bad girl. According to the Earl of Norland she’s not quite right in the head.”
“You know him?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Well then you know he’s trying to usurp her title—and steal her money.”
She nodded agreeably. “Yes, I should think he is—your little toy is quite an heiress. Nothing to my wealth, of course. But that’s not my concern.” She pursed her lips. “It’s not yours, either, Jago. She belongs to Norland.”
“What the hell are you talking about? She’s an adult—he has no authority over her person.”
“He does according to the marriage license he showed me.”
“What mar—wait, are you saying you’ve seen the man?”
“Of course, I’ve seen him—he’s a guest here. I daresay your duchess has seen him, too. Indeed, they are likely already—”
Jago seized her by her arms and shook her. “Where?” he snarled.
“They’re in the library. You’re hurting me—”
He shook her until her teeth rattled. “Where is the damned library?”
“Two doors before the gallery on—”
Jago shoved her away and ran for the door.
Ria’s earthy laughter rang out behind him. “You bruised me, you beast!”
He grabbed the handle and flung the door open.
“Come back and apologize after you regain your senses, Jago,” she called after him. “I’ll be waiting for you. We shall have the most glorious wedding that Cornwall has ever—”
Jago ran.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cornwall
1817
Present Day
“Just stay where you are, you mad bitch!”
Michael and Benna jolted at Fenwick’s menacing growl and Lady Trebolton stumbled to a halt as Fenwick raised his gun and pointed it at her.
Benna couldn’t help noticing that his hand was almost as unsteady as Lady Trebolton’s.
“Fenwick,” Michael said between clenched teeth. “Perhaps you might explain what the bloody hell is going on?”
“I have no idea, Norl—”
Lady Trebolton laughed in a way that made the hairs on the back of Benna’s neck stand up. “You have no idea?” she repeated shrilly, taking a few more steps toward him.
“You take one more bloody step and I’ll shoot you through the head,” Fenwick shouted, his voice several registers higher.
Benna seriously doubted that Fenwick would be able to hit the wall behind Lady Trebolton the way his hand was shaking, but the countess stopped. She was close enough that Benna could see that her pupils were mere specks.
“I received your message, my lord,” the countess snarled, the gun jumping wildly in her white-knuckled hand. “And I’m here to deliver my answer.”
Benna risked a glance at Fenwick; he’d forgotten her existence. His gaze, attention, and gun were all aimed at the countess.
“What message would that be, Dickie?” Michael demanded in a voice that throbbed with annoyance.
Benna slid her hand into the pocket of her frock coat and her fingers closed around the familiar wooden handle.
When Fenwick didn’t answer, Michael gave a bitter laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t disobey my order and decide to have just one more bite before we—”
“I’m not your bloody slave to be ordered about, Norland,” Fenwick shrieked. “That harpy is draining me dry—even though she doesn’t need a penny. I just needed one more—”
“Always one more.” The countess spoke in a dreamy, sing-song voice, her smile … unsettling. “Just … one … more. That’s what Cadan always promised, too.”
“You can lower the gun, my lady,” Michael said in a soothing voice. “Viscount Fenwick will not bother you again. You have my—”
The door flew open again, this time hard enough to hit the wall.
Jago froze on the threshold as he took in the scene. “What in the name of—”
Whether Fenwick fired first or the countess did, Benna would never know.
All she knew for sure is that by the time she drove her knife into Fenwick’s arm three shots had been fired and two people were on the floor.
“Claire!” Jago ran toward his sister-in-law but hesitated before dropping to his knees. “Benna, are you—”
She had to raise her voice to be heard above the viscount’s screaming. “I’m not hurt, Jago.”
A footman ran through the doorway, his jaw sagging as he skidded to a halt.
“Fetch my black doctor bag from the ballroom. It’s on a table near the refreshments. Go now and hurry!” Jago yelled when the footman paused to gawk at the carnage.
Benna glanced down at her cousin.
Michael’s eyes were open and he was gasping for breath.
Lady Trebolton had hit him almost dead center in his throat. It was an amazing shot—although she suspected that the countess had been aiming for her own tormentor rather than Benna’s.
Michael made a gurgling sound and reached a hand toward her.
Benna dropped to her haunches and took his hand in hers.
His lips formed the word help.
Benna shook