Max exited from the library and resolutely headed back toward the stairway. He had no doubt that he’d find Fenwicke and his weasel-faced manservant upstairs. Max
was aware of the possibility that there might be others, though it stood to reason that Fenwicke wouldn’t have thought anyone would be looking for him here. The world still believed him confined to his bed in London after a near-deadly sickness.
At the bottom of the stairs, Max drew his pistol, the weight more comfortable in his hand now that he’d spent a bit of time last autumn using similar weapons for hunting at Stratford House. Then, it was a tool for sport; now, it was a weapon that could save his life, and the lives of two innocent women.
He ascended the stairs slowly, wary of making noise and alerting anyone to his presence. He listened for any noise coming from the upstairs rooms and watched carefully for movement above him.
He reached the top of the staircase. Corridors led to the left and right, but Max focused on the right, where he could see light seeping out from beneath one of the doors.
He moved toward the door, trying to be as silent as possible on the wood slats of the floor. He reached the door and leaned close to it to hear if any noises were coming from inside.
After a minute, he heard a very faint, very low humming noise. He reached for the handle and tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside.
Was it Fenwicke’s bedchamber or the servant’s? Max had no idea. He explored the rest of the corridor, finding four empty, unlocked bedchambers, and then tried the opposite corridor. At the very end was another locked door, but there was no light emanating from this one. He remembered the lights he’d seen from outside when he first entered the house. One of those lights would most
certainly have corresponded to this room. Perhaps its occupant had gone to bed.
Which left the room with the light on. He’d take care of the occupant of that room first and try not to wake the occupant of this one.
He returned to the room with the light on and knocked softly on the door.
“What is it, Thompson?” Fenwicke’s voice snapped out. “Have you finished packing? I want to be gone by dawn.”
“Yes, sir.” Max spoke on a cough, with his fist muffling his voice. So, Fenwicke planned to leave Manchester. It seemed Max’s arrival as John Smith had alerted Fenwicke that something was amiss.
“What’s that?”
There was a click as the lock tumbled, and then the handle turned and the door opened the merest crack, showing a sliver of Fenwicke’s face.
Max kicked the door open. He put so much force into the blow that Fenwicke stumbled backward and the door slammed into the wall.
Damn. The noise would awaken the bloody manservant.
Fenwicke recovered quickly. He lunged away, but Max’s eye had caught on something at the far corner of the room, and he couldn’t tear his gaze from it.
“Good God,” he whispered.
There was a naked figure slumped there. Her back, criss-crossed with welts and bloody lines, was facing Max, and her head lolled forward.
Was she dead or unconscious?
With a choke of outrage, Max rushed toward the woman, tearing the blanket from the top of the bed as he passed it.
Pillows went tumbling to the ground. When he reached her, he wrapped the blanket around her and slid his arm beneath her. She moaned softly but didn’t wake as Max gently lifted her into his arms, trying not to disturb her many wounds. Lady Fenwicke slumped against him, a dead weight in his arms.
“Oh, what a hero,” Fenwicke sneered from behind him. He heard the click of a cocking gun.
Max froze, realizing he’d stuffed his pistol into his coat pocket without even thinking about it when he’d rushed to help Lady Fenwicke.
“Turn around, Wakefield,” Fenwicke said.
Clutching the unconscious Lady Fenwicke to his chest, Max slowly turned.
The man’s face was stone cold. He held a small silver pistol he pointed at Max’s chest.
“How dare you,” he said, his lip curling, “break into my home and then touch my wife in such an unseemly fashion? That’s a hanging offense, Wakefield.”
“Kidnapping is a hanging offense,” Max growled.
“Kidnapping one’s own wife? I don’t think so.”
“You have kidnapped Miss Jessica,” Max pushed out.
“Miss Jessica? I don’t see anyone by that name here. I was having a lovely evening with my wife when a villainous duke entered uninvited. In a fit of rage, he rendered me unconscious and then he proceeded to brutalize my beloved wife. That’s what the world will know.
“Now unhand my wife, Wakefield. I’d prefer not to be forced to shoot through her to get to you, but I will if I must.”
“I’d advise you not to do that. Be a gentleman for once and let me lay her down first.”
Fenwicke merely cocked an eyebrow. He kept the
gun trained on Max as he went to the bed and laid the poor woman on it. She whimpered again, and murmured something Max couldn’t quite understand. He covered her as best he could with one of the blankets.
