Page 42 of Marrying a Marquess (Widows of Mayfair #3)

His lips curved into an enticing smile. “That is what I hoped for.” He leaned close to her ear.

“You invited me into your bed yesterday. And I couldn’t think of anything all day but being with you.

I’m hoping the offer still stands. You can have me for the entire night if you so wish. ” He blew gently against her neck.

Without saying anything, she entwined her hand with his and led him up two flights of stairs to the first door on the right and straight into her chambers.

She sashayed around the room, extinguishing several candles, leaving the room in a soft glow from two remaining ones. “Would you care for a nightcap?”

“If you’ll join me,” he said, wondering how many drinks she needed to consume before she would be drunk.

“But of course,” she replied, pouring two glasses from a decanter sitting on a night table, and held one out to him. How convenient having it beside the bed.

Nick forced his feet forward, took the glass from her and downed the liquid and returned the glass to the night table. He watched silently as she did the same. Moving close behind her, he buried his head in her hair, inhaling. “You smell divine. Good enough to eat.”

“I certainly hope so,” she giggled.

He kissed his way down the side of her neck. A moan escaped her lips as her head tilted to one side. “That feels wonderful.”

As he continued to kiss and nip his way down her neck, he slid her robe off her shoulders, his hands continued down her arms until he held her hands behind her back.

His free hand pulled several neck cloths from his jacket pocket.

All the while his mouth stayed on her skin to distract her.

With his heart pounding inside his chest, he quickly tied her hands together.

“What are you doing?” she queried, her voice high pitched.

“Just having a little fun, my dear,” he replied.

“You will enjoy yourself, I promise.” Before she could react, he stuffed a cloth in her mouth, and she knew this wasn’t just about fun.

He struggled to pick her up with her legs thrashing about wildly.

Her feet and knees connected with his body and he shook off the pain.

Finally, he made it to the side of her bed, where he tossed her as gently as he could on top of the covers.

He had no intention of hurting her, only subduing her.

Her legs were flailing as moans tried to escape her cloth-filled mouth.

Her eyes, wide with fear and hatred, never looked away from him.

“I’m sorry. I have to do this.” Every time he had her ankles together she showed renewed strength until finally he succeeded in tying them together.

When this idea had come to him, he’d almost decided to bring strong rope for the job, but he didn’t want to burn or mar her skin.

Not that she deserved gentleness, if she had Priscilla.

But the gentleman in him wouldn’t allow it.

He moved her body so she was on her side and checked the knots—secure but not too tight.

Leaving her side he rummaged around in her dressing room, found several useful sashes and used one to wrap around her mouth so the cloth wouldn’t fall out and knot it behind her head.

Bending her knees back, he tied her hands to her ankles.

“Once again, please accept my apologies if you have nothing to do with Lady Priscilla’s disappearance.

” Then, without another thought to her, he carefully snuck out of the room and down two flights of stairs.

Fortunately, Norton Hall had candelabras lining the halls, so he could see where he was going.

Also, many of the townhomes in London had similar floor plans, making it easy to find the servants’ entrance.

Opening the door, he let in Whitcomb and one other Runner.

Whitcomb ordered the two other Runners to stay outside standing guard.

“The main stairs are this way.” Nick pointed. “We must be careful.”

“I want to check the cellar first,” Whitcomb stated. “You two stay here while I go to the kitchen.”

By the time Whitcomb returned, every nerve in Nick’s body quivered, ready to do anything to rescue Priscilla.

“She’s not down there,” Whitcomb said. “Follow me to the stairs, we’re going to start at the attic. I don’t think she would be held anywhere on main floors.” He removed a pistol from his jacket pocket as they made their way silently toward the main staircase.

Nick didn’t want to say anything, but he thought it odd that they ran into no servants. He knew the butler was here somewhere. Though even when he was with Emma, he hadn’t encountered anyone but him. Had she given the rest of the servants the night off? It certainly worked to their advantage.

When they reached the stairs to the attic, Nick sighed with relief. The stairs were not elaborate but closed on both sides, affording them some cover as they ascended.

Whitcomb paused halfway up and put a finger to his lips. “Stay here,” he whispered. “I’m going to take a look. I’ll signal when it’s safe to proceed.”

Every nerve in Nick’s body tingled, and his mind screamed to move forward.

