The mattress sagged as the assailant rested a knee on it then, slowly, brought his other knee up to join it. In the mirror’s reflection, a white smile flashed as the would-be murderer raised up the knife.
Albion moved as quick as a viper, twisting around and propelling himself upward, shoving the attacker in the chest as hard as possible. A startled yelp went up as the assailant began to fall backward, arms flailing in a vain attempt to grab onto something.
They hit the floor with a dull thud and a hissing groan.
Albion scrambled for the opposite side of the bed and snatched up the poker he had asked Matilda to put there. He stood, breathing raggedly, lungs on fire, stomach churning, legs leaden, his fever making his head swim, and waited for the assailant to stand.
With a bed between them, Albion preferred his odds.
Muttering obscenities, Albion’s attacker grabbed the bedframe and hauled themselves to their feet. Their hood had fallen back, revealing a face that Albion knew all too well. A face he was not at all surprised to see though he had hoped to be mistaken.
“I’m fairly certain this isn’t part of a valet’s duties,” Albion said, taking a half step forward to lean against the bedpost. “Unless, of course, you’re working for someone else.”
Laurence snarled and eyed his bleeding hand. The knife must have slipped when he fell, the blade betraying him by biting into his own flesh. Scarlet beads dripped down onto the floor, his other hand now gripping the slippery knife.
“That was a clever little trick,” the valet hissed.
“Not at all,” Albion replied. “You were just too eager. No patience.”
Laurence’s face twisted into a mask of outrage. “No patience? You have no idea how patient I am.” His nostrils flared. “I’ve been waiting years for this.”
His clipped voice had changed, now almost as “common” as Albion’s. His spectacles were gone, too, alongside his respectful and dutiful demeanor. All a façade. All a means to get close to Albion. But the big question lingered…
“Why?” Albion asked.
Laurence scoffed. “Why? You don’t see it, do you.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”
Laurence grimaced, pulling his sleeve over his wounded hand to stem the bleeding. “I’m here for what’s mine. I’m here for everything that has been taken from me.” He began moving toward the end of the bed. “I tried to be reasonable. I tried to talk to your brother about restoring what was owed to me after your father—ourfather—passed. I demanded my inheritance; he refused me. He sent me away, told me he wouldn’t be paying for his father’s dirty little secrets anymore, and when I insisted that, at the very least, I was owed legitimacy, he laughed in my face. I never forgot the way he laughed.”
“Whoareyou?” Albion’s mind sifted rapidly through his memories, envisioning one particular ledger and the considerable sum of money that his father had been paying to one of his paramours for thirty years until the day he died. What if it had not gone to the paramour herself but to the result of their time together—a child?
Just then, the bedchamber door flew wide. Matilda stood on the threshold, not guarded or protected but alone.
She gasped as Laurence twisted his head to look at her.
“Itwasyou,” she whispered.
Instinct sent Albion running forward at the very second that Laurence began to move toward Matilda with the blade in his hand. The wretch was so determined to reach her, to find another way to punish Albion, that he did not bother to look behind him.
Throwing every shred of strength he had left into his shaky legs, Albion leaped forward, tackling Laurence around the waist. Both men came crashing down, hitting the floor halfway between the bed and Matilda’s shocked figure.
Laurence tried to writhe out of Albion’s grip, but Albion was too heavy, too powerful, and too overcome with the need to protect his wife to let the bastard make it another inch toward Matilda. Huffing and puffing, sweating profusely, his head a whirlpool of dizziness, Albion managed to pin Laurence’s arms with his knees and drove all his weight into keeping them there.
“Get… Max,” Albion panted. “And rope… to tie up this… wretch.”
Matilda did not move, rooted to the spot.
“Matilda!” Albion roared. “Do as I say!”
Matilda snapped out of her trance, nodding as she tore out of the bedchamber, her swift footfalls thudding along the hallway beyond.
Alone once more, Albion grabbed the back of Laurence’s collar and leaned forward, twisting the knife out of the valet’s hand. He tossed it away, relieved as it skidded underneath the nearby chest of drawers.
“That won’t stop me,” Laurence wheezed. “I didn’t need a knife to end your brother.”
Albion’s blood ran cold. “What did you say?”
