Page 21 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

21

With startling speed, Mulholland took in the armed situation and stopped abruptly, aiming his pistol at Evan.

“Cover Kent,” he barked at Pritchard, who swung his gun toward the Runner.

“My lady, they have forced their way in,” Weatherly reported, coming to a halt just inside the door with Samuel at his back—blood upon his face—brandishing a vase from the hall table. “Two others downstairs.”

“Is anyone injured?” I was glad my voice did not waver.

“Samuel received a facer, my lady, but no other injury.”

“Keep back, then!” I eyed Samuel sternly. He clearly wanted to avenge himself, but Mulholland was capable of anything to capture his quarry. Or kill his quarry. The thought brought a swamping wave of terror. I drew a breath and forced it back. This was not the time to show fear; not in front of Mulholland.

Miss Grant had come to terms with the situation and backed up against the wall. Sensible. My sister still stood behind Mr. Kent. For the moment, it was a stand-off: Mr. Kent would not shoot because Julia stood behind him, Evan would not shoot because I stood beside him, and Mulholland would not shoot—I guessed—in case he shot me or Julia. Quite the hanging offense. Not to mention the fact that once a shot was made, there would be no time to prime another.

And so I asked, “Why have you forced your way into our home, Mr. Mulholland?”

Mulholland eyed me over the barrel of his pistol. “We’re not playing that game anymore, Lady Augusta.” He glanced at Mr. Kent. “I saw you were here. But this is my tap. Get on your horse.”

Kent kept his gun trained upon Mulholland. “No, this is my tap. I got here first.”

Tap? It must mean arrest. At least I hoped it meant arrest and not kill. Had Kent meant to arrest Evan all along?

Mulholland sighed. “Don’t make me throw you out, Kent. I’ve been given the word and you don’t want to be around for the end.”

“What do you mean?” Kent asked.

“He means he has been given the order to kill me, not arrest me,” Evan said, his voice and aim still steady.

“Who gave that order?” Kent demanded.

Mulholland sniffed. “Don’t matter. This is way beyond you.”

“Have you got a writ to that effect?” Kent asked.

“I don’t need a writ,” Mulholland said. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll cut out and leave me to it.”

“Michael?” Julia said.

“Stay behind me, Julia,” Mr. Kent said, the familiarity bringing a raised brow from Mulholland.

I did not like how much this man observed—too sharp by half.

“I am not going anywhere,” Mr. Kent said to the thieftaker. “You should, however, let the ladies leave the room.”

“I am not leaving,” I protested.

“Nor am I,” Julia said.

“I would like to leave,” Miss Grant said. “Please, let me leave.”

“Who are you?” Mulholland demanded.

“I am Elizabeth Grant. I do not have anything to do with this—” She stopped, realizing the mistake she had just made, and cast me an agonized glance.

Would Mulholland recognize her name? It seemed unlikely. As far as we knew, Lord Deele had not hired the Runners to find his sister.

“Let her leave,” Mr. Kent said quickly, covering the slip.

“No one is leaving,” Mulholland snapped. “For chrissakes, Kent, this is simple. Lower your gun. I’ll take Belford and you’ll keep your position.”

“Keep my position?” Kent repeated through his teeth. “Are you so sure you have the support you think you have? Soldiers like us are expendable, Mulholland. You should know that by now.”

“I say, what is going on here?”

Good God, was that Duffy coming up the stairs?

At the doorway, Samuel abruptly stood to attention.

Weatherly stepped aside. “Lord Duffield, my ladies,” he announced as if Duffy were joining us for tea.

“There was no one downstairs to greet me,” Duffy complained, walking into the room. “The door was wide open and I—” He looked around the room.

“Who the hell is this?” Mulholland demanded.

“Mr. Mulholland, this is our brother, Lord Duffield, who is also a magistrate,” I said, for once glad to see Duffy. “Lord Duffield, allow me to introduce Mr. Mulholland, a thieftaker, Mr. Kent, a Bow Street agent who is assisting us, and”—I paused—“and Peter, my groom. Mr. Mulholland has mistaken Peter for a desperate highwayman and has come to make an arrest.”

Mulholland glared at me. “He is not your groom.”

“Do not speak until you are given leave!” Duffy ordered Mulholland. “And put your gun down, man. You are in the presence of ladies.”

Reluctantly, Mulholland lowered his pistol and gave a nod to Pritchard, who followed suit. With a release of pent-up breath, Mr. Kent lowered his gun too. I nudged Evan. He glanced at me unhappily but brought his gun to his side.

“Augusta, are you saying these men have forced their way into your home?”

“They have,” I said.

“Without a warrant, my lord,” Mr. Kent added helpfully.

Julia stepped out from behind him. “They have scared us quite horribly, Duffy, but we are unharmed. Thank goodness for Mr. Kent here, and…ah”—she stumbled for a moment—“Peter, who have both defended us most admirably.”

“No warrant?” Duffy echoed. “No warrant? Mulholland, is it?”

“Aye,” Mulholland said, then recollected himself and added, “My lord. But she is lying. This man is not her groom. He is—”

“Lying? Do you call my sister a liar, Mulholland?” Duffy demanded, thunder building in his voice. “Lady Augusta is many things, but she is not a liar, and I’ll not have the likes of you calling her such.”

Not the most glowing of endorsements, but the kindest thing Duffy had said about me in a while. And, in this instance, spectacularly wrong. Moreover, he seemed to be just getting started.

