“I haven’t the slightest idea of what you mean.”
“You thought to send me away before I could alert the authorities.”
“You’re ranting, girl.”
“But I offered you a better way, didn’t I? Have me sign a contract and then ship me off. That’s why you needed Whit’s agreement, isn’t it? You knew I wouldn’t be able to fulfill my end of the bargain and thought to cheat him out of a fortune.”
“Careful what accusations you throw at me.”
“You stole my dowry.” Her future. And the one hope she’d had in all the years she’d been forced to live under his roof. Gone. Gone for who knew how long. “You stole my inheritance. You’re nothing but a thief.”
“Watch your tongue.” He shook the paper at her. “I hold your future here.”
“You stole my future! You revolting, overblown, useless waste of—!”
The tumbler caught her on the cheekbone. A whopping crack seemed to echo in her head and she had the sudden and pointless thought that he could move a great deal faster than she had given him credit for. She hadn’t even noticed he’d pulled his arm back.
What came after that, however, would always remain something of a blur to her. There was pain, she knew, where the glass had struck her hard enough to break the skin, but above and beyond that, there was fury. Great heaving waves of fury that crashed over her head and swept her away.
Without thought, without even realizing her intent, she bent to pick up the fallen glass. Then rose, looked at it for a moment…and hurled it back at him.
She ignored his howl of pain as the glass bounced off the side of his head.
“You bloody bastard!” She reached for a brass paperweight on the desk and winged that as well.
“You coward!” An inkwell came next, then a ledger, a candlestick, a box of snuff. “You’re repulsive! Repugnant! Abhorrent!”
He grunted and yelped as each object found its mark, and he shuffled around the desk in an attempt to escape. She stalked him, tossing objects and insults and keeping the safety of the wood between them until they’d traded positions.
“Blighter! Rotter! Despicable counterfeiting…”
Her hand once more reached for the desk…and came back empty. She had only a moment to look down at the desktop; only a moment to notice it was empty; and only a moment to grab one of the drawers and yank it open, before he was on her. Even as she registered that he was coming around the desk, she shoved her hand into the drawer and groped blindly. She felt his fingers twist painfully into her hair even while her own fingers brushed something cool and smooth. She fumbled with it once, when he yanked her back hard enough to catch her head against the side of the desk, but then she latched on. And when she pulled her hand up again, she was holding a gun.
Twenty-four
Ten minutes more—that was all she was getting.
Whit stood in the front drive and watched his men from Haldon haul his trunk from his room. It took some doing, as Mr. Hartsinger’s carriage was currently blocking the front steps.
The sun had set, and the last of its light was fading rapidly. He’d give Mirabelle those ten minutes, he decided, and not a second more. It would be hours yet before dinner, but her uncle had returned early, and every moment she remained in the house made him anxious.
He’d wanted to pack her off the moment they’d discovered the printing plate. Hell, he hadn’t wanted her to come in the first place, but he’d lost that argument. Now that they had proof her uncle was involved in counterfeiting—and with the very good chance he had an accomplice—Whit was determined to get her out and away from the whole messy business.
He’d been hard-pressed not to take her arm in the baron’s bedroom, lead her downstairs, out the front door, and straight into a carriage he could send to Haldon. And he’d continued to fight that urge every minute since he’d agreed to give her time to pack and think. She had a right to both, he reminded himself. She was leaving what might be loosely termed her home, and walking away from her only surviving relation.
If, upon his arrival, the baron had gone directly his room, she’d have had to do her thinking elsewhere. But Eppersly had waddled into the study instead, where he would no doubt remain until dinner. There was no chance of him discovering the missing plate and bank notes until Mirabelle was gone from the house.
“All ready here, my lord.”
Whit nodded at the driver. “It’ll be only a minute more.”
He noticed the fading light again. No reason he couldn’t try hurrying Mirabelle along, just a bit. He spun on his heel toward the house…and then saw it—the slightest movement in the shadows near the stables. He stopped, peered through the dim light and watched as a dark shape slipped inside.
He turned to the driver and spoke quietly. “Hand me your crop.”
“My lord?” the man asked, even as he handed over the whip.