Page 38 of Mistress of Sins

“Of course.” The other woman came to put her shoulder under Jennet’s arm to support her. “Come, let me–”

Jennet used the wine bottle like a club to knock the blade from her hand, and then reversed the swing, striking Catherine with it squarely on the chin. The other woman flew back into the work table before she pitched forward in front of Greystone and landed on her face with a painful-sounding thud.

“It seems that I am the better actress,” Jennet said as the other woman tried to rise, and kicked her in the head. She held the wine bottle ready to deal her another blow, but Catherine collapsed and stopped moving. “I cannot believe this. All this time you have pretended to be my friend while you have been spying for the French? You evil, conniving, deceitful, hateful, guttersnipe of a traitor.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Greystone demanded as she picked up the bloody blade and hurried over to him.

“Would you blame me if I had, after all I have endured?” she demanded as she went around to saw through the rope binding him. When he tried pulling at his bonds she said, “Hold still. In my present mood I may pick up where Miss Tindall left off, and do far more damage to your person.”

He eyed Catherine. “Indeed.”

As soon as she had freed him Greystone jolted out of the chair and yanked her into his arms, holding her so tightly her ribs creaked. “You are mad. Utterly, completely, entirely mad.”

“In regard to you, yes, I am.” She pulled back and glanced down. “I did not kill her, which I think is a pity. She must be taken to the magistrate along with that book you left in my stays.” She glared at him. “You do remember that, just before you throttled me until I swooned.”

“I must take her and the book to London tonight.” He picked up the rope she had cut through and expertly tied Catherine’s wrists behind her back. “First I must deal with the other three agents. Did you see them?”

At that moment a man with his head wrapped in his scarf hurried in from the staircase tower landing. In his hand he held a length of blood-stained firewood.

“No, Liam,” Jennet said sharply as Greystone snatched the blade from her and started for him. “Mr. Branwen, what are you doing here?”

The vicar pulled down the scarf, which she had recognized as one she had knitted for him, and sighed. “Rescuing you, Miss Reed.”

The sound of heavy footsteps thumping down the stairs made them all still.

“Outside,” Greystone said as he hefted Catherine’s body up under his arm. “Quickly.”

Chapter 21

When they emerged from the staircase tower, Greystone dropped Catherine’s limp form by the wood bin and regarded the vicar. “Please tell me that you brought a pistol with you, Mr. Branwen.”

The vicar sniffed. “I am a man of God. I do not own a pistol.” He held out the length of firewood he still held, and gave it an expert swing. “I was, however, the best batsman ever to play for the Saint Peter’s Smashers in college.”

Jennet took something from the coat she wore, and wordlessly offered him a pistol. He saw it was the same one he had left with her in the bed chamber.

“I was saving it so I might shoot you,” she advised him. “Fortunately, I have changed my mind.”

“The Secretary at War will appreciate your restraint.” He heard the agents’ voices echoing in the hall as they called for Catherine, and he pointed to a spot some yards away from the door. “If you would stand over there, look terrified, and call for help when I tell you, that will draw them out.”

“You wish to ambush them, then,” the vicar said.

“Yes, Mr. Branwen. We will take flanking positions beside the outer door.” Even with Jeffrey’s help it might go badly, but this was the best chance they had of surprising the agents. “Aim for the knees of the first to come through, and I will see to the others.”

“I cannot condone murder, my lord,” the vicar warned him.

“Then you have come to the wrong house tonight, sir.” Greystone turned to his lady, who had not moved, but looked prepared to argue. “Jenny, please. They will be in the kitchens in another moment.”

“I have been abandoned, ruined, throttled, abandoned again, and now I am made bait. To think I once wanted to marry you.” She stalked over to the spot, folding her arms as he and the vicar moved to either side of the door.

Jeffrey met his gaze with a stern look. “Remember the sixth commandment, William.”

“I have been too busy keeping the fifth, sir.” Yet as he said that, Greystone realized that he no longer wished to kill anyone, even Catherine Tindall, who would have happily gutted him like an eel and draped herself with his entrails. “Do you believe a man of sin can start his life over again, no matter what he has done?”

“God does,” the vicar assured him. “You should talk to Him about that.”

Greystone looked over at Jennet. She was terrified, he knew that, and yet the worse the situation had grown, the braver she had become. She knew all of his secrets now—save one—and still she had forgiven him, and again offered him her heart.

She saw him watching her and her exasperated expression softened. “It is almost over, I hope. You can keep the pistol. I may want your ugly rings, however.”