“Who are you?” demanded the Viscountess.
“Don’t ye know?” The cabinetmaker gave a jeering laugh that held no real humor. “Ye mean to say your husband, the high and mighty Viscount Devlin, didn’t tell ye ’bout me?”
“His name is Sampson Bullock,” said Alexi, her voice awe-inspiringly calm, “and he’s here because he holds me responsible for his brother’s death.”
Bullock tightened his hold on her hair hard enough to make her wince as he pulled her head back at an unnatural angle. “Ye are responsible, ye bloody bitch. I told ye I’d make ye sorry ye ever stuck that Frenchie nose of yers where it don’t belong. Ye sorry now, hmm? Thanks to you, yer brother’s dead, and that woman of yers too. Now it’s yer turn.” He slid the knife away from her cheek to point it at Hero Devlin. “And hers.”
Gibson took a slow, careful step forward, then another, the specimen jar still gripped in his hands. He was shaking so badly he nearly dropped it, his gait an awkward hobble.
“Damn ye; I told ye not to move,” swore Bullock. He nodded to the specimen in Gibson’s hands. “Wot the bloody hell is that?”
“This?” Gibson held up the jar. “It’s a heart.” His gaze locked with Alexi’s. He tried desperately to convey to her what he intended to do even as he acknowledged that was impossible. He hoped that at least she understood to expect something.
He eased the cork from the jar’s wide top. “It’s quite oddly shaped. Want to see?” he asked, and dashed the contents in the cabinetmaker’s face.
Bullock roared and reared back as the alcohol stung his eyes. He held on to the knife but let go of Alexi to swipe his big hand across his face.
Ducking beneath his arm, she snatched up the brace of candles from the nearby chest and thrust their flames against his coat.
The alcohol-soaked cloth caught with a whoosh, the flames leaping up to light his long black hair.
“Alexi!” screamed Gibson, terrified the flames would ignite the alcohol that had inevitably also splashed over her head and shoulders.
Bullock let out another bellow, turning blindly this way and that, sending his battered hat flying as he beat at his head and tried to tear off his flaming coat. “I’ll kill ye!” he screamed. “I’ll kill ye all.”
Devlin’s wife whirled toward the fireplace. It wasn’t until she seized the poker with both hands that Gibson realized what she was about. Throwing all her weight behind it, she took a step forward and swung the poker at the cabinetmaker’s head.
The solid iron bar smashed into the side of Bullock’s skull with an ugly, bone-crunching thwunk. He went down hard, knocking over the end table as he fell, the flames leaping from his coat and hair to catch the tattered, alcohol-soaked carpet.
“Quick,” shouted Gibson, stumbling and almost falling as he lurched toward the windows. “The drapes!”
Alexi got there first, yanking down the worn, heavy cloth in a cloud of dust and cobwebs. Hero Devlin tore off her cape, smoke billowing as she beat at the flames that were already crackling toward the door.
“Here!” shouted Alexi, flinging the drapes at the fire.
Together they beat and stomped until the last of the flames had died and the cabinetmaker lay in the midst of a black, charred carpet, his head a pulpy mess.
“I trust he’s dead,” said the Viscountess.
“Yes,” said Alexi.
Their breath coming hard and fast, their faces flushed with heat and triumph, the three exchanged exultant glances that required no words to clarify their meaning.
Then a distant shout and the crash of the front door brought them around.
Devlin catapulted into the parlor, only to draw up short, his gaze jerking from his wife, to Gibson and Alexi, to the bloody, blackened corpse at their feet.
“What the hell?”
The Viscountess wore a strange, stunned expression that puzzled Gibson until he noticed the wet stain that soaked her skirts and spread across the carpet at her feet—a stain that had nothing to do with the alcohol he had thrown.
“Well,” said Gibson with a laugh driven by giddy relief. “You may be a wee bit late to help take care of Mr. Bullock here. But at least you’re in time to escort your wife home—quickly, I should think. From the looks of things, your babe has decided that now is a grand time to be putting in its appearance.”
Chapter 58
Saturday, 30 January
The babe might have turned, but Hero labored hard all that night and half of the next day. At first, Sebastian helped her walk back and forth before the fire as the storm outside whipped wild gusts of wind and driven rain against the house. Then, when the pains came so hard and fast she could no longer walk, he sat beside her, her hand held fast in his. If he could have taken her pain into his own body, he would have done so. After a few more hours, he thought that if he could give his life to stop this endless, inhuman agony, he’d do that too.