The Sugared Game - K.J. Charles Page 0,88

like your teeth where they are, mate?” Will asked. “Because we can change that.”

“Silence, all of you,” Waring said, in a tone that brooked no denial. He looked around the room, expression unwavering as he contemplated each of them. Will felt like a medical specimen as Waring’s merciless gaze swept over him. “This is indeed a peculiar and unfortunate situation, and one I shall lose no time in resolving. Phoebe, go upstairs. I shall deal with this.”

“Certainly not,” Phoebe said. “Really, Daddy—”

“Take her upstairs, John.”

Cheveley grasped Phoebe’s wrist. She looked down at it with a bewildered expression, looked up, and cracked her free hand across his face so hard that Cheveley’s head snapped back. He turned on her, raising his arm.

Will moved but Kim got there first, grabbing Cheveley’s wrist. “Oh, no. No you do not.”

Cheveley snarled and wrenched his arm free. Will took a meaningful step forward, Messer in hand, and Waring said, “Telford.”

Will turned to the door, and there he was, the bland, blank man he’d met outside the shop. This time, the gun in his hand was visible.

Phoebe gave a shrill gasp, reaching out a groping hand to Maisie, who grabbed it. “Daddy!”

“This man works for me. You need not be afraid of him.”

“He has a gun!”

“Arthur’s friend has a knife,” Waring said. “Telford is here to protect my family and property. Either he will take you upstairs or John will.”

Phoebe looked between them all; Kim gave her a swift nod. “Very well. Then Maisie is coming with me.”

“No,” Cheveley said.

“You do not give the orders in this house,” Phoebe told him. “Maisie and I will go upstairs without supervision. I think I ought to be able to manage that, but I dare say she will help me if I get lost.”

She stalked out on that bitter sarcasm, arm round Maisie’s shoulders. Telford stood aside to let them go, then gave Waring a questioning look.

“Your gun.” The viscount took the revolver, weighed it in his hand, and pointed it at Will. “Follow them up and lock them in, without fuss. Fetch my shotgun as you return. You, Mr. Darling. Drop the knife and kick it over to the wall.”

Will did so, but kicked it at Cheveley’s feet, hard enough that the man had to leap in the air to avoid it as it skittered by. Waring said, “Childish.”

“But funny,” Kim said.

“Shut up, Secretan.” Cheveley’s cheek was still red where Phoebe had slapped him. “Sir, do you want me to take that for you?” He indicated the gun.

Waring glanced at him. “No. No, I don’t think I do, thank you.”

“I wouldn’t either,” Kim agreed. “He is, after all, actively undermining you. I’m quite sure you told him we’d agreed a truce until the morning, so why did he order Anton to attack Maisie now?”

“He misunderstood his orders,” Cheveley said. “I told him to do it later.”

Will jerked forward. “You told—”

“Don’t move, Mr. Darling,” Lord Waring said, levelling the revolver at him. “Sit on the floor, both of you. Hands behind your head. I will not hesitate to shoot. After all, you have brought a lethal weapon into my house and injured my chauffeur, perhaps fatally.”

“Yes,” Kim said. “Perhaps you should consider calling a doctor.”

“Sit.”

He gestured with the gun. Will glanced at Kim, who nodded, and sat. It was something of a relief to put his hands up, as his left was throbbing ferociously now.

Unarmed, one-handed, outnumbered, and facing a professional killer. Will had to admit he wasn’t feeling optimistic.

Cheveley strolled up to Waring and looked down at them with a grim smile. “Let’s see. Anton was hit from behind. I dare say Secretan did that—a coward’s blow. Indecent advances, perhaps, leading to a lover’s tiff between Darling and Secretan that leaves one or both dead—I think this could wrap up very neatly, sir.”

“Extremely,” Kim said. “Except for Maisie and Phoebe, who can state it’s a lie, and the fact that it leaves Lord Waring with a traitor at his right hand. Otherwise, perfect.”

Telford came back into the room with an expensive-looking shotgun. He and Waring exchanged weapons, Waring taking the shotgun with casual familiarity. Doubtless he’d shot a lot of pheasants or whatever, but he wouldn’t have to be good with it. A weapon like that, loaded with shot, could blow a man’s chest open at this distance.

“Very well,” Waring said, settling the shotgun on his arm. “Now, John, you were saying—”

“Excuse me. I hate to interrupt,” Kim began.

“Then do not,” Lord Waring said, lifting the shotgun a