Page 31 of The Accidental Countess (Accidentally in Love #1)

“W e’ve unexpected guests,“ Mrs. Graham informed the staff. “His lordship, the Marquess of Rothburne, has come to call.” Her sharp eyes regarded Emily, but she did not ask why.

“We should prepare refreshments,” Emily murmured.

“See if we’ve any more strawberries,” Mrs. Graham directed, “and I shall make up a tray of biscuits.” To Emily she suggested, “If you wish, why don’t you prepare one of your tea cakes?”

While the girls hastened to prepare the food, Emily moved slowly. Her last conversation with Stephen made it difficult to concentrate. She began mixing the ingredients, but she kept hearing his angry words in her mind. He hadn’t wanted or needed her help.

She cracked an egg into the bowl, wondering if she had made a mistake in coming here. Stephen was right. She should have remained in London.

Inside, she ached with fear for all of them. If anyone came to harm because of her, she could not bear it.

A flicker of an idea suddenly grew within her mind. There was a way she could help the situation. She stirred the cake batter rapidly, forming the details. Yes, it would work. It had to.

When she saw Mrs. Graham setting up the tea tray, Emily stopped her. “I will serve,” she offered.

“No.” Mrs. Graham held up a hand. “He would recognize you. You cannot go.” To another girl, she said, “Claire, take the tray to our guests. Be sure you don’t spill anything.”

“Not yet.” Emily stared hard into Mrs. Graham’s lined face. “There is something I must do first.”

Stephen never made it to the entrance of the house. Strong arms took hold of him from behind. A black hood blinded him, and he fought against his attacker, cursing.

He jerked his head backward, smashing it against the assailant’s face. A white-hot pain sliced his arm, and he felt the warm wetness of his own blood. He’d given Michael strict orders not to interfere, not unless it meant his death.

The shock of the pain sent the rest of the memories flashing through him. Hollingford’s body had lay bleeding in the streets, after they’d murdered him. Anant had attacked him, slicing with the blade.

Somehow, he’d managed to escape, striking back with his fists until he knocked Anant unconscious. He could almost feel the cold slickness of the cobblestones, smell the fetid odor of that night so many months before.

With a violent shove, Stephen ripped away the hood.

And stared into the face of Freddie Reynolds.

A sharp acrid smell brought him back into consciousness. Freddie must have knocked him senseless after he’d removed the hood. His head ached with a vicious throbbing, and Stephen struggled to open his eyes.

“Whitmore.” The jovial voice could only belong to Nigel Barrow. Stephen turned toward the sound and saw the smile of triumph lighting Nigel’s face. “I’ve been expecting you. Did you bring the records?”

“No. We both know you only used that as an excuse.”

Nigel shook his head. “A pity, Whitmore. I might have changed my mind about killing you, had you brought them.”

His forearm throbbed with a vicious pain; no one had bandaged the knife wound. The parlor still had a feminine air with its touches of rose and blue. Nigel pointed to a wingback chair. “Put him there.”

Stephen jerked his gaze and saw Freddie Reynolds standing behind him. Not a trace of remorse lay in the eyes of Emily’s former suitor. Stephen fought against the ropes binding him, but Freddie dragged him into the chair.

“Where are my father and Quentin?” Stephen managed.

“Oh, they’ll be along shortly,” Nigel said. “I had Anant take care of them while Freddie brought you here.”

“Was Anant always working for you? Or was he ever loyal to Hollingford?”

Nigel shook his head in regret. “He came to work for me last year, after I brought his family under my—“ he paused to consider the right word ”—protection, if you will. Anant saw that it was better to keep his loyalty to me, instead of Hollingford. In addition, I provided him with as much opium as he wished.”

Stephen did not betray a thread of his fear. “There was no need to take my family captive.”

“Oh, they brought that upon themselves.” Nigel poured himself a cup of tea from the silver pot and added several spoonfuls of sugar. “But they may be of use to me.”

“Emily believed you were a man of honor.” With a hard look toward Freddie, Stephen added, “Both of you betrayed her.”

“Freddie has been working for me for several years now,” Nigel admitted. He grimaced at the tea and added more sugar. “Killing is one of his greatest talents. Along with extortion, of course. He managed to get quite a bit of money out of Carstairs.” He lifted the cup to his lips and drank. “Few would suspect it of him, which is what makes him quite good.”

Freddie rebuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, a slight smile playing upon his lips.

“You killed Emily’s brother,” Stephen guessed. “And Carstairs.”

“I did,” Freddie admitted. “Hollingford owed me a great deal of money, and it was good to bestow justice.” The smile deepened, showing his pleasure in the deed.

Stephen struggled to loosen the ropes without drawing more attention. And yet, with each movement, the knots seemed to grow tighter. His skin had rubbed raw in a few places, but he kept working at his bonds.

The ropes did not budge, but right now he wished he could wrap them around Reynolds’s neck. He wanted to suffocate the smile of satisfaction gleaming upon Freddie’s face.

“Were you the one who attacked my wife in the garden?” Stephen gritted out.

“It was a hired man,” Nigel responded. “I sent him to talk to my niece.”

“Threaten her, you mean.”

Nigel shrugged. “Stronger means were necessary to gain what I needed. Emily knew where her brother kept his ledgers. I was afraid he’d kept records that might lead back to me.”

“You stole the shipping profits.”

“Of course I did. And if you hadn’t turned up alive, no one would be the wiser.” He reclined upon the Grecian couch and sipped at the tea. “Opium is quite a profitable export, really. A shame the Chinese keep interfering.”