Instead, he took a deep breath and waited, his eyes narrowed on Whitcomb for any sign.

The Runner reached the top step, looked around the wall, and snapped back, his body tight against the wall, his finger went to his lips again.

He waited for several seconds before slowly moving to where Nick and the other runner anxiously waited.

“One large man,” Whitcomb whispered softer than Nick had ever heard anyone whisper before, yet he understood every word.

“Sitting on a chair outside the last door on the left. There’s a pistol resting on his lap.

He may have another I can’t see.” Whitcomb wiped the sweat from his brow.

“He’ll see us coming. We need a diversion to draw him away from the door. ”

“I’ll go,” Nick whispered back. Priscilla must be there. What else could the man be guarding? “I’ll come up with something to send him down the stairs. Be ready.”

Nick, his heart beating like a drum inside his chest, climbed the rest of the stairs.

When he entered the hallway, he said, “You there, I’m Hollingsworth—” Before he could finish, the thug stood and pointed his pistol at his chest. “Easy there. Viscountess Norton sent me. She wants a word with you.”

“Where is she?”

“I’ll take you to her.” The man remained still. “Would I be here if she didn’t trust me?” Nick said, trying to look annoyed instead of nervous as hell. “We’d better hurry. She appeared anxious to speak with you.” Nick waived his arm. “After you.”

The man’s beady eyes narrowed, but he began to move. However, he kept the pistol in his hand. Nick hoped like hell Whitcomb was prepared.

As they approached the stairs, Whitcomb and the other Runner rushed the burly man from the front, knocking him on his back. The arm holding the pistol rose, and Nick kicked it out of his hands, sending it sliding across the corridor.

“Good work,” Whitcomb said as he and the Runner stuffed something in the man’s mouth and tied his hands and feet together. Whitcomb checked the man’s pockets and held up a key.

Nick almost fell to his knees in gratitude.

Instead, he grabbed the key, ran down the hall to the door the man had been sitting in front of, shoved the key in the lock, and turned it.

The sound of it clicking was the greatest sound he’d ever heard.

With shaking hands and a pounding heart, he turned the door handle.

He took a deep breath to prepare him for whatever he found on the other side.

For all he knew, Priscilla could be elsewhere. Or she could be...

“Hurry,” Whitcomb said. “We can’t waste time.”

That was all Nick needed to snap him out of his fear. He opened the door and squinted into the darkness. The only light filtering into the room came from the hall, making it hard to see. “Priscilla?”

“Nick? Oh my God, Nick, is that you?”

“Easy there, my lord,” Whitcomb said as Nick staggered when Priscilla slammed into him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

“Priscilla,” he breathed as he took a moment to hug her close. “We must go.”

“Follow close behind me and Burton and do what I say,” Whitcomb said. “We’ll get both of you to safety and return for the list.”

Nick held Priscilla’s hand tightly. Nothing would separate them. All was well until they neared the servants’ entrance and encountered another large man blocking the exit door with a pistol in each hand aimed at them. “Stop, or I shoot.”

Whitcomb and Burton stood close together directly in front of the man.

They were protecting Nick and Priscilla with their bodies.

Both Runners aimed their pistols at the man.

Whitcomb said in a demanding voice, “Move aside and let us go, and nobody gets hurt. If not, you have two choices. The first one is I arrest you, and you rot to death in Newgate, or better still, hang at the gallows. The second: I shoot you, and you die.”

The man’s hands held steady, and his features were in shadow, making it impossible for Nick to judge his thoughts, but after a moment he spoke. “If you’re looking for help from your men who were outside, forget it. They’re out cold. If I let you go, Viscountess Norton will kill me.”

“Not if I tie you up as I did your cohort.”

The sound of hurried footsteps coming up behind them from the front of the house, had Nick reacting.

He stepped in front of Priscilla so she was now between him and the Runners.

He reached behind his back and gripped her waist so she wouldn’t move.

Latham approached with a pistol in one hand while Emma came up beside him.

“What is this, Hollingsworth?” Latham demanded.

Nick hadn’t felt the urge to pummel someone into a bloody mess since Eton. Until now. And Latham would deserve each and every punch he landed. “I should be asking you that question, Latham.”

