Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3)

by Nicola Davidson

  Straightening his shoulders, he allowed his gaze to roam the rest of the room. Lady Claremont lay deathly still on a chaise to the right of the door, with a second woman bent over her, prodding and poking with a careless touch. She must be Mabel. On the other side of the room, Claremont stood talking to an older man with a French accent. Although bragging would be more accurate, as he spoke of his recent achievements.

  Interesting. What was giving these people such confidence today? Did they have information about Napoleon’s plans that even White didn’t know? Did they know when and where the emperor might launch an attack on the allied forces?

  William leaned in closer to listen.

  “Simple people see what they want to see,” the earl drawled. “A little padding, some makeup, a wig, and voila, Claremont the overweight drunken fool. Worst part was pretending to be permanently half sotted on that awful cordial masquerading as brandy. Vile stuff.”

  Mabel laughed. “Sacrifices are required in every great quest, lovie.”

  “But this was a truly great sacrifice. An affront to taste.”

  William’s lip curled. Christ, it was going to be a pleasure putting a bullet in Claremont’s skull. Pushing open the door, he aimed his pistol directly at the earl. “You have the fool part right. It was always only a matter of time before the Home Office had sufficient information to strike.”

  “Standish!” Claremont crowed. “Now that you’re here, the festivities can properly begin. By the by, I would congratulate you on your impending fatherhood, but I’m not at all impressed with Samantha’s choice of seed provider. And none of you will live to see the day anyway.”

  William shrugged and rolled his eyes, as if being forced to converse with an unspeakably dull party guest. “I couldn’t imagine a career traitor ever being happy his daughter was expecting a baby with the man sworn to bring him to justice.”

  “Fighting words from England’s favorite marquess! But I must correct you on one important point—Samantha is not actually my daughter.”

  “Then my day just became infinitely brighter.”

  A bark of laughter sounded from across the room, and the older man sauntered forward. “You are quick-witted, monsieur marquis. But please, excuse my colleague’s appalling manners and allow me to introduce myself. I am Phillipe.”

  Glancing sideways at the Frenchman, William froze as every hair on the back of his neck lifted. His mind catapulted back in time to the side of the London-Eton road, the place where he’d learned about pure evil and soul-shattering loss. The two men who had attacked his parent’s carriage had worn folded cloths over their mouth and nose to conceal their identity. But those silver eyes. That voice…

  “You,” he breathed, as hatred sparked a fire in his belly. Two men to kill today, then.

  Phillipe smiled as he bowed. “So you do remember me. How gratifying. It’s been, what, sixteen years?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I must express my condolences for your loss. Your mother was never supposed to die, but women in love do foolish things, no? It cannot be helped when a lady actually throws herself in the path of a bullet. As for your father, much like you, he was a worthy opponent. I did regret having to kill him, but he was getting far too close. Close enough to stop us. And that I could not allow.”

  William’s fists clenched, sending a jolt of pain straight to his injured shoulder. “Thank you for the reminder that my parents were better and braver than you could ever hope to be. You or your bastard cohort over there.”

  Claremont scowled. “I was going to say that killing you would pain me, Standish. But it really won’t. You grow tiresome…Penn? What in the devil happened to you?”

  Hell and damnation. Clearly his wrist- and ankle-tying skills needed a great deal of improvement. It was only slightly mollifying to note that the butler was weaving around like a young buck at the end of his first night out drinking.

  “That wretch,” said Penn, pointing unsteadily at William, “knocked me out, tied my hands and feet, and left me in a cupboard.”

  Phillipe laughed and tapped his pistol on his arm. “Not a very good job, if here you are. Or were you rescued by a kind maid?”

  “I rescued myself. I always do,” slurred Penn. Then, without warning, the butler lifted a hand-sized statue and swung it blindly at William’s temple.

  The movement was labored enough to be easily seen and avoided, and the weak blow was nothing more than a sting that might leave a faint bruise. Yet William forced himself to fall to the floor and drop the uncocked pistol, as though he’d felt the brutal kiss of a perfect right hook from Gentleman Jackson.

