Whit took the handle, found a grip he liked. “If Miss Browning comes out, see that she stays in the carriage.”
Trusting his man to follow the command, Whit worked his way around to the back of the stable. It occurred to him that whoever he was following might have a perfectly good, or perfectly legal at any rate, reason for skulking about. It could be someone meeting a lover, or a servant avoiding work.
Or it could be a thief or the baron’s coconspirator.
It certainly wasn’t Christian. The dark figure moved with an agility the stable hand lacked.
Whit entered the stables silently, his muscles tense, the blood rushing in his ears.
A light flickered and the sound of movement came from a stall two doors up.
He let his feet roll beneath him, heel to toe, to lessen the noise of footsteps on hay. He stepped behind the closest post, craned his neck around the wood to peer into the stall.
And looked directly into the eyes of his quarry.
“McAlistair.” Whit didn’t jump—though it was a near thing—but he did let out an agitated breath at the sudden surprise. “Why not pull out a gun and shoot at me?”
“Might have. Once.”
Whit responded with an annoyed grunt, and lowered the crop. “What are you doing here?”
“Orders.”
In an instant, Whit’s blood turned to ice and the cold of it made his heart seize painfully in his chest. He had the man by the front of his collar before he’d even realized his intent. “Mirabelle’s in that house,” he snarled. “You’ll not do a bloody thing while Mirabelle’s in the house.”
McAlistair shook his head. “Retired. Remember?”
Whit loosened his hold, took a deep breath, and let his hands drop. “Of course. Of course, forgive me.”
McAlistair made a slight movement of his shoulders that may, or may not, have been a shrug.
“Why did William have you come?
“Protection.”
The insult stung. “I can bloody well protect myself.”
“For the girl.”
That insult stung more. “I can bloody well protect her as well.”
“Orders,” he repeated and pulled a letter from his coat pocket.
Whit reached for it, skimmed over the impersonal note from William informing McAlistair of his new mission, and handed it back. “How long have you been lurking about the grounds?”
“Two days.”
Since the start of the party, Whit thought, and nodded. William liked to play to his agent’s strengths. Whit was best at charming his way in. McAlistair was best at sneaking.
“The mission’s over,” Whit informed him. “I need only get Mirabelle to—”
“Someone’s coming.”
Mirabelle’s mind whirled with the same dizzying speed as the day she’d tumbled down the hill. The room was out of focus, and her movements felt stiff and somehow disconnected from the rest of her.
She had a pistol in her hand. That was clear enough. And her uncle was backing away into the corner of the room. She could see that, as well. It was a fine sight, she decided, as she rose from her knees and moved around to the front of the desk. A very fine sight, indeed.
Shouldn’t he pay for every insult, every humiliation, every moment of fear? Shouldn’t he pay for hurting her, for stealing her future? She could see that he did. She could make certain he paid, and paid dearly.
She gripped the gun with shaking hands, and leveled it at his chest. “I ought to,” she heard herself say as if from a great distance. “I ought to.”
A loud click sounded behind her ear. “But you won’t, my dear. Not today.”
Dread, cold and hard, filled her as Mr. Hartsinger stepped around her, his own pistol aimed at her heart.
“It’s not so much that I’d mind you shooting him,” he said with his nasty giggle. “But murder invites attention, and I can’t have that. Be a good girl now and lower your weapon.”
With no other choice, she slowly dropped her arm.
The baron shuffled forward, a stream of blood issuing from his nose from where she’d caught him with the snuffbox. “Should beat you senseless,” he snarled, snatching the gun out of her hand.
“Then we wouldn’t be able to find out what she knows, would we?” Hartsinger pointed out with contempt. “Now then, my dear, you and I are going to take a walk, calm as you please, to my waiting carriage. If you give any indication of duress, I’ll shoot you in the back. I’d just as soon not, but—”
“And I’ll shoot your friend. What’s his name—Christian,” the baron interrupted. He sneered when she looked at him with surprise. “Didn’t think I knew about that, did you?”
“You didn’t know about that,” Mr. Hartsinger muttered. “Until I pointed it out.”
“Well, I know about it now,” the baron snapped before waving the gun at Mirabelle. “And if you give us any trouble, girl, I’ll aim between his eyes.”