Wilhemina shook her head, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Duncan pointed to Ada. “Alive or dead?”
The nursery maid lifted her head and blinked at him. “Alive,” she said so quietly he could barely hear her over the sound of his own breathing. “Go save t-the little one.”
Duncan didn’t wait for more. He turned on his heel, pushed past McAlpin, who was demanding to know the meaning of all this, and charged up the stairs. The door to the drawing room was open, and Lady John cowered against the far wall, Johnny held tight against her bosom.
Vanderville stood in the center of the room, dripping rain water on the Aubusson rugs. “Hand him over,” he said.
Lady John’s gaze flicked to Duncan then back to Vanderville. “Never.”
Duncan charged, but it was too late. Lady John’s quick glance had given him away. Vanderville turned in time to avoid the worst of Duncan’s attack, and the two men went down in a heap on the carpet. Duncan was on top and pulled back, punching Vanderville in the face. He heard a crack, saw a spurt of blood, and then Vanderville rolled, and Duncan landed on the rug.
Blood dripped on him a second before Vanderville’s fist slammed into his cheek. Duncan put his hands up, clawed for Vanderville’s eyes. He caught the man’s cheek, felt the bristle of his mustache as he tried to gouge at skin. But in his attack, Duncan had made a critical error. He’d forgotten defense.
Vanderville’s hands closed around his neck. Duncan grasped the wrists, but it was too late. Vanderville had a secure grip, and he squeezed. Duncan saw black, and he dug into Vanderville’s flesh, feeling the blood wet his skin. And still the man didn’t loosen his hold.
“Let him go!” Johnny called. The boy’s voice sounded far away, so much further than just the other side of the room. Duncan fought the hands, managed a tiny scrap of breath, and his vision cleared.
What he saw sent him into a panic. Lucy was creeping into the drawing room, knife in her hand. Her gaze met his, and he knew from her look what she meant to do.
A crease of concentration appeared between her brows, and she pressed her full lips together.
That was the look she always got right before she shot an arrow, fired a pistol, or...threw a knife.
No!The word wouldn’t emerge from his constricted throat. Lucy was no good with knives. She always missed, usually hitting something she had not aimed for. Mr. Pistol, the weapons instructor, called it an incidental casualty. In this case, Duncan rather feared that he would be that incidental casualty. He imagined that knife sailing into his thigh, or worse, his cock.
Higher! Higher!he silently pled as she pulled her hand back and let go.
***
EVERYONE SAID SAINTwas a natural with knives. Lucy could attest to her mother’s skill. She’d seen her throw a dozen knives in under five seconds, hitting the center of a hay target every time. Lucy was lucky to hit the target.
But she’d heard the screaming and saw Duncan entering the drawing room at the top of the stairs as she ran into the lodge. Mrs. Cox stumbled into the foyer at that moment too, brandishing a carving knife. When Lucy saw it, she didn’t think. She held out her hand and took the knife Mrs. Cox offered her.
“Get Lord John,” she said and sprinted up the steps.
She understood the situation as soon as she stepped into the drawing room. Duncan was down and had another ten seconds or so before he’d be dead. Lady John and Johnny were cornered and would be next.
Without thinking, Lucy raised the knife and aimed. The second before she let go, she saw Duncan’s terror. But it seemed to her as though he was looking at someone else. In that moment, the knife felt different in her hand. It felt like an extension of it. And when she released it, the knife sailed perfectly through the air, slicing the distance in a beautiful arc, and coming to land with a sickening thwack between Vanderville’s shoulder blades.
Vanderville slumped, and Duncan pushed him aside. Lucy ran to Duncan and knelt beside him. Voices swirled around her. Lord John demanded answers. McAlpin was barking orders. Lady John sobbed, and her lady’s maid tried to comfort her. Lucy didn’t care about any of them.
“Duncan, look at me. Breathe slowly now.” A ragged sound escaped his lungs as he tried to gulp air. She put her hands on both sides of his face. “He’s dead.” She glanced at the man on the floor. Vanderville wasn’t quite dead, but he would be in a few moments. “I have you. You’ll be fine.” She gathered him into her arms, murmuring trite phrases and not caring how ridiculous she sounded. If she’d been just two minutes later... If she’d gone to the schoolroom instead of the drawing room...
Duncan struggled to sit, and she helped him onto his knees then knelt before him, studying his face. She’d never seen it quite so red or the veins in his forehead so prominent. Her gaze dropped to his chest, which heaved like a bellows stoking a fire.
His brown eyes rose and met hers. They were a soft brown, like the way he looked at her when they were alone together, devoid of the assessment she associated with the agent side of him. “That...was...terrifying,” he croaked.
She nodded. “He’s dead now. He won’t be able to hurt anyone.”
Duncan glanced at Vanderville’s body as though just seeing it. “Him...too.” He struggled to rise. “Help me up.”
She grasped his hands and tried to pull him up. “What do you mean,him too? What were you terrified of if not Vanderville?”
His gaze slid away from hers. “Just Vanderville.”
He was lying and not doing a very good job of it. Perhaps because he was weak and wounded or perhaps because she knew him too well. “You weren’t afraid of Vanderville choking the life out of you. You were afraid I’d miss with the knife!”
“You didn’t miss.” His voice was low and gravelly. “That was—” He swallowed. “A brilliant throw.”