  The next move was theirs.

  It took every ounce of her will, but Samantha managed to quell her scream into a low whimper when William was hit and slumped to the wooden floor.

  Mere minutes ago her heart had swelled with love and pride when he walked through the door and pointed his pistol at Claremont. And the way he had faced down Phillipe, the man who had murdered his parents. Now only one emotion gripped her, making her eyes sting and causing perspiration to drip relentlessly down her temples and neck, to where it pooled between her breasts.

  Fear.

  But she couldn’t allow terror over both William and her mother to send her directly into madness. If they were to have any chance at all, she had to think of some kind of plan. Getting her hands free was obviously imperative. If she could achieve that without anyone noticing, then she would have the chance to retrieve the dagger hidden in her bodice. One good throw, and she could account for at least one of the criminals in this room.

  Discreetly she rotated her wrists, tugging and stretching the tight binding securing them together. The cravat was made of a silken fabric. If she could just loosen the knot...

  Suddenly Phillippe stamped his foot, the loud thump rocking several small porcelain figurines on a nearby ledge and jerking her from her thoughts. “Standish is not moving! Is he dead?”

  “Hopefully,” Penn replied, smiling proudly yet rather dizzily at the results of his handiwork.

  The Frenchman cursed, cocked his pistol, and fired.

  Penn staggered backward, his face a portrait of shock and confusion. The statue in his hand dropped to the floor and shattered, then he fell heavily against the parlor door and slid down, leaving a trail of smeared blood behind him.

  Oh God. She had just witnessed a murder. Bile rose in her throat, and Samantha pressed her lips to her shoulder to try and stop herself vomiting. If they could do that to one of their own without second thought, what would they do to her and William and her mother, in the end?

  “Phillipe! What the hell did you kill him for?” snapped Claremont, glancing down at the body that had stopped moving. “Penn was an excellent butler.”

  “Wrong,” the Frenchman replied coldly, tossing the used pistol onto a high-backed chair. “Excellent butlers know their place—they do not interrupt important occasions and deny me long-awaited prizes. Standish had to be alive and well to see these events unfold.”

  Teeth chattering even though the parlor was overwarm, Samantha wrenched again and again at the cravat around her wrists. For something so soft it was remarkably strong, and the fabric was chafing and burning her skin. Wait. Could it be starting to loosen? Desperately, she yanked harder, rotating her wrists and pulling at the material while attempting to wedge her thumb between two layers and force it further apart. Her wrists hurt and her fingers were cramping, but she would defeat this blasted knot.

  And then, right when she wanted to scream in pain and frustration, the fabric gave way. With quick, sharp tugs, she unwound the cravat until only one loop remained around her wrists. For the moment, it still needed to look as though she was bound. First, she needed to calculate some odds for her throw, and assess who presented the best target in terms of angle and distance. With only one dagger, she had to get it right.

  “Lady Samantha. Poor little thing, shaking with distress. Do not fret, my dear, this will all be
over soon enough,” said Phillipe as he leaned down to open the black leather satchel sitting next to the chaise on which her mother lay so frighteningly still.

  A rush of loathing surged through her body like a firestorm, fierce and relentless.

  Plunging her hand into her bodice, Samantha yanked out the dagger, unsheathed it in one jerky yet effective motion, and hurled it toward the older man with all her might. Phillippe let out a startled roar of pain as his upper palm was pinned hard against the front of the chaise and bright red blood spurted from the wound near his wrist.

  “You little whore! I’ll kill you for that!” shrieked Mabel, launching herself across the room just as Claremont pivoted and fired his own pistol.

  The woman’s head snapped back, and a spray of blood and something Samantha didn’t even want to think about splattered across the parlor window. Her stomach lurched at the ghastly sight, and when the heavy scent wafted under her nose, she fell forward onto her knees and vomited onto the floor. This was too much. Too horrific.