“Look at yourself, man. You are standing in the drawing room of two spinster noblewomen looking for a highwayman without a warrant. Are you a fool or just wildly incompetent?”

Mulholland, no fool and dangerously competent, remained silent, glaring at me.

“Is this your man, Augusta?” Duffy asked, nodding at Evan.

“He is, Duffy. He is not a highwayman.”

“Patently,” Duffy said. “This is clearly a case of mistaken identity, Mulholland. You and your men, get out. Now, I say! You have left yourself open to charges of breaking and entering. A hanging offense, if I am not mistaken. I do not want to see you in Grosvenor Square again. Anywhere near my sisters. Do I make myself clear?”

Mulholland’s mouth bunched in suppressed fury, but he nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

“And mark my words, I will be speaking to the Magistrates’ Court about this travesty.”

Not that it would do much good, I thought.

Mulholland made a bow to Duffy—the courtesy a hairsbreadth away from insolence—then nodded to Pritchard to follow him from the room. I stepped back as he approached the door.

“You’ll regret this, my lady,” he said softly as he passed.

I gripped the silver knife more tightly. “I do not fear you, Mr. Mulholland,” I returned just as softly.

He looked down at my hand clenched around the weapon and flashed a wolf smile. “You seem to be lying again, my lady.”

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.

With one last malevolent stare at Evan, he strode from the room, his henchman close behind.

I signaled to Weatherly to shut the drawing room doors, then slumped back against the sideboard. I longed to catch hold of Evan’s hand but instead placed the silver knife on the wooden top, the shape of its ruby cabochon impressed upon the skin of my palm.

“Astonishing,” Duffy said into the silence. “And there are those who think we should have an actual police force like the French. Can you imagine? Clodhoppers like that with actual power?”

Mr. Kent, as close as we came to such a police officer, seemed unruffled by Duffy’s denigration of his profession. Julia, on the other hand, was appalled.

“Mr. Kent is a Bow Street agent, Duffy,” she said. “He has helped us greatly. We owe him much.”

Duffy eyed the Runner. “A good thing you were here.” He paused. “Why are you here?”

“On another, trifling matter, my lord.”

“I see.” Duffy dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out some coins, holding them out to Kent. “Here.”

Mr. Kent stared down at the offering, then shook his head. “No, thank you, Lord Duffield. I am paid for my services.”

“Certainly, but even the lowliest of servants receive vails. Take it. You seem to have done good service here.”

“Mr. Kent is not a servant, Duffy,” Julia said.

“No, thank you, my lord,” Mr. Kent said firmly.

“As you wish.” Duffy pocketed the coins again.

“I shall take my leave, my lord, my ladies,” Mr. Kent said, bowing. “Peter, come with me.”

“Yes, Mr. Kent,” Evan said, making his own bow.

It was said with an admirable pretense of humility, but I knew it stuck in Evan’s throat. He followed Kent to the door. Evan looked back at me, but for once I could not read his expression. He still had his gun, as did Kent. Good God, would the Runner try to arrest Evan now?

This was not even close to finished.

As Weatherly closed the door behind them, I made to follow. “Excuse me, Duffy, I must see if—”

“Augusta, who is this lady?” our brother demanded, finally noticing Miss Grant. “We have not been introduced in all the excitement.”

Good God. I looked wildly across at Julia. He could not know her real name. Julia, however, was still fixed upon Mr. Kent’s departure, an expression of distress upon her face. The first meeting between her Runner and Duffy could not have gone worse; it had been inevitable, but that did not make it any easier for my dear sister.

Miss Grant’s safety was up to me, then. I scrabbled for a pseudonym. Smith too obvious, but nothing else came to mind. My frantic gaze fell upon the novel I had left upon the side table. Ah yes, that would do. “Lord Duffield, allow me to introduce Miss Dashwood. She is staying with us for a short while.”

Miss Grant stared at me for a hard moment, then smiled at Duffy and curtsied. “How do you do, Lord Duffield?”

“Miss Dashwood.” He bowed. “Unfortunate circumstance, but here we are. I hope you are not too discomposed.”

“Not at all, Lord Duffield.”

Weatherly entered. “Breakfast is served, my lady.”

“Ah, excellent,” Duffy said. “Miss Dashwood, allow me to escort you to the dining room.” He offered his arm. To her credit, Miss Grant hesitated for only a second before taking it. “I say,” he added as they made their way out of the room, “are you related to the Dashwood-Kings, by chance?”

It was testimony to Weatherly’s management of our household that everything was already back in order. Duffy and Miss Grant led the way down the stairs to the dining room, Julia reaching for my hand as we followed.

She bit her lip: What are we going to do now?

I gave a reassuring smile: I will handle it, do not worry.

In all truth, I had no idea how to handle what had just happened, but I had faith that an idea would come along at some point. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

At the bottom of the steps, I released her hand and said to Duffy, “If you will excuse me, I must see to something. Do start breakfast, I will not be long.”

“If you must, Augusta, but do return swiftly,” Duffy said. “I came here for a reason and I cannot stay long. Harriet wishes to go to morning service as well as the evening.”

Of course she did—she would not wish to miss the fashionable gossip at the main services of the week. And of course Duffy had come for a reason. He only ever visited “for a reason.” And I had, in all my days, never liked any of his reasons.

Still, I had other problems to deal with first. Two problems, in fact, who were at this moment more than likely at each other’s throat.