Page 83 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

She had seen him passionate and tender in their time together, traveling with her to undiscovered lands. She had seen him punch Lord Wigsby in the face, not so long ago, when she wouldn’t have thought he had a thread of aggression within him.

And now, she saw him settle something within himself. His shoulders broadened. His chin lifted. So did the sword as he pointed it in Wigsby’s direction. Joseph’s gaze moved briefly to Inez, and his stare lit her like a fuse for a festival firecracker. The very air in the room crackled.

He was a man, finally, who knew his own worth. Who knew what he would fight for to the bitter end. And Inez was among those things.

The top of the list, apparently. Her heart swelled like that air-going sailing vessel that had been legendarily demonstrated at the court of King John of Portugal and his Queen.

“Dervieux,” Wigsby snapped, “take his sword away. This insolent pup is threatening me.”

Instead, Pierre drew his own sword. It was long and slender, in the French style.

Between them, the two men looked prepared to participate in one of those sword dances her father had told Inez the sailors of Marin, in Spain, performed in honor of St. Michael. Joseph had never looked so lethal, so dangerous, and so beautiful.

A man through and through, one who would never display the cruel arrogance or greedy pride of a Wigsby, and who would check injustice wherever he did find it.

Wigsby’s face mottled as his rage mounted. His jaw worked as he forced out the words. “Baseborn knaves, the lot of you. I’ll see you both hanged! You,” he pointed a fat finger at Pierre, “for stealing my daughter and the wealth of a man’s house, and you—” He stabbed the air in Joseph’s direction— “for harboring a fugitive, threatening your betters, and being in general a cur and an insult to the name of gentleman. Tossing up the skirts of a foreigner and a whore.”

He retreated to the table where the jewels lay, and his avaricious eye fell upon them. “I’ll let you all leave me without complaint if you return my things.”

Priscilla stepped in front of the table, gripping its edges behind her. “No. These are Mama’s. You mayn’t have them. Not when you took everything else from me.”

“Took!” His lordship’s eyes bulged further. Between that and the convulsions of his throat above his neck stock, Inez feared apoplexy. “When you stole from me, you ungrateful hussy! And enjoined your filthy maid to abet you in the effort.”

“I would do it over again if it helped her leave your house,” Inez said. “You treated her like your property, not a person in her own right.”

“She is my property!” Wigsby roared. “So is this.” He lunged for the table, pushing his daughter aside, and grabbed the jewels up in their silken cloth. He looked every inch like the spoiled bully he was, and did not even spare a glance for Priscilla, who was caught in the arms of her husband, and then pushed behind him for protection.

Wigsby’s beady, bulging gaze fell on Inez. “And I won’t charge you with thievery if you come with me quietly.”

“You dare,” Joseph said.

Inez shuddered. “I won’t.”

“Then I’ll have you taken up by the watch like the⁠—”

“I wonder,” Joseph said, advancing with his sword before him, “that you berate me for my affections, your lordship—” He made the address sound like a slur— “when I, if I am not mistaken, found you lately in the environs of Dark Lane.”

Wigsby froze like a hare that had been spotted by the hound.

Pierre’s brows rose. “Dark Lane? La vache!”

“What Lane?” Priscilla questioned. “Where?”

“In fact—” Joseph continued his advance— “I have it on authority from one of the Vestals of the house that she makes regular accommodations for you. Rather irregular accommodations, truth be known.”

Wigsby’s labored breath became audible in the utter stillness of the room. Inez held back a laugh so she might not spoil Joseph’s attack. He was so very magnificent.

“You…you slander me. That is a hanging offense also.”

“Not if it’s true,” Joseph said, his voice smooth as butter. “And I am told many of the ladies of Dark Lane can attest to the…vigor and imagination of your attentions. I am sure they would not mind sharing such information in a public venue. In court, mayhap, or with a satirist for The London Magazine?”

Sweat rolled from the brow of his lordship’s wig. His fingers curled like claws around the bag of jewels. He pawed at his waistcoat as if seeking air.

“I could kill you,” he said hoarsely. “That would silence your vile mouth.”

“I am not the vile one among us,” Joseph said, still in that tone of deadly politeness. “And lords can still be punished for murder nowadays. We live in the Dark Ages no longer.”

“Papa.” Priscilla was sobbing. “Just go. You’ve ruined everything, as usual. I was a fool to think we could reconcile.”