Page 96 of Tempting the Marquess

“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 likethat.”

“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 toyou?”

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 kindmaid?”

“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 tookevery 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 thisroom.

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 theknot...

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 hedead?”

“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 behindhim.

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 theend?

“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 blastedknot.

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. Rightnow.”