Straightening, he slowly turned to face Fenwicke. He felt the heavy weight of the gun in his pocket and wondered if Fenwicke had seen it when he’d first kicked in the door.
“My lord, is there—?” Weasel-face was at the door. He’d stopped in midsentence, his mouth hanging open, his gaze traveling from Lady Fenwicke lying prone on the bed, to Max, to Fenwicke and the gun.
“Thompson,” Fenwicke grated out. “You will bear witness to this event. The Duke of Wakefield broke into my home and proceeded to beat my wife to a bloody pulp. I shot him, killed him, to save her.”
The man’s face went still, and his focus settled on Max like a shard of ice. Weasel-face was definitely loyal to his master.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“You damned bastard.” Fenwicke sounded not only disgusted but anguished as he continued. “You thought you could get away with doing this? With breaking into my home, my sanctuary? With hurting my wife?”
For the first time, his eyes slid away from Max to go to Lady Fenwicke on the bed. Max’s hand went to his pocket, but before he could reach the gun, Fenwicke’s gaze snapped to him again, and he stepped forward, pointing the gun at Max’s chest.
“No, Wakefield. I know what’s in there. I’m not blind, and I’m not dumb. Now, very slowly, retrieve that pistol from your pocket and lay it on the floor. Any fast move and I’ll shoot, do you understand me?”
Hell. The crazy marquis was going to shoot him either way, wasn’t he? Max’s gun was already cocked, ready to shoot. If he could pull it out slowly, then get a shot off before Fenwicke could…
Well, it was his only hope.
Slowly, Max raised his empty hand, then slipped it into his pocket, his fingers scrambling to grasp the gun in the proper position.
Now.
He whipped the pistol out of his pocket, aimed, and fired as he dove to the floor in an attempt to avoid the shot he knew would be coming from Fenwicke.
Two shots rang out, deafening in the confined space of the bedchamber. Pain exploded in Max’s side as his body slammed to the floor. Dimly, he heard a thud as Fenwicke fell directly in front of him. He hadn’t seen where he’d hit the man. He hoped it had been in the bloody head.
He raised his own head to see Fenwicke crawling toward him, dragging his leg and leaving a bloody trail behind him. The servant was shouting something Max couldn’t understand. It sounded like a woman was screaming—perhaps Lady Fenwicke.
Through blurred eyes, Max saw Fenwicke’s hands reaching for him. Using his elbow, he slid his body to the side so Fenwicke’s hands just missed catching his neck and cracking his skull on the floor. Fenwicke made a snarling noise. “You shot my leg, you bastard!”
Fenwicke was coming for him again. Max slid on his back, curled his fist, and punched Fenwicke in the thigh, in the exact place where he’d shot the man. His side screamed with pain.
Fenwicke gave an agonized, rage-filled howl. There
was more shouting in the periphery of Max’s awareness, but he kept his focus on the enemy.
Max surged upward onto his knees, shoving Fenwicke’s shoulder as he rose. Fenwicke fell back onto the floor, curling in on himself as if to protect his injured leg.
Max clenched his teeth. His side burned like someone had taken a torch to it.
Fenwicke wasn’t finished. He struggled up onto his elbow, then leveled a solid punch to Max’s stomach. Max hunched forward, and then Fenwicke copied Max’s first strike. He leveled a second punch at Max, this time in his bloody, injured side.
Max hissed through his teeth and struggled to keep himself upright. The pain was excruciating. It shot through his entire body, and he couldn’t hold back the grunt as he thumped back onto the floor. His eyes had closed of their own volition—it hurt to even open them, but he did.
Fenwicke loomed over him, his mouth warped into a ghastly grimace.
Max’s gun should be close by. It was a weapon he’d acquired from his uncle, who even in his dotage had kept a case filled with examples of the newest advances in weaponry.
This pistol felt like Max’s other weapons, but in truth, it wasn’t like any other weapon Max had ever shot before. This was a revolver.
He saw it at the periphery of his vision and reached for it. Fenwicke didn’t pay him any heed, probably assuming the gun had spent its one and only shot.
Max’s fingers caught the grip of the gun, and he raised the pistol up, cocking the hammer.
Fenwicke finally paid attention as the gun clicked. Over Max, his body jerked in recognition of the noise.
For the slightest second, Max hesitated. He’d spent his whole life trying to avoid being like his father. Trying to choose a path leading away from brutality and violence.
