Page 104 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
Because this brougham was already occupied.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Blackrose said softly from the other side of the bench seat where he lounged, brandishing a revolver. “Kind of you to join me.”
Fook fook shite fook.
His old employer’s grin grew. “I can imagine right now you’re wishing you had heeded my teachings about hired vehicles.”
“Aye,” Thorne finally managed, trying to appear relaxed as he leaned toward the closed door. “I was foolish.”
“Foolish, yes, and soon you’ll be dead.” Blackrose pounded on the roof to indicate the driver should get going. “I can’t kill you here, of course. Down by the river, I think, so it’ll look as if you were attacked by common footpads.”
The carriage didn’t move. “Why do ye want to kill me at all?” Thorne asked, hoping to buy time. He needed the bastard to be distracted, to let down his guard, so Thorne could throw himself out the door.
He needed to live. Live to apologize to Kit, if nothing else.
Tell her the truth: about her parents, about his heart, about his hopes.
In the dim light, Blackrose’s grin flashed. “Because, you idiot, I’ve learned you still have the evidence against me. Killing you isn’t an ideal solution, I know, but it’ll buy me some time to search your home. I need to prevent you from turning it over to the Crown tomorrow evening.”
Thorne’s mind raced, trying to remember what he was supposed to know. This confounded scheme was like a tiered cake. Or possibly a trifle. Or an onion. Layers—that was the point!
Blackrose believes ye have the evidence and will turn it over tomorrow evening to the Crown’s representative. He believes Kit is on his side. He believes Kit is going to steal the evidence for him, so this is just insurance. He doesnae ken that Kit has told ye all of this.
Fook. Thorne had been useful because of his grace, his athletic skills, his ability to sneak into places, and above all, his charming personality.Nothis conniving skills.
So he settled for a mere, “Hmmm?”and raised brows, hoping he looked surprised.
“That’s right,” sneered Blackrose. “Your charming houseguest told me all about your plans!”
“Housegu—oh, Kit—Katherine?” Shite, subterfuge was harder than it looked. “What does she have to do with it?”
“Right now,” Blackrose lifted the gun, “nothing at all.”
Time had run out.
But four things happened right after each other, and it was the distraction Thorne needed.
One, Blackrose pounded on the roof again. “Move!” he barked.
Two, it became obviouswhythe hired brougham driver hadn’t started into motion, when the door was yanked open once more. Clearly the man had been hoping for another fare.
Three, Fawkes stuck his head into the vehicle, already scowling. “Thorne, why the fook—”
Four, startled, Blackrose swung his revolver toward Fawkes, outlined perfectly by the light spilling from the house behind him.
Time slowed.
Thorne couldseehis nemesis’s finger tighten around the trigger, knew the man would shoot Fawkes to remove witnesses.
Fawkes had Danielle—and Merida and his mother—to live for. After years of hell, Thorne’s cousin deserved a happy future.
And Thorne could give it to him.
As Fawkes recognized the danger his eyes widened, and his mouth opened to shout…but Thorne was already moving.
He wasn’t a genius, wasn’t talented when it came to managing estates or planning…but hecouldmove. He coulddance.
And really, throwing himself forward, twisting midair so he hit Fawkes with his shoulder, tucking himself around his cousin…wasn’t that a kind of dance?