“What is it you want, Nigel?”

The older man lifted his cup of tea. “I should think that’s obvious, Whitmore. I want to live my life in luxury. And no one needs to worry about how I got my money. Which is why, I’m afraid, there are several of you who will have to be silenced.”

He spoke as though killing did not bother him in the least. “Where is my niece, by the by?” His tone held no trace of venom, only mild curiosity.

Stephen kept his expression neutral. “She is safe in London, far away from you.”

“Oh, no, I rather doubt that. She is quite fond of Royce and Victoria, you know. And my informants tell me she was traveling with Rothburne and your brother.” Nigel sipped his tea. “I do believe my men will find her soon.”

“Why did you want guardianship of the children?” Stephen asked. “What use would you possibly have for them?”

“I rather like them, actually. And young Royce has been quite helpful, giving me information about his father. As the children’s guardian, I could have full access to their father’s records and accounts. Not to mention, Royce is a nice lad. I may let him live if you cooperate.”

“You would harm your own family?”

Nigel clucked his tongue. “Now, now, Whitmore. We can’t have the two of you telling everyone in London about my shipping habits, now, can we?”

“You cannot kill everyone. Too many people know your secrets.”

“I suppose you may be right. We’ll just have to find out, now, won’t we?” Nigel gestured to Reynolds, sinking back against the couch. “I’m not terribly fond of this house. A good fire would take care of the bodies, and no one would be the wiser.” He stifled a yawn and signaled to Freddie. “Bring the marquess and the younger brother to me.”

Stephen lunged toward Reynolds. He managed to knock the man off balance, but Freddie shoved him against the floor. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

“I want to kill him now,” Freddie said, lifting a knife to Stephen’s throat. His voice sounded dreamy, almost like a caress. “And if he’s dead, Emily will be mine.”

“For one so devoted to murder, you seem to be rather incompetent at finishing your work,” Stephen remarked.

Glass shattered and gunshots roared from the outside. Though Stephen could not see his companions, he used the distraction to wrench himself free of Freddie’s grasp. The knife clattered to the floor, and Stephen threw himself toward it. With his hands bound behind his back, he struggled to grasp the weapon.

More gunshots erupted before an eerie silence fell across the room. Freddie lay in a pool of blood, his eyes open with surprise in the moment of death. Nigel appeared shaken, though he had fired several shots from his own pistol.

Anant emerged at the parlor entrance, holding the marquess by one arm. “The intruders are dead, my lord.” He bowed to Nigel, his black eyes vacuous. “Our guards handled the problem. You may finish your task.”

“And the younger son?”

“Will be dead in moments. He attempted to join Whitmore’s men and has a bullet wound.”

Alfred Chesterfield seemed to have aged a full score of years. His face was waxen, his steps faltering as Anant forced him into the room.

“Lord Rothburne.” Nigel smiled and gestured toward a chair. “So kind of you to join us.”

Stephen hid the knife behind his back, trying not to betray his motions as he eased the blade through the hemp. Nothing mattered unless he could free himself to save them. The ropes slipped, the threads fraying beneath the blade. Closer now…

“I possess a great deal of funds,” Alfred said. “We could reach an agreement.”

Nigel laughed. “I have stolen more money from you and others through the years by my own wits. Your paltry funds matter little to me.”

“You cannot possibly believe to escape justice,” the marquess insisted.

“I have lands in India and Africa,” Nigel said smoothly, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He yawned again, his voice growing softer. “And enough money to hide a multitude of sins.”

“No,” a voice said softly. “Your work here is finished.” Stephen turned and saw Emily standing. She entered the room, and Nigel aimed his gun at her.

Stephen’s world lost its footing when he saw her standing before his enemy. His beautiful, stubborn wife had no business endangering herself.

He ripped through the remaining ropes, clenching the knife in his palm. Before he could reach Nigel, Anant attacked, throwing him to the ground. The weapon slipped out of his grasp, and Stephen cursed, rolling sideways. When he rose to his feet, Anant now held the knife in his hands. His assailant struck with practiced assurance, moving in a deadly circle.

Weaponless, Stephen had no choice but to wait for his enemy to attack. When the blade swung toward his head, he blocked the strike, grasping the man’s forearm and wrist. Sweat beaded upon his forehead as he struggled to overpower the man.

“Stephen—” The words erupted from Emily’s mouth in a terrified whisper.

With a burst of strength, he rotated Anant’s arm, driving the blade down. The pair stumbled over Freddie’s body and Anant twisted, falling to the ground. Stephen seized control of the weapon and rolled, driving the knife into Anant’s chest.

He jerked at the sound of the revolver’s hammer drawing back.

“Quite impressive,” Nigel said, waving the gun in a mock salute. “But rather irrelevant, all things being equal.” He pressed the barrel to Emily’s forehead. “The only dilemma is which of you to kill first?”

“I was never a threat to you, Uncle,” Emily whispered. Her mouth trembled, and Stephen moved toward her.

“Take another step, and I’ll pull the trigger, Whitmore.” Nigel’s countenance appeared almost grey, his hands shaking. Stephen froze, not wanting the man to inadvertently harm Emily. Terror lanced him at the idea of her dying.

His friend Michael burst through the remains of the shattered window, holding his own gun. He was followed by two of Stephen’s men. The three kept their weapons trained upon Nigel.

“Release her, Nigel,” Stephen said.

“I believe I shall kill her first,” Nigel said. “My apologies, Emily.”

And he pulled the trigger.