But this man had nearly killed his own wife. He’d kidnapped Jessica Donovan. And he’d attempted to rape Olivia.
He deserved to die.
Max buried the barrel into Fenwicke’s ribs. And he pulled the trigger.
When the two gunshots broke the quiet of the night, Olivia’s heart clenched. She jerked away from Jessica and looked between her sister and Peebles.
“Who came with you, Olivia? Are Jonathan and Sebastian in the house?” Jessica asked, her voice rising in panic.
“No,” Olivia whispered, looking at her sister with dread rising her gorge. “It’s Max.”
She turned, lifted her skirts, and ran. She tried the closest door to the barn—the back door of the house, but it was locked. Her heart pounding with panic, she ran to the front door, barely noticing her sister and Peebles just behind her.
The door opened easily, and they hurried inside. “Upstairs,” she directed. She was sure the gunshots had come from the upper story.
Glimpsing the bottom edge of the banister beyond an arched doorway, she ran to the stairs and took them two at a time. At the top, she saw an open door to the right and heard a scuffling noise.
That was Max. He was alive. He had to be.
She sprinted down the corridor and rushed inside just as yet another gunshot exploded in her ears. She reeled to a halt, her senses overwhelmed by all that she saw.
Beatrice was sitting up on the bed, looking pale and stark. Her dark hair was loose around her bare shoulders, and she clutched a blanket to her chest.
The man who’d opened the door to them when Fenwicke had been in residence in Sussex stood in front of Olivia, panic twisting his long face. He was shouting, but her ears were ringing from the gunshot, and she couldn’t discern his words.
Just behind him, two men lay still on the floor. Deep red blood pooled around them. She recognized Fenwicke’s dark, slicked-back hair. He was slumped over another man, hiding most of his body. But Olivia recognized the color of the coat. The shape of the hand lying limp on the floor.
“Max!” She lunged past the shouting servant and fell to her knees beside the two men.
Were they both dead? Neither of them moved.
“No!” she sobbed, shoving at Fenwicke’s heavy form, trying to get him off Max. “No. No. No.”
She heard voices behind her, shouting, but she didn’t hear what was being said. With a great heave, she thrust Fenwicke’s limp body off of Max.
There was blood everywhere. All over him.
“Oh, God, no,” she whispered. She cupped his face in her hands, his warm cheeks roughened by a day’s growth of beard. “Max… Max, can you hear me?”
His eyelids fluttered, and Olivia’s heart leapt to her throat. She couldn’t speak as he opened his eyes. He
blinked a few times, clearing the cloudiness away until his clear green orbs focused on her.
“Olivia?” he whispered. His brows drew together in confusion.
“Are you hurt? Tell me where you’re hurt.”
“I’m all right. He just nicked me…”
“Oh, God, Max. You’re covered in blood!”
“It’s his. Mostly his.” Both of them glanced to where Fenwicke lay, his body unmoving beside Max.
“Is he… dead?” she whispered.
“I think so.” Max struggled to sit up, wincing.
“No,” she murmured. “Lie down. You’re hurt.”
He sounded bone tired, but he sat up shakily. He frowned at her. “What… why are you here?”
“I needed to be here. To help.”
His gaze drifted just beyond her shoulder, and she turned to see Jessica embracing a sobbing Lady Fenwicke. “You found your sister.”
“Yes. She was under the barn in a priest hole.”
He gripped her wrist, and despite his apparent exhaustion, his grip was hard. “Why did you come here? You could have been killed.”
She shook her head. “No, I knew you’d need my help.” She bit her lower lip. “But once I heard the gunshots, Max, I couldn’t…”
“What should I do with ’im, Your Grace?” Peebles dragged the cowering manservant toward them, holding him by the scruff of the neck and pointing his pistol at him. “He tried to sneak away, but I caught ’im.”
Max’s eyes went icy when he looked at the man. He struggled to stand, and this time she helped him. He awkwardly rose to his feet, pressing his palm over his side, grimacing.
“Hold him,” Max said coldly. “The ladies might confirm his presence when they were taken from Prescot, in which case he will be prosecuted for aiding and abetting a kidnapping.”
Olivia glanced at Jessica and Beatrice, who clung to each other as they watched the proceedings. They both looked pale and scared, and Beatrice looked like she might faint at any moment, but Jessica held her firmly upright.