Stubly stopped, stuck his chest out. “Not the whore—”
Grayson charged into the space between them, his hand fisted in Stubly’s cravat, before Henrietta could register Stubly’s words.
“She. Was. My Wife.” Grayson ground out. “She. Is. Dead.”
Wife? What an unexpected, yet admittedly brilliant, addition to the farce. He was very good at this, wasn’t he? Lust pooled in her belly, surged through her. Inappropriate timing, perhaps, but she couldn’t help it, not with such magnificence standing before her.
Grayson released the gasping Stubly, shoving him away.
Tobias dropped to his knees. Beating his chest with his fists, he yelled, “I’ll eat your heart in the marketplace!”
Henrietta groaned. Did that line come directly from the play? It must have. It sounded entirely Shakespearean.
Stubly rose to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said between gasps. “But it wasn’t my fault. It was hers.”
“Who is ‘her’?” Grayson growled.
Stubly spit out two words, spittle flying. “The Duchess of Valingford.”
“I knew it!” Tobias exclaimed. “Do it, Gray.” He motioned toward the pistol Grayson held steady in his hand. “We have another call to make this morning.”
Henrietta shook her head. They’d gotten what they wanted—information! Surely Grayson wouldn’t shoot Stubly now. But he raised the pistol, his jaw set in murderous determination. He’d forgotten the plan. He meant to put a bullet between Stubly’s eyes.
No! This farce, this entire plan, may have accomplished its goal, but it could go no further. Besides, it was entirely impractical. Henrietta couldn’t very well pretend to be dead for the rest of her life. What had Shakespeare been thinking?
Henrietta marched into the clearing, thrusting her hood back.
All heads whipped toward her as she approached.
Stubly’s eyes bulged. “Wh—wh—what is that?!” He dropped to his knees, making the sign of the cross over his chest.
Did he think her a ghost? Interesting. Perhaps she could bring this little drama to a close.
“I am the ghost of Miss Henrietta Blake.” Hm. Perhaps too formal for a ghost. If only she had chains to rattle. That would be the thing. But lacking chains, she moaned a bit. “My soul is reeeeessstlesssssss. I cannot sleep until my tormenter, my killeeeerrrrr, is brought to justiiiiiiiicccce.” Mercy, she sounded ridiculous. No more moaning. She placed her fists on her hips and arched an eyebrow at Grayson. “Shoot him if you must. Let’s not stretch this out any longer.”
Her words seemed to startle him. The gun lowered a bit. “Perhaps I will. Just his leg.”
“Fine by me.”
Tobias popped to his feet. “Do as the woman, er, ghost says, Gray. Shoot the scoundrel.”
Gray cocked the gun, aimed. “If you say so.”
Henrietta had never loved him more. It didn’t make sense. She’d been doing nothing but begging him not to shoot Stubly. There must be a primitive secret slice of her that craved violence. Or craved a man who would shoot someone for her sake. He didn’t have to shoot Stubly, merely the idea he would was enough to melt her heart.
“Wait!” Stubly held out a hand, wild eyed.
“I have to. The ghost of my dead wife says I must.”
“No!” Stubly raked his hands through his hair, then looked up. “I’ll leave. Go to France.”
“Farther.” Henrietta looked him in the eye for the first time. “Much farther.”
“Canada.”
“Perfect.” She strode toward Grayson. “You don’t have to shoot him, but make sure he gets on a boat.”
“Yes, my love,” Grayson, pistol still trained on Stubly, took three paces to Henrietta and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “You were supposed to stay in the coach, Hen,” he mumbled into her hair.
