Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

After tossing the books on the table, McClellan did as he was ordered.

Anna watched him fold his arms across his chest. Her own hands would have been shaking had they not been clasped tightly in her lap, but the baron appeared as unflappable as a sliver of Scottish granite.

But then, a hardened assassin would need to possess a heart of stone.

Devlin approached, and bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. The baron responded with a contemptuous sneer.

Two lordly wolves, circling, circling, seeking a soft spot to attack.

“Ar

e you going to stand there all day waggling your weapon?” demanded McClellan, after the silence had stretched tighter than a bowstring. “Or shall we dispense with the theatrics and get to the point of this confrontation?”

“You wish to cut to the chase, as it were?” Devlin remained standing. “Very well. Why don’t we begin by having you tell us where you’ve hidden the rifles you received last night. Shall we find them secreted in your rooms? No, no, on second thought you’d not risk having the murder weapons spotted there. You’ll have found a spot where no one is likely to stumble upon them. The castle affords so many hidey-holes.”

McClellan tipped back in his chair. “Murder weapons?” He sounded genuinely bemused. “The only one present at this house party I’d contemplate shooting is you. However, if I were to desire your demise, I’d do it face to face, not with a faraway shot from a rifle.”

“But I saw you skulking through the gardens late last night with your two cohorts,” blurted out Anna. “The three of you had an argument, and in the end, you made them hand over the rifles.” She lifted her chin. “There can be no explanation, sir, save for an evil one.”

The baron snorted in disgust. “Spying can lead a lass into all sorts of trouble.”

“I wasn’t spying,” she retorted. “I was simply sitting in my bedchamber looking out the window.”

He lifted a red-gold brow. “At that hour?”

“I—I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s not Miss Sloane’s behavior that is under question,” snapped Devlin, deciding it was time to intervene. “It’s yours.”

“And just whom am I supposed to be intent on killing?” asked McClellan.

The baron ought to join the great John Kemble on the stage, for his acting skills were just as finely honed.

“You wish to play a childish game of hide and seek?” countered Devlin. “Frankly I’m in no mood for running in circles. Your target is Prince Gunther—and don’t bother denying it. I know all about the plot. The only missing piece of the puzzle was the assassin’s identity.”

To his surprise, McClellan started laughing. “You think that I am planning to kill the prince?” he wheezed between guffaws. “By the bones of St. Andrew, you ought to take up novel writing.”

Anna bit her lip.

“Why the devil would I want Prince Gunther dead?” added the baron.

Devlin felt a twinge of uncertainty. Anna’s information on the weapons had seemed to confirm McClellan’s guilt. But the man’s reactions had him a little off balance. “Because it would create havoc for England,” he answered slowly.

“I wish I had thought of that,” retorted McClellan. “But I didn’t.”

“Then explain the rifles,” demanded Anna.

The baron was no longer smiling. “It has nothing to do with you or any of the guests here.”

“Forgive me for being skeptical…” Devlin now felt himself back on firmer ground. “But I find it rather hard to take you at your word.”

McClellan cracked his knuckles. “Then I suppose you will have to go ahead and shoot me.”

“Lord McClellan, be assured that none of us want to see blood shed,” interceded Anna. “If you would offer an explanation—”

“Why bother?” The baron’s chair came back to the floor with a thunk. “That spawn from English Hell has already indicated he won’t believe anything I say.”

“Then I shall speak up in your place!”