Page 91 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

“You know very well it is your lack of morals I object to, young woman, and I would ask you not to be impudent to me. You should consider it a sign of distinction if my son did wish to kidnap you. He has such exquisite taste.”

“I would consider it a relief if he released me,” Inez retorted.

“Treen,” Joseph commanded, starting forward, “let her go.”

The bag on Treen’s lap moved, and Inez went ramrod-straight, her eyes flaring wide. Joseph had no doubt she felt the barrel of the pistol against her stays. Rage shook him.

“Mother, you have, as usual, imposed yourself at the least convenient time,” Treen said. “I am negotiating an exchange of property with Mr. Hoskyn and Mr. Illingworth. This is no place for a lady.”

“Then let Inez go,” Joseph said. At the same time, Inez turned a scathing stare on her captor and emphasized, “Sir Joseph.”

“Mr. Treen, this is all very irregular,” Hoskyn said. “I cannot accept nor put my signature to an agreement that is made under any conditions of compulsion or duress, against the full consent of all involved parties. It would appear— I say, you’re Henry Jock.”

Hoskyn’s expression turned to surprise, then admiration as Jock approached, a shotgun broken open over his knees, herding a rough-looking character on a Dartmoor pony before him.

“Thas ’een,” the villain said sullenly. “Thas the gent as hired me to shoot at ye.”

“Oh, I say,” Hoskyn said again. “This is a most distressing revelation.”

“Mark it, Hoskyn,” Joseph said. “I may need you to bear witness.”

Inez turned to face the mounted man, a day laborer by the looks of him, and one who had not seen good wages in some while. His hands were currently bound to the saddle before him, the ribbons to the bridle between his fingers. “Why?”

“Why’d I put me own head in the noose? Ain’t doin’ me any good where it is now, ’tain’t.”

“But why kill Joseph?” Inez’s worried eyes went to him.

Joseph shrugged. “A better chance of negotiating with the next owner, or buying pieces if the estate has no heirs. And in the meantime, Treen would be porting off as much copper as he can carry.” He sized up the man who had shot at him. “You ruined my hat.”

The other’s eyes went wide. “Aye, proper job, that! Didna mean to come as close as yer whiskers, beggin’ yer pardon, sir. Meant to spook himself and the lady. Doan want murder on me soul, I doan.”

“It was Treen’s goal to finish me.” Joseph nodded.

“These are vile accusations, and I won’t stand for them,” Mrs. Treen yelped. “Melwin, how can you stand for this? Do something.”

“Your precious son,” Joseph snapped in irritation, “is at this moment holding my bride at gunpoint. I’ll thank you not to intervene on his behalf.”

Mrs. Treen’s eyes widened, and her companions gasped and tittered in the register of disapproving old hens. “My Melwin would never⁠—”

“Give over,” Jock said, nudging his horse toward the cart. The shotgun was empty, yet the weapon on his lap bore a menace of its own. He laid a hand on Arthur’s bridle, and the horse immediately stilled, ears flicking forward. “Better yet,” Jock said to Treen, “give the pistol to the lady.”

Treen looked around the group, his eyes round as a hare’s on a hunt. “You’re all against me,” he said. “Not a one of you is going to do what is right and give me what I am owed.”

“Melwin!” Mrs. Treen yelped as the barrel of the gun emerged. “Your father’s travelling pistol?”

He handed it, butt first, to Inez. She slid her hand around the grip and inspected the flintlock mechanism as if she knew what to look for. Then she clicked off the safety and pointed the pistol at Treen.

“You shot at me and Joseph, before,” she said. “You tried to kill him.”

Treen’s eyes bulged from his head, his gaze locked on the bore of the barrel. At this range, if Inez fired, she would not miss.

“Not kill,” he gurgled. Then he attempted a laugh that sounded much like a chicken being relieved of its head. “I wouldn’t stoop to murder.”

“I might,” Inez said.

And that was the tableau they were making when the travelling carriage arrived.

“What an honor,” Mrs. Treen simpered for the round dozenth time. “The Earl and Countess Tremarron. Your estate is near Camborne, I believe?”