and loosened his grip on Edward just long enough for her husband to drive his elbow into the man's ribs and roll away.

Both Davies and the other bandit, overwhelmed by the mob of enraged aristocrats, curled into balls and covered their heads with their hands.

Within minutes, both bandits were thoroughly subdued and tied with curtain cords and table linens, while the ballroom doors were blocked by what appeared to be half the room's furniture.

A cheer went up from the assembled company, but silence fell just as quickly as the reality of their situation sank in.

They were in control of one room. But there were still five or six bandits somewhere in the house.

"I need bandages," Mrs. Whitmore called out, breaking the spell. "Proper ones to tend to my husband."

"And Mr. Whitmore needs brandy," added another voice. "Medicinal purposes."

"We could all use brandy," Lady Pelham declared, sinking into a chair. "I'm on the verge of collapse."

Edward pushed himself to his feet, pulling off the bandit's coat. "Who among you is able-bodied and ready to continue fighting?" he asked, his voice carrying easily through the room.

Four men stepped forward.

Edward nodded approvingly. "Then we're taking the kitchen. We need to secure food, water, and medical supplies. More importantly, we need to eliminate the remaining threats before they can regroup."

A smile touched Fiona’s lips.

Here’s my duke.

"What about the rest of us?" Lady Thornbury asked, her voice shaky.

"You hold this room," Edward replied. "Keep the wounded comfortable, tend the barricades, and if anyone tries to break in..." He gestured toward the bound bandits. "You've already proven you can handle yourselves."

"Gentlemen," Hardwicke said, his mind quickly shifting into the tactical mindset of an army officer, "we have three potential routes to the kitchen, and I intend to utilize all of them."

He outlined the simple strategy: the kitchen was located at the junction of three access points—the main corridor from the house interior, the servants' entrance from outside, and a narrow passage that connected to the secret passages he had been using all evening.

After hearing the plan, three more men volunteered to join them. It wasn’t perfect, but it would suffice.

Fifteen minutes later, they ambushed the kitchen from three sides, catching the bandits completely off guard. The enemy surrendered with little resistance.

"Kitchen secured," he announced, unable to suppress the satisfaction in his voice. The coordinated assault had worked flawlessly—exactly the kind of operation that had built his reputation in the Peninsula.

They quickly secured weapons and found medical supplies for the wounded. More importantly, they now controlled the majority of the house and had reduced the enemy force to three men barricaded in Lord Thornbury's study.

"Listen to me, all of you," he said, his voice cutting through the celebration. "We've won an important victory, but this isn't over. There are still three armed men in this house, and they're cornered. Cornered men are the most dangerous of all."

The festive mood sobered immediately.

"From this point forward, no one moves alone. Pairs only, and both members armed with whatever weapons we've captured. The ballroom and kitchen are safe zones, but anywhere else in this house is hostile territory until we've cleared it completely."

Everyone nodded. These weren't soldiers, but they were learning quickly.

He gathered the supplies he needed and made his way back to the ballroom to find Fiona.

She was assisting Mrs. Whitmore in dressing the wound of her husband.

"I need to collect clean linens," she said when he reached her side. "There are none in the kitchen."

Hardwicke nodded. "Very well, I'll accompany you."

They made their way to the first floor, Hardwicke carrying one of the captured pistols and keeping his senses alert for any signs of trouble. The house was quiet, though faint sounds still filtered in from the ballroom and kitchen.

They easily found the linen closet when—

"Your Grace."

The voice came from behind them, cultured and polite. Hardwicke spun toward the sound, his weapon rising instinctively.

A liveried footman stood in the corridor, hands clasped behind his back.

"Why are you here?" Hardwicke demanded, not lowering his pistol. "I thought I made it clear that everyone was to remain in either the kitchen or ballroom."

The footman nodded. "So you did, Your Grace."

“Take this—” Fiona reached toward the footman, handing him the linen she’d grabbed from the closet, but the man lunged forward, seizing Fiona around the waist, the barrel of a small pistol pressed against her jaw.

Christ!

"You are not the only one who can play dress-up," the footman said conversationally. "Except I've been wearing this costume for years. Made it rather easy to blend in, don't you think?"

Of course. This was the footman ousted from the Thornbury house for stealing—the one who orchestrated this entire ordeal.

Hardwicke’s grip tightened on his pistol, but the angle was impossible. Any shot that could hit the footman would likely pass through Fiona first.

"Don't hurt her," he commanded, putting every ounce of ducal authority into his voice.

The footman laughed. "You are hardly in a position to give me commands, Your Grace." He spat the honorific like a curse. "But I can see you care for this old crow more than your own life. Touching, really. So I'll be taking her with me as insurance."

Old crow? Despite everything, Hardwicke felt a flash of indignation at the insult to Fiona's grace and beauty.

"What do you want?" Hardwicke forced himself to remain calm.

"We've gotten what we wanted. We have Lord Thornbury's jewelry collection, just as planned.

Lovely pieces, worth a fortune in London.

" The footman began backing toward the stairs, dragging Fiona with him.

"But now we need safe passage out of this frozen wasteland.

In thirty minutes, my associates and I will exit through the main entrance.

You will have three horses saddled and waiting—good ones, mind you.

The entire ground floor must be empty of people. Not a soul, or she dies."

Hardwicke’s mind raced through possibilities. Thirty minutes.

"You alone may hold the horses to prevent them from bolting," the footman continued.

"But if I see so much as a penknife in your hands or catch even a glimpse of anyone else lurking in doorways, I'll put a bullet through her brain without hesitation.

In case you get any heroic ideas about immediate pursuit," he added with another of those cold smiles, then reached into his pocket with his free hand and scattered something across the floor between them.

Tiny diamonds and other sharp gemstones sparkled in the lamplight, creating a glittering carpet of razor edges.

Then he turned sharply, pulling Fiona toward the study.

Hardwicke started after them, the sharp stones biting into his flesh, slicing into his feet with every step. Pain lanced up his legs, but he didn't care.

"Fiona!" The cry tore from his throat, raw and desperate, echoing through the corridor.