"Toss your key over here," Barton ordered Emerson. Emerson glared, but did as he was told, picking up a large key ring from his desk and tossing it toward Barton.
"Pick it up," Barton told her and pulled the gun from her neck, though he kept it trained on her.
This might be her only chance, she thought as she bent forward to grab the key ring. As she straightened, she swung her hand with the key ring in it back toward Barton, hitting him where Whiskey Jim had taught her hurt a man the most. She immediately threw herself to the left, away from the direction the gun was pointing. A howl of pain accompanied a loud crack as the pistol discharged, its ball burying itself harmlessly in the scarred wooden desk.
Then an animal roar rose above the sound of running feet, and she turned in time to see her husband pick up the already wounded Barton and toss him headfirst into the wall. The blond man hit with an audible thunk and then slid down the wall to land in a motionless pile of dandyish clothing.
The Bow Street Runners took over from Drake, dragging the unconscious man to his feet as her husband dropped on his knees beside her. "Are you all right, my darling?"
She blinked up at him, liking the sound of that word on his lips very much. "Yes, but I should like to get off the floor."
"In a moment."
"Why—?" Her words were cut off as his mouth claimed hers in a bruising kiss.
She was breathing in short gasps and pressed tightly against him when Drake eventually pulled his lips away from hers.
"You took a huge risk." Anger kindled in her husband's dark molasses gaze.
"It would have been an even bigger one to go with him."
The anger drained as quickly as it came, and Drake shuddered against her, his eyes going a bleak shade of brown. "Never again."
She kissed his chin. "Never again."
His arms tightened around her until she could not breathe, and she squeaked out a protest. He loosened his hold, but only enough to lift her to her feet.
Emerson stood in front of a barely conscious Barton. "I trusted you and you betrayed my trust."
Barton merely glared, his expression showing no remorse.
"Take him away," Drake ordered the Bow Street Runners. "We'll be along to make formal charges later." He turned to Hansen. "Go with them. I don't want there to be any chance of him escaping. Do you understand me?"
Hansen nodded, his face set in determined lines. "You can count on me, sir."
The Runners half dragged, half carried a resentfully silent Barton from the room.
Drake turned to Emerson. "Explain."
The other man grimaced. "I'm not sure I can explain everything, but I'm starting to see what happened. Why don't you and Mrs. Drake take a seat?"
Drake did as Emerson suggested, but instead of putting Thea in her own chair, he pulled her into his lap. She didn't even think of demurring. Her husband's big body was still trembling from her near miss, and she wanted to give comfort as much as she needed to receive it.
Emerson poured a whiskey for himself and Drake and a glass of sherry for her before sitting down at his desk. She sipped at the dry wine while her husband swallowed the entire glass of whiskey in one gulp.
She gasped, but he just shrugged. "I needed it. I'm overset."
She would have laughed, but he so clearly spoke the truth.
She snuggled closer and turned her attention to Emerson. "What was this plan you were telling us about?"
"Uncle Ashby and Lady Upworth both despaired of ever convincing you to journey to England. He lit on the idea of making it look like there was a thief in the shipping office here. He knew you would come to investigate yourself, rather than allow him to make a trip so dangerous to his health."
"That was very clever of Uncle Ashby." He'd been quite right; Thea had reacted exactly as he predicted. "You say Lady Upworth knew of these plans?"
"Yes, Mr. Drake."
"But how did Mr. Barton become involved?" Thea asked.