  But Phillippe merely cleared his throat. “An exceedingly careless shot, Claremont,” he drawled, tugging his cravat from his neck. With a grimace, he then carefully withdrew the dagger from his hand and wrapped the length of linen around the wound site to stem the steady flow of blood. “Now I shall have to find another woman to add to my collection.”

  “Forgive me, but I felt as you did. Tired of another supporting player attempting to steal my thunder. Mabel always did have poor timing. Give me your other pistol.”

  “There are two more in the satchel. I was just fetching them when your sweet little niece turned feral and threw a knife at me. Perhaps you should do the honors after all; I am starting to feel a little lightheaded. And hurry. I’ve already been here too long—these were supposed to be quick kills. Delays give the enemy a chance. And we are so close to victory.”

  “I know,” said Claremont. As her uncle walked past, he backhanded her across the cheek. Dizzy from the blow, already so unsteady, Samantha could only watch as he knelt beside the satchel and withdrew a fresh pistol. “Don’t worry, Phillipe. I am going to attend to matters once and for all. Right now.”

  Chapter 21

  The foul scent of murder hung in the air.

  Trying to ignore his churning stomach and Penn’s cooling, blood-soaked body mere feet away, William slowly, soundlessly got to his feet behind the large chaise he had fallen beside. He only had one opportunity to take Claremont by surprise. Then it would be a fight to the death, and his enemy knew every dirty tactic in the book.

  Taking one last deep breath and whispering a quick prayer to any deity that might be listening, he launched himself toward the earl, slamming hard into his back and wrapping his arms around him in a tight bear hug. It hurt like fiery hell, and the stitches in his shoulder pulled and ripped free, but Claremont grunted and fell forward, the pistol he’d been holding clattering loudly onto the blood-smeared floor. William’s advantage only lasted a moment, and soon they were rolling around, arms and legs flailing as each tried to gain the upper hand. Both grabbed for the pistol, but thanks to the blood that had spurted from Phillipe’s wrist wound it was like a bar of soap, sliding and flipping away each time one of them got close.

  “Bastard,” Claremont snarled as they both struggled to their feet, before pulling back his fist and slamming it into William’s abdomen.

  It robbed him of breath, but William gritted his teeth and responded with a right uppercut hard enough to snap the earl’s head back. He recovered frustratingly quickly, and they began to trade vicious, bone-crunching punches to face, eyes, chest, and stomach, each trying to land the blow which would be the difference between survival and death. Despair soon crept in—while he was technically far better than Claremont, the earl had two working arms, while William only had one.

  “Stop playing with the marquess, Claremont,” Phillippe slurred from where he lay slumped against the chaise, cradling his blood-soaked arm. “Just kill him.”

  The earl looked away for only a heartbeat, but it was all the time William needed for a fierce right hook to the jaw which left the older man temporarily reeling.

  The world slowed to a snail’s pace.

  As if he swam through treacle, William threw himself back down onto the floor. Half-sliding, half-crawling forward, his palms and knees burning at the friction and his wounded shoulder screaming, he slapped the ground in front of him until he felt the pistol. Snatching it up, cursing as he fumbled it briefly, William twisted his body into a sitting position, cocked the weapon, and fired.

  The thunderbolt of sound echoed through the parlor for eternity. Gunpowder burned his hand, and black spots danced at the edge of his vision. Then Claremont laughed.

  His heart sank. He’d missed.

  He’d failed.

  “William!” shrieked Samantha, from somewhere behind him.

  “Stay back,” he snarled, scrambling onto his knees and frantically searching for another weapon. If Claremont found one first, it was over. The earl would have no hesitation in killing him, Samantha, and the child she carried.

  Her cold, clammy hand closed around his, but he brutally shook it free. Did she not understand the danger she was in? Would another exceptional woman be murdered by these criminals because her man couldn’t protect her?

  “Bloody hell, Samantha, get back!” he choked out. “Claremont will kill you and I couldn’t bear—”

  “No! You shot him!”

