Page 21 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

Charlotte didn’t answer. Like a helpless mouse, she seemed frozen by her fate, waiting for the paw to flash out and deliver the inevitable coup de grace.

“Or perhaps it is a more casual arrangement?” His lidded gaze lingered for a moment on her face.

Think! Think!But all that came to mind was the overwhelming urge to stick the knife into one of his eyes.

“Ah, I see you’re in no mood for pleasantries.” Wrexford hooked one of the stools with his boot and pulled it over. “No matter. I’ll wait.”

Panic seized her. Charlotte felt as if its unseen hands were crushing her ribs, squeezing the breath out of her.

“You cannot!” she rasped. The knife slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. Her hard-won existence shattering into a thousand tiny shards . . .

Suddenly fury crested over fear. She flew at him, fists flailing. Be damned with the consequences. Her life was already over.

Wrexford caught her wrists, not before she landed a nasty blow to his cheek. “Tut, tut, there is no need for violence, madam. Your husband and I can—” He stopped abruptly, those infernal eyes now focused on the fingers of her right hand. One by one, he pried them open.

She tried to pull away.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed, studying the smudges of ink. “Let me guess—it’s not your husband. It’syouwho are A. J. Quill.”

* * *

Before his captive could answer, Wrexford heard a primal cry and a pelter of footsteps. A ripping sound, and in the same instant pain lancing through his leg.

Whipping a knife from his boot, he spun around and snagged the writhing little beastie before it could stab the flashing blade into his flesh a second time.

“Let him go!” screamed Mistress Quill. She had her knife in hand again, and a fear-crazed look on her face that said she would use it.

He drew the boy—he assumed it was a boy and not a wild animal only because he had glimpsed a hand rather than a hairy paw—close to his chest, holding hard to control the wild thrashing. Curses were falling like rain. A bottle, thrown from somewhere to his rear, glanced off his skull. And the infernal Mistress Quill had grabbed a cleaver from the stovetop—

“Silence!” he bellowed, brandished his weapon. “Not another word, not another movement or there will be hell to pay.”

Everyone froze. Utter stillness descended upon the room.

A finger of chill air tickled through the rent in the finespun melton wool. Wrexford felt blood snaking down his skin. “Damnation,” he muttered. “These were a pair of new trousers.”

His words broke the fragile peace. The boy in his arms tried to break free. “Did he harm you, m’lady? If he did, I swear, I’ll kill him.”

“I’m quite fine, Raven,” she assured him. “Please do as he says.” Her gaze darted to the doorway. “And you, too, Hawk.”

Pivoting, Wrexford spotted the second boy moving stealthily out of the shadows. Bloody hell, they were like rats spewing out of the moldings.

“Ye big bastard, are ye going to slit our throats with that shiv like ye did to the reverend?” rasped the boy in his arms.

“No one is going to be murdered,” answered Wrexford. Whether that would prove true was by no means certain. “Perhaps if we all agree to cease hostilities and discuss the matter in a civilized fashion . . .” He looked back to Mistress Quill, tossing the gauntlet at her feet.

She hesitated, tucking an errant curl of unremarkable brown hair behind her ear. Her gown was an even drabber shade of the same color. He noted a discreetly mended tear at the cuff. All that dullness made the sapphirine glitter of her blue eyes appear even more arresting.

Their gazes locked for an instant, and as she gave a curt nod, he was suddenly aware of her height—she was tall for a woman, and though slender as a willow sapling, her form radiated a steely strength.

“No more attacks, lads.” To Wrexford, she snapped, “Now put him down, and sheath your knife. You should be ashamed of yourself, frightening children with that monstrous weapon.”

He couldn’t hold back a snort. “Children, you say? My first guess was weasels.”

The smaller boy crept a little closer. “Cor, that’s a bloody big blade. Can I hold it?”

“Absolutely not. Your friend here did enough damage with his pinstick.”

The earl gingerly set down his captive, who responded with a string of obscenities.