His heart almost stopped. “Is the house on fire?” he demanded. “Did everyone get out? Was the fire brigade summoned?”
Rudy shook his head. “I was around by the kitchen but ran inside, quick as a blink, and helped Pearce put out some of it. It was in the dining room, where there weren’t much to burn, so Pearce sent me here. Young Henry was standing by to go for the fire brigade if needed, but the fire was out. Jock took off after a fellow who might’ve done it. They were long gone by the time I went back outside.”
“Miss Greene?” demanded Nick.
“She came down as I was going out, alarmed but unhurt. She must have been upstairs with the young ladies.”
Nick stood still, every breath rippling through him like the first stirrings of a hurricane. Fitchley had attacked his home—his family. His servants and retainers. His cousin. His sister. His beloved.
He’d been right—and terribly wrong. If Emmett Fitchley wasn’t on a ship to France already, he’d soon wish he was.
“Go back,” Nick told Rudy, his voice sounding oddly distant. “Take William and Ned. No one goes near the house, do you hear me?”
Rudy nodded. “Aye, sir.” He ducked back out into the service area, where he would find the two men on their patrol of the premises.
Nick turned and strode back into the club. He had to go home. He’d miscalculated, thinking Fitchley would focus his rage here, on him. He’d armed his servants at home only as a precaution. Instead the villain had attacked an innocent woman and children. His thoughts raced through London ahead of him, to Emilia. She’d been worried, and he had dismissed her fear.Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.
Idiot.
He ought to have left them in Dorset. Hidden them away in Queen’s Court, or even sent them to the McCorquodale family, who would take them in for Emilia’s sake. It was his fault, because he hadn’t wanted to be parted from any of them, and in his arrogance, he had left them vulnerable.
Deep in self-censure, he didn’t catch the change in atmosphere until he reached the main salon.
“Dashwood!”
He stopped. Lord Fitchley stood in the middle of the main salon. He’d lost his hat but still wore his greatcoat; he must have charged past Frank. His pale hair stood up around his head, and his face was dark with hatred. “You insufferable bastard,” he snarled.
Like the recession of a mighty wave, Nick’s fear drained away, leaving exposed the implacable rock that was fury. He started forward again, hands loose at his sides, gaze never wavering from Fitchley. Dimly he heard a few people scurry toward the doors, but not many. They wanted to see the fight.
Nick was going to oblige them.
“Lord Fitchley.” He spoke quietly as he walked, one purposeful step at a time. “I’ve warned you about insulting people in this club, sir.”
Fitchley flung out a shaking finger pointed in accusation. “This man,” he spat, his voice raised—though it wasn’t necessary, as the entire club had fallen silent. “This contemptiblecharlatanhas slandered my good name, accusing me of unspeakable dishonor! I never harmed a horse in my life. I wouldn’t doubt it if this club, even Dashwood personally, committed the appalling acts they accuse me of! Who else is so eager to take our money?” His red-rimmed eyes swept the room in search of support. “Who else imposes such ridiculous odds and refuses to adjust them? I daresay it suited this club, and its conniving proprietor, when that horse died!”
Nick raised one brow. “Odd, how eagerly you yourself placed wagers here, if the Vega Club is conniving to cheat people.”
Fitchley’s eyes glowed like coals in his mean, sallow face. “You put Kinson up to this, didn’t you? How much did you pay the lying little weasel to blacken my name?”
“Mr. Bobby Kinson?” Nick affected astonishment. “The man who rode your own horses to several magnificent wins, securing fame and good fortune for your own racing stable... is a lying little weasel?”
“He’s behind that rubbish in the bloody papers,” snarled Fitchley. He glanced around the room and raised his voice. A ripple of whispers had gone around at the jockey’s name. Bobby Kinson was famous. “A pack of lies, which you got that gossip-mongering Scot to print. It’s not true! I sacked Kinson because he’s lost his touch, and he’d begun drinking. Ask him how he broke his leg! Admit you conspired to defame me and I’ll not summon the constables.”
Nick bared his teeth in a nasty smile. “By all means summon the constables. I wish to report an arson. Someone attempted to burn down my house tonight.” He lingered on the wordsomeoneuntil Fitchley flushed. Another ripple of whispers. Louis started forward, but Nick gave a hard flick of one hand, staying him.
“So you don’t deny your role in this libelous action.” The baron’s face twisted with rage. “I’ll sue you for slander.”
“Indeed,” said Nick in a bored tone.
“And for damages!” Fitchley’s voice rose to a near-scream. “For alienating my betrothed wife!”
Nick let one corner of his mouth curl up at that. So, Emiliawasthe heiress whose fortune Fitchley had been borrowing against. Grantham had turned up that interesting morsel of information: Fitchley won a lot of money, but he spent even more, and he had taken loans against his expectations.
As expected, the smirk was too much for Fitchley. With a roar, he charged.
Nick let the first punch connect. Half the aristocracy in London was here in this room, watching, and he wanted them to see Fitchley attack him. He’d have fifty witnesses that his defense was justified. He’d already shifted his weight and recoiled just before Fitchley’s fist met his jaw, dampening the blow.
But he stepped into his counterpunch, driving Fitchley’s chin up. A hard right to the man’s ribs, and Fitchley reeled backward. Nick turned his fist sideways and clubbed the center of Fitchley’s chest, driving the air from his lungs, and the baron gave a loud wheeze. He seemed to realize he had erred, and he staggered sideways, the spite and anger in his face giving way to shock.