“I would’ve been here sooner to warn Emma if my brother hadn’t detained me with all this nonsense about the viscountess and Priscilla. The two of you—no, make that the four of you, as Blackstone and Langford are no better—make me sick with your goodness.”

Nick should have trusted his instincts, knowing Latham hadn’t changed.

“Kill them,” Viscountess Norton said with a hateful sneer Nick could see even in the dim lighting.

Nick’s hands tightened on Priscilla’s waist when he heard her gasp.

He needed to protect her. She was too precious to die.

Whitcomb moved, ever so slowly. He came forward to stand beside Nick, his pistol aimed at Latham’s chest. Nick assumed Burton still faced the man behind them.

Three guns to two. They were not the best odds.

Just then, Nick felt the cold steel of a gun brush up against his hand.

He gripped it but didn’t let Latham see he was armed. They needed an advantage here.

“Kill them,” she said again.

“If Latham so much as twitches,” Whitcomb said with his gun aimed at the viscountess now. “I’ll shoot you.”

Latham’s hand dropped slightly, not a sure grip on the pistol.

Nick took the opportunity. He whispered to Whitcomb, “Take care of Lady Priscilla.” Then he pushed his gun into Priscilla’s hand right before he rushed Latham.

Both men crashed into the wall from the force of Nick’s attack and struggled over control of Latham’s weapon.

Nick didn’t dare look at Priscilla. He had to trust Whitcomb to keep her safe. All he knew was he heard other struggles as well and Emma yelling over and over, “Kill them!”

Latham was stronger than Nick had believed. The fight to control the pistol took everything Nick had as he worked to keep it from aiming at anyone and going off.

“You will not win,” Latham growled, his face red and his neck muscles bulging.

Not bothering to answer, which would take too much energy, Nick finally seized the gun from Latham’s hand.

He spun around. The sound of a gunshot rang out.

A burning pain sliced his upper arm. Even with his ears ringing, he heard the heavy thud of a body falling behind him.

Nick aimed the gun he had taken from Latham to where Emma had stood, but she had vanished.

Another shot echoed inside the hallway, the stench of gunpowder strong and repugnant. Smoke filled the air.

“Priscilla!” Nick bellowed, swatting at the cloud of smoke .

“I’m fine.” She took several hurried steps, wrapped her arms around his waist, and held tight. “I believe Latham is dead.”

Nick turned around. Latham lay on his back, his eyes open and sightless. A large hole in his chest oozed blood. He didn’t know what to think. He had never cared for the man, but he’d never wanted him dead.

“You’re bleeding,” Priscilla said with concern as she touched his left upper arm just below his shoulder.

He sucked in air to prevent him from screaming out in pain.

The bullet that grazed his arm must have killed Latham.

But who had fired? “A fine time to not wear a cravat.” She bent down, tore a piece of cloth from the hem of her night rail, and wrapped it tightly around his arm.

“This should do until your physician can look at it.”

“Whitcomb,” Nick called out as he pulled Priscilla alongside him. She was surprisingly calm, considering the dead body close by. Not to mention his bleeding arm. Perhaps she was in shock. However, she didn’t appear so. “What happened while I struggled with Latham?”

Before Whitcomb answered, he opened the door, and Nick saw the two Runners they left outside, crumpled on the ground.

Whitcomb approached them, placing his hands on each of their chests and came back.

“Burton, ride off for the constable.” Then he turned to Nick.

“Burton protected Priscilla while I engaged the giant of a man. Bloody hell, he was strong. His gun went off in the struggle and hit Latham. Then I shot him.” His eyes widened.

“Is that blood seeping through that bandage?”

“Yes. The bullet that killed Latham grazed me. I’ll be fine.”

“Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure we were going to survive.”

“Me either,” Nick said as he hugged Priscilla close with his good arm. “If you don’t need us, I’d like to take Lady Priscilla home. We can meet with the constable tomorrow if he has any questions.”

“Go. I’ll take it from here.” His eyes traveled out the door, “Good, my men are stirring. Hopefully they can help me find the viscountess, and get that list of hers. Meanwhile, who will inform Caldwell about his brother?”

“Christ, I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Go. I’ll visit him when I leave here. You need that arm looked at.”

“Thank you,” Nick said, making eye contact with Whitcomb. “I owe you a debt of gratitude.”