The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)
“Humph!” She lowered her hand. “Just as long as you do now…”
“Yes.” A sense of euphoria was welling inside him, threatening to spill over and sweep him away. “I do see…”
She watched him, waited, unconvinced by his tone.
He hesitated, then asked, “You really did mean to trust me with your life?”
Her eyes were definitely glittery now, but not with anger. She smiled. “Yes, I definitely did. If I hadn’t had you to trust in, I don’t know what I would have done.”
She moved into his arms; he closed them around her. She tipped up her face to look into his. “With you in my life, the decision was easy.” Raising her arms, she draped them over his shoulders. Looked into his eyes. “So now all is well.”
He studied her face, then nodded. “Indeed.” He was lowering his head to kiss her when his strategist’s brain, routinely checking that all was indeed well in their world, snagged on one point.
He hesitated, lifted his lids, waited until she did the same. He frowned. “I assume Jonathon Martinbury’s st
ill in the parlor, but what happened to Humphrey and Jeremy?”
Her eyes widened; her expression dissolved into one of mild horror. “Oh, great heavens!”
Chapter Twenty
“I’m so sorry!” Leonora helped Humphrey out of the closet. “Things…just happened.”
Jeremy followed Humphrey out, kicking aside a mop. He glowered at her. “That was the most hopeless piece of acting I’ve ever witnessed—and that dagger was sharp, for heaven’s sake!”
Leonora looked into his eyes, then quickly hugged him. “Never mind—it worked. That’s the important thing.”
Jeremy humphed and looked at the closed library door. “Just as well. We didn’t want to knock and draw attention to ourselves—didn’t know if it would distract someone at the wrong moment.” He looked at Tristan. “I take it you caught him?”
“Indeed.” Tristan waved to the library door. “Let’s go in—I’m sure St. Austell and Deverell will have explained his position to him by now.”
The scene that met their eyes as they filed into the library suggested that was the case; Mountford—Duke—sat slumped, head and shoulders drooping, in a straight-backed chair in the middle of the library. His hands, hanging limp between his knees, were bound with curtain cord. One booted ankle was lashed to a chair leg.
Charles and Deverell were propped side by side against the front edge of the desk, arms folded, eyeing their prisoner as if imagining what they might do to him next.
Leonora checked, but could see only a graze on one of Duke’s cheekbones; nevertheless, despite the lack of outward damage, he didn’t look at all well.
Deverell looked up as they headed toward their usual places. Leonora helped Humphrey into his chair. Deverell caught Tristan’s eye. “Might be an idea to get Martinbury in to hear this.” He glanced around at the limited seating. “We could carry his chaise in.”
Tristan nodded. “Jeremy?”
The three of them went out, leaving Charles on watch.
A minute later, a deep woof sounded from the front of the house, followed by the click of Henrietta’s claws as she loped toward them.
Surprised, Leonora glanced at Charles.
He didn’t shift his gaze from Mountford. “We thought she might prove helpful in persuading Duke to see the error of his ways.”
Henrietta was already growling when she appeared in the doorway. Her hackles had risen; she fixed glowing amber eyes on Duke. Rigid, frozen, lashed to the chair, he stared, horrified, back.
Henrietta’s growl dropped an octave. Her head lowered. She took two menacing steps forward.
Duke looked ready to faint.
Leonora clicked her fingers. “Here, girl. Come here.”
“Come on, old girl.” Humphrey tapped his thigh.