his eyes wide below unkempt hair. “Yer money. Or I’ll shoot ’im too.”
King shifted and grasped the silver handle of his walking stick. With his other hand, he gripped the ebony staff.
The Duke of Ashland caught his eye and winced. “Please don’t do anything rash, King.”
“I believe we’ve had this conversation before, Ashland,” King said through gritted teeth.
“Bloody hell.” The duke sighed.
“Stop talking an’ give us yer fecking money.” The pistol at King’s back wobbled.
In a swift movement fueled by fury and practiced many times over, King drew the blade hidden in his walking stick and spun, slashing at the offending pistol and then driving the silver handle of his weapon into the thief’s horrified face.
He heard bone crunch as the man collapsed in a pile at the foot of Evan’s grave. The tip of the needlelike sword came to rest at the man’s throat. King glanced at the thief’s hand, only to discover that what he’d thought was a pistol wasn’t a pistol at all but the blunt end of a short shovel. It now lay next to the gasping, whimpering man, the rusty tool dull in the moonlight.
Grave robbers. Who had thought to try their hand at fleecing living victims instead. Jesus, this night was getting better and better.
King glanced behind him and found that Ashland had also disarmed his would-be attacker. The man was facedown on the cold ground, and the duke had a boot planted squarely across the back of the man’s neck. He was tapping the blade of a small but lethal knife across his gloved palm.
“I’m glad to see a duchy hasn’t rendered you completely helpless.”
The duke rolled his eyes.
King returned his attention to the thief at the end of his sword and increased the pressure at the tip fractionally. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” he said.
The man’s eyes bulged, blood streaming from his nose. “Didn’t mean it,” he babbled. “Were goin’ to just dig around some but then we saw you an’ yer fine clothes and thought—”
“Yes, I know what you thought.”
“We jes’ made a mistake, is all.”
“You did,” King agreed coldly. “I do not like being threatened, and I do not suffer fools. I suffer fools who threaten those I care about even less.”
The man under the duke’s boot writhed helplessly. “Please don’t kill us,” he croaked. “I beg you.”
“No one is killing anyone,” Ashland said with a pointed look at King.
“It would make me feel better,” King growled.
The thief whimpered.
Ashland snorted and glanced down at the hapless man. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. He’s having a wretched day.”
“What?” the man wheezed against the frozen ground.
“He’s in love,” the duke informed him rather smugly. “With an assassin.”
The grave robber sprawled on Evan’s grave hiccupped loudly. “Oh, sweet Mary, we’re goin’ to die.”
King scowled fiercely at Ashland and tightened his grip on his blade, anger and frustration and regret still singing through his veins. The urge to lash out at the imbecile who’d dared threaten him only to spare himself the effort of digging among the dead for a few coins or baubles—
King froze. “Give me your shovels and I’ll let you live,” he said, his mind racing.
“What?” The man’s throat worked convulsively under the point of King’s blade.
“Or I can simply slit your throats and take your shovels. Your choice.”
The ragged man eased out and away from King’s blade, and, when he found himself still alive, scrambled to his feet. He kicked the shovel in King’s direction and backed away. “They’re all yers,” he panted.
“Take your friend with you. And don’t ever return to this churchyard. I won’t be so charitable next time.”
The man shook his head and, without waiting to see if his accomplice was following, turned and fled. The duke released his thief, and King watched both men scramble frantically over the church wall.
“While I am pleased you didn’t kill anyone, what the hell was that about?” Ashland demanded.
King sheathed his blade and set his walking stick aside, picking up the shovel. The seed of suspicion that had sprouted was growing with each passing minute, pieces of the puzzle that was Marstowe’s missing fortune sliding into place.
He walked past Evan’s grave and stood in front of the smaller headstone next to it. There was no ornate scrolling, no decorative swirls, and no declarations of adoration. Joshua Westerleigh, 1787–1798 was carved into the surface in plain letters.
“The rector told me that, on the day he visited my father, the old baron asked him to protect