The Lady Chosen

they were ancient and stiff! I can’t remember feeling so damned desperate in my life!”

“I under—”

“No, you don’t!” He pinned her with a glare. “And don’t think this means we’re not going to get married, because we are—that’s final!”

He emphasized how final with a swift motion of his hand. “But as you can’t be trusted to pay attention, to behave with a modicum of common sense—to exercise those wits God definitely gave you and spare me this torment—be damned if I don’t have a bloody tower built at Mallingham and lock you in it! ”

He stopped to drag in a breath, noticed her eyes were glittering strangely. Warningly.

“If you’re quite finished?” Her tone was considerably more glacial than his.

When he didn’t immediately respond, she went on, “For your information, you have what happened here this evening entirely wrong.” She lifted her chin, met his gaze defiantly. “I didn’t go into danger—not at all!” Her eyes snapped; she held up a finger to stop him from erupting—interrupting.

“What happened was this. I followed you and Charles and Deverell—three gentlemen of not inconsiderable experience and abilities—into a house we all believed held only two far less able men.” Her eyes bored into his, defying him to contradict her. “We all believed there was no great danger. As it happened, fate took a hand, and the situation became unexpectedly dangerous.

“However!” She fixed him with a look as furious as any of his had been. “What you are doggedly failing to see in all this is what to me is the most crucial point!” She flung her hands outward. “I trusted you!”

She turned, paced, then with an angry swish faced him and drilled a finger into his chest. “I trusted you to get yourself free and come after me and rescue me—and you did. I trusted you to save me, and yes, you turned up and dealt with Mountford. In typical blinkered male fashion, you’re refusing to see this!”

He caught her finger. She locked her eyes on his. Her chin set. “I trusted in you, and you didn’t fail me. I got it—we got it—right.”

She held his gaze; a faint sheen invested her blue eyes. “I have a warning for you,” she said, her voice low. “Don’t. Spoil. It.”

If he’d learned anything in his long career, it was that, in certain circumstances, retreat was the wisest option.

“Oh.” He searched her eyes, then nodded and released her hand. “I see. I didn’t realize.”

“Humph!” She lowered her hand. “Just as long as you do now…”

“Yes.” A sense of euphoria was welling inside him, threatening to spill over and sweep him away. “I do see…”

She watched him, waited, unconvinced by his tone.

He hesitated, then asked, “You really did mean to trust me with your life?”

Her eyes were definitely glittery now, but not with anger. She smiled. “Yes, I definitely did. If I hadn’t had you to trust in, I don’t know what I would have done.”

She moved into his arms; he closed them around her. She tipped up her face to look into his. “With you in my life, the decision was easy.” Raising her arms, she draped them over his shoulders. Looked into his eyes. “So now all is well.”

He studied her face, then nodded. “Indeed.” He was lowering his head to kiss her when his strategist’s brain, routinely checking that all was indeed well in their world, snagged on one point.

He hesitated, lifted his lids, waited until she did the same. He frowned. “I assume Jonathon Martinbury’s still in the parlor, but what happened to Humphrey and Jeremy?”

Her eyes widened; her expression dissolved into one of mild horror. “Oh, great heavens!”

Chapter Twenty

“I’m so sorry!” Leonora helped Humphrey out of the closet. “Things…just happened.”

Jeremy followed Humphrey out, kicking aside a mop. He glowered at her. “That was the most hopeless piece of acting I’ve ever witnessed—and that dagger was sharp, for heaven’s sake!”

Leonora looked into his eyes, then quickly hugged him. “Never mind—it worked. That’s the important thing.”

Jeremy humphed and looked at the closed library door. “Just as well. We didn’t want to knock and draw attention to ourselves—didn’t know if it would distract someone at the wrong moment.” He looked at Tristan. “I take it you caught him?”

“Indeed.” Tristan waved to the library door. “Let’s go in—I’m sure St. Austell and Deverell will have explained his position to him by now.”

The scene that met their eyes as they filed into the library suggested that was the case; Mountford—Duke— sat slumped, head and shoulders drooping, in a straight-backed chair in the middle of the library. His hands, hanging limp between his knees, were bound with curtain cord. One booted ankle was lashed to a chair leg.

Charles and Deverell were propped side by side against the front edge of the desk, arms folded, eyeing their prisoner as if imagining what they might do to him next.

Leonora checked, but could see only a graze on one of Duke’s cheekbones; nevertheless, despite the lack of outward damage, he didn’t look at all well.

Deverell looked up as they headed toward their usual places. Leonora helped Humphrey into his chair. Deverell caught Tristan’s eye. “Might be an idea to get Martinbury in to hear this.” He glanced around at the limited seating. “We could carry his chaise in.”

Tristan nodded. “Jeremy?”

The three of them went out, leaving Charles on watch.

A minute later, a deep woof sounded from the front of the house, followed by the click of Henrietta’s claws as she loped toward them.

Surprised, Leonora glanced at Charles.

He didn’t shift his gaze from Mountford. “We thought she might prove helpful in persuading Duke to see the error of his ways.”

Henrietta was already growling when she appeared in the doorway. Her hackles had risen; she fixed glowing amber eyes on Duke. Rigid, frozen, lashed to the chair, he stared, horrified, back.

Henrietta’s growl dropped an octave. Her head lowered. She took two menacing steps forward.

Duke looked ready to faint.

Leonora clicked her fingers. “Here, girl. Come here.”

“Come on, old girl.” Humphrey tapped his thigh.

Henrietta looked again at Mountford, then snuffled and ambled over to Leonora and Humphrey. After greeting them, she circled, then collapsed in a shaggy heap between them. Resting her huge head on her paws, she fixed an implacably hostile gaze on Duke.

Leonora glanced at Charles. He looked well pleased.

Jeremy reappeared and held the library door wide; Tristan and Deverell carried the chaise from the parlor with Jonathon Martinbury reclining on it into the room.

Duke gasped. He stared at Jonathon; the last vestige of color drained from his face. “Good Lord! What happened to you?”

No actor could have given such a performance; he was transparently shocked by his cousin’s state.

Tristan and Deverell set the chaise down; Jonathon met Duke’s eyes steadily. “I gather I met some friends of yours.”