a spark that looked like anticipation. “Yes, Lord Waring.”
“A very reliable man,” Waring said. “Now stand up. You have a brawl with John to execute, as it were.”
Kim sucked in a sharp breath. Will rose, bracing himself on his right hand in as casual a way as he could. He didn’t delude himself this would end well, with Telford and Waring both armed, but he could at least give Cheveley a hard time on his way out. He’d lived through the war and had seven years on top: plenty of men had deserved more and got less.
“Will,” Kim said softly and urgently.
Will wanted to say something to him, something about having had a good innings, but they hadn’t. They’d barely started. Fuck this.
“Hand him his knife, John,” Waring said.
“Sir!” Cheveley yelped.
“You can have the gun, in due course. But we must give the fellow a chance first. It’s only sporting.”
Waring’s smile looked very real, almost hungry. Cheveley said, “Telford!”
“Oh, no, no. Telford works for me. I fear he won’t help—” Lord Waring began, and Telford wrenched the shotgun from his grasp, and drove the butt into his stomach.
Chapter Eighteen
Lord Waring doubled over with an airless scream. Telford rammed the shotgun into his belly again, and brought it up smoothly, one-handed, and about an inch from Will’s stomach, which stopped his movement dead.
There was a frozen silence. Lord Waring was on his knees, making unpleasant sucking noises.
“Heavens,” Kim said. “Congratulations, Cheveley. You did your staffwork well.”
Cheveley ignored him. “Gun.”
He strode over. Telford passed him the revolver and adjusted his grip on the shotgun, and they both stepped back, levelling the weapons on Will and Kim.
Lord Waring had his arms wrapped round his gut. He croaked, “Help me.”
“Want them dead?” Telford asked.
“We’ve got to do it right,” Cheveley said, ignoring the viscount’s groan. “Keep Phoebe quiet. Suppose—yes, suppose one or the other of them killed Waring and they ran away together and had an accident. Secretan always drives too fast. That’s it. Crash his Daimler. Make it a fire.”
“Fire doesn’t hide bullets,” Kim said. “Which means you can’t risk shooting us. Actually you can’t do that anyway if you don’t want to upset Phoebe, but I have to point out that she won’t marry you at any price, you flaccid, contemptible little shit.”
“You think she’ll have a choice?” Cheveley said. “You know, Secretan—”
Telford held up a hand. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“Car.”
Will could hear it too now, wheels on gravel. “Cars.”
“Ah, yes,” Kim said, “That’ll be DS and the Private Bureau. You know, the rescue Waring thought wasn’t coming? He was wrong about quite a lot.”
Cheveley’s jaw dropped. Will turned to look at Kim, and got a wink. “Surprised, Will? You should know how much you can trust me by now.”
“Two cars,” Telford said. “Could be eight men. Too many.”
“Get these two into the cellar,” Cheveley said. “Don’t kill them unless you have to. Stay in there with them.” He glared at Kim, still sitting on the floor. “Get up!”
“Come on, Will.” Kim rose. “Do what they say. Don’t provoke them.”
The two armed men urged them out, down the corridor and to the great hall, leaving Lord Waring alone on the floor with the unconscious chauffeur. There was a sound of car doors slamming, and faint voices.
“Get them into the cellar and keep them quiet,” Cheveley ordered Telford. “I’ll get rid of the visitors. And mark me, Darling, Secretan, you will cooperate or Miss Jones will pay the price. Do you understand me?”
The doorbell clanged noisily.
“Understood,” Kim said. “We’ll behave.”
“I’m glad you have seen sense,” Cheveley said. “Now, hurry—”
There was the sound of footsteps above. Cheveley looked up. “Phoebe? Get back to your room at once!”
Phoebe, clad in a frothy dressing-gown, was running down the stairs. Cheveley cursed and started up towards her; Phoebe swung onto the banister, slid down it in a flurry of sea-green material and bare calves, and leapt lightly off the end, as if she’d done it a hundred times. Cheveley doubled back, sprinting after her; Kim stuck out a foot, and he went flying. Telford moved towards him, and Will took his chance in that chaotic second and put a fist into the bastard’s kidney as hard as he could.
Phoebe was at the door, pulling it open. There was a raucous chorus of shouts and squeals, and a cry of, “Surprise!”
Will was too busy to care. He grappled savagely with Telford for the shotgun, trying with all he had to wrench it away. Telford pulled back hard, his bland face