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Dashkova turned to her accomplice at the desk. “Get rid of the dog,” she snapped.

The man looked at her and at Cat, who continued to shake his head, snarling and tearing at the fallen man’s clothes, his body resting on the man’s chest. The standing man shoved Cat with his boot, but the dog only growled more fiercely and did not budge.

“Useless,” the marchioness declared. “Turn your gun on Pilkington.” She put her pistol on the edge of the desk and removed her gloves. With unhurried calm she took up the gun and began to reload. “Do not move, Wynford, or your friend dies.”

“Now or later is not much of a bargain.” Charles moved a pace closer to Perry.

Dashkova’s hands paused briefly, then she finished loading and pointed her pistol at Charles. “You are tiresome, you English,” she said. “Now we must finish.”

The fire on the desk had died down to smoking bits of charred paper. Dashkova made a little sound of disgust.

“Not enough bullets to put everyone away,” said Charles. “You might want to flee instead. Ashton’s death is known. The authorities will be here soon.”

Dashkova looked around, making some calculation. It was the first sign of hesitation he’d seen in her.

“Shoot the dog,” she ordered.

The man pointing his gun at Peregrine stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Cat!” Charles called. The dog instantly lifted his head and looked at Charles. “To Harry,” he ordered.

The dog bounded to Harriet, who knelt down to take him in her arms.

“You English and your dogs.” Dashkova laughed. “Very well then.” She raised her pistol.

Charles stepped into the path of the gun.

At that moment Goldsworthy groaned. Dashkova’s gaze flicked to him. Charles pulled Perry’s chair, toppling Perry onto the man trying to rise from the floor.

Dashkova fired.

The bullet’s fiery trail grazed Charles’s side as Goldsworthy heaved up from the desk, flinging one huge hand backward, catching Dashkova in the chest and knocking her against the wall.

Her head hit the paneling with a crack. Her fur hat slipped down over her eyes as she slid to the floor. Her accomplice remained holding his pistol pointed at Charles, but his gaze swung to the door.

Voices came up hollowly from below, urgently calling Charles’s name. Footsteps pounded toward them. Wilde burst into the room, followed by Octavia and John Jowers.

The man with the gun saw that the advantage had shifted. He kept the gun pointed at Charles and burst into speech. “This b’aint the lay we was promised. I won’t be lagged for nicking a bleeding coat.” As he spoke, his gaze drifted toward the door. Abruptly, he bolted straight into a fist thrown by John Jowers. The punch knocked the man out cold.

Goldsworthy leaned on his great desk, his shaggy locks matted with blood. “Well done, all,” he said and sank down heavily into his chair.

When one has been wounded in the course of life, it is easy to believe that holding on to one’s secret anger and persisting in one’s sense of grievance is a form of strength. Nothing could be further from the truth. The ability to love after setbacks and disappointments does not come naturally to us but must be cultivated lest we fall into a state of resentment fatal to all our future happiness.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 21

The gun’s report in her ears and acrid smoke in her nose, Harriet stumbled to her feet and reached for Wynford. He seized her in a crushing embrace. Strong arms held her against a hard, warm, living body. She wrapped her arms around him, returning his fierce hold. The small black mouth of the pistol had pointed directly at him, a circle of nothingness, and he had stepped in front of it.

She pulled back in his embrace and hit him once on the chest with a fist. “I could have lost you. You stood in front of Cat.”

“I could have lost you,” he corrected, looking solemnly down at her. “I stood in front of you.”

Her ears cleared. She was dimly aware of noise and movement around her. “You are not hurt?” she asked.

He grinned at her. “You wore mistletoe in your bonnet. Were you coming to find me?”

“I was leaving London. I meant only to give Cat one last walk. He... Well, you know how he is about finding you.” She stepped out of his arms, and her glove came away covered in blood. “Oh, you are hurt.” She pulled off the ruined glove and pushed aside his coat to press her palm against the blood welling up from a long gash in his purple waistcoat.