Never Dance with a Marquess (The Never Series Book 2), Maggi Andersen [best short novels of all time TXT] 📗

Impossible now to silence his mounting rage, Nicholas stepped out from the trees, the gun pointed at Simon’s chest. “You were right about one thing, at least. Throw down your guns.” A speculative look in his black eyes, Bettencourt held on to his pistol. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Nicholas warned. “On your feet, both of you.”

With a curse, the Frenchman tossed his gun away.

“You’ll never get us back to the house,” Simon yelled. “You can’t shoot both of us. It’s two against one.”

As he spoke, the Frenchman reached into his boot, and jumping to his feet, raised his arm, a knife flashing in his hand.

Warren fired from the bushes. The man cursed and clutched at his arm, the knife clattering onto the stones.

“That’s hardly sporting.” Simon glanced at his injured comrade with no sign of pity.

Nicholas kicked the knife and gun out of their reach. “Not sporting, eh?” He stepped forward and punched Simon hard on the jaw.

Simon fell onto his back on the ground, gasping.

“That was for my young footman whose life you snuffed out with as little care as you might a candle and Max’s children,” Nicholas growled.

Simon scrambled to his feet, his hand on his jaw. “You’ve loosened a tooth!”

The punch did little to dampen down Nicholas’s anger. He wanted to take both men apart. His jaw was so tight he spat the words out. “I’d worry more about your neck if I were you.”

He held the gun on them as Warren tied their wrists with twine.

“Move,” Nicholas ordered once they were safely secured. “The constable is waiting for you both. He’ll be delighted to take a sought-after felon and your French friend into custody. You can add Alex’s murder to those charges, you fiends.”

“But I didn’t murder your footman. It was Bettencourt,” Simon said, licking his bloody lip.

Nicholas gestured with the gun. “You wanted Leeming Hall. But a Newgate cell is all you’ll see until they hang you.”

Bettencourt turned to Simon in fury. “It was all your doing, Leeming. It’s the title you’re after and all that goes with it. The boy stood in your way. And you wanted me to see to him and not get your hands dirty because once you were the baron, the law couldn’t touch you.”

“You agreed to it,” Simon snapped. “You wanted me to set you up for life. I should have known you wouldn’t be up to it.”

“Doesn’t much matter now, does it? When you’ll both hang for this,” Nicholas said.

He prodded them in the back with his gun to get them moving.

Simon continued arguing with Bettencourt as they stumbled over the rocky ground toward the horses.

“Let’s get you mounted. No tricks. I’m just as happy to hand over your dead bodies to the law. No honor among thieves,” Nicholas remarked to Warren as they followed close behind them.

***

Carrie’s busy morning ahead failed to distract her from the gripping anxiety. A murderer was lurking somewhere out there and threatening their lives! Was Nicholas in danger? It made her stomach roil to think of it. Her father gone, and now poor Alex. Life seemed terribly precarious, and happiness elusive. She hurried down to greet the vicar who had just arrived.

While she explained to him what had happened, the magistrate, Sir Henry Markham, arrived with the constable, and after listening to her hasty explanation, went to question Jerry.

“There might be an inquest,” Sir Henry said, returning to the morning room afterward as Carrie presided over the tea tray.

The constable, Ben Wilkins, had promised to remove the poor footman’s body to the village church, where the vicar would preside over the funeral.

The doctor had called and examined Jerry. He pronounced the footman’s head wound not life-threatening. With rest, he would recover completely. Then he rushed off to attend to a case of colic in the village.

When Carrie heard the riders on the driveway, it was all she could do not to jump up and rush to the window.

“I believe Lord Pennington has arrived,” she said, her voice shaking.

Moments later, Nicholas entered in his riding clothes and dusty top boots. Carrie put down the teacup, which rattled in its saucer.

Nicholas’s gaze rested on her for a moment. “Ah, Sir Henry, please excuse my state of dress. Good of you to come so swiftly. I have caught the perpetrators, a Mr. Leeming and a Frenchman, Bettencourt.”

So, it was her uncle! Carrie’s shoulders sagged. “Shall I pour you a cup of tea, Nicholas?”

“Later, perhaps, but thank you.” Nicholas turned to the vicar. “I shall leave you to attend to matters, Mr. Braithwaite.”

“Wilkins, if you would be so good as to come with me to the stables?”

“It promises to be straightforward,” Sir Henry said as he rose from the chair. “His lordship’s footman remembered his attacker spoke French.” He and Wilkins hurried out with Nicholas to view the two villains in the stables.

The vicar remained seated, but his interest in the details of the affair was palpable. “More tea, Mr. Braithwaite?” Carrie asked.

The vicar turned from his study of the closed door. “Yes, thank you, Miss Leeming.”

The door opened, and Lady Penelope entered. Her glance took in Carrie’s expression. She was sure her impatience to seek out Nicholas was clear on her face. She looked in the teapot at the tepid brew. “Don’t send for hot water, Carrie. I shan’t have tea.” Lady Penelope turned to the vicar, who had risen to his feet with a small bow. “Mr. Braithwaite, how fortunate.” She seated herself and waved him into a chair. “I have a theological question to put to you.”

Mr. Braithwaite cleared his throat and sank down again. “Indeed? Lady Penelope?”

“Yes…”

Carrie lost the thread of their conversation, wondering if it would be rude to excuse herself. Would Nicholas come to tell