  William froze, unable to comprehend her words. Then he peered harder at the earl, finally seeing the crimson stain blooming under his dark jacket, and the shocked fury etched on the man’s face.

  He’d actually managed to do it?

  Equal parts relief and jubilation surged through William as Claremont staggered forward. There was no sweeter sight than the evil bastard reaching out to steady himself on a high-backed chair but missing and falling heavily onto his knees. Yet instead of just fucking dying, Claremont scrabbled on his belly to open the satchel still resting on the floor and retrieve the last remaining pistol.

  Triumphantly he pulled it out, his arm shaking as he tried to aim and cock it.

  “First rule of battle, Standish,” the earl said, sneering even as he coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood-flecked spittle. “Ensure your opponent doesn’t live to fight another day. You are living proof of how useless some shots are—the bullet must go through the heart or between the eyes. So pleased I’ll now be able to demonstrate…”

  But before the earl could pull the trigger, Samantha rushed forward and gathered the dagger she’d used to maim Phillipe. A moment later she’d embedded it in Claremont’s chest. The man made a harsh gurgling sound, jerked once, then twice, and stilled.

  “My uncle w-was right,” Samantha whispered unsteadily. “It does have to b-be the heart.”

  Slow, weak applause began.

  “Bravo, Lady Samantha,” Phillippe rasped. “You are far smarter than your lover’s parents. Richard was an idiot to think he could play our game and win. He might have fooled us for a little while with his stirring words and fervent promises...but I never truly believed he wanted to join us. As for his pretty wife, we were vastly disappointed when she sacrificed herself to try and save him. Who knew Englishwomen felt such grand passion? She would have been one to savor, over and over.”

  Cold rage overwhelmed William. Bending down, he ripped the unused pistol from Claremont’s death grip, then walked over to the pale and bleeding Frenchman.

  “How fortunate the ledger always balances itself in the end. My father and mother will rest in peace forever. You, however, will rot in hell. Once you have given up all your secrets to the British government, of course. And they will take great pleasure in coaxing you to talk. But for now…this is my gift.”

  Then he cocked the pistol and fired the bullet at close range, shattering Phillipe’s knee. The man screamed, and collapsed unconscious.

  Now that the last risk had been dealt with, Samantha ran over
to her mother and crouched beside the chaise. “Mother? Mama?”

  William swallowed hard. “Is she…?”

  Samantha placed two fingers on Eva Claremont’s neck. Then she sagged. “No. There’s a pulse. Faint, but there.”

  “Thank God,” he replied. Emotion overwhelmed him, grief and elation and relief, and his eyes grew damp as he threw the weapon away, and walked over to join her.

  “I’m so very glad you shot them both,” Samantha said softly, taking his hand and rising to her feet. Her skin was damned cold, and she was shivering, but she was the bravest of women. “After what they did to your parents.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m also glad that Phillipe will be brought to trial.”

  “Me too,” he choked out, pulling Samantha into his arms and burying his face in the curve of her neck. “But I thought I’d lost you. Just because you’re as fierce as a warrior queen does not mean you have permission to leap into danger any time in the future. My nerves couldn’t stand it.”

  A watery giggle escaped her. “That’s because you’re aging. P-practically in your dotage. Luckily I am quite p-partial to anxious old men, and have decided to keep you and love you forever.”

  “Thank God. I’ve no chance of happiness with anyone else. I love you, Samantha.”

  “You do?” she asked, smiling up at him, the radiant joy on her face indescribable.

  “For eternity, at least.”

  They held each other tightly for several long, blissful minutes, until the parlor door swung open and a plethora of armed men led by White and Trudy invaded the room.

  “What on earth?” said Samantha. “Trudy?”

  “Er, hello, my lady,” said the woman, a hint of color in her cheeks.

  William leaned down. “May I introduce White, intelligence coordinator at the Home Office, and one of his lady operatives.”

  “Such exquisite timing,” Samantha said irritably. “Only showing up after matters have been taken in hand.”