Page 37 of The Viscount's Reluctant Bride
Forcing herself to her feet, she moved across to the fireplace and snatched up a fire poker to arm herself, although she doubted her ability to use it well. Her movement seemed to motivate Sprot, who put all his energy into suddenly yanking open the door, causing Fischer to fall through. Sprot then slammed it shut behind him and, in a rapid movement that defied his age, the doctor pushed his boot down onto Fischer’s neck, pinning the manservant to the floor.
“Don’t move,” he said, his eyes sharp as he looked between Maeve and Fischer, “or I will break his neck.”
Nodding, Maeve slowly lowered the poker but kept a tight hold of it. She glanced towards the door, wondering what Betty was doing and hoping the girl would go to find the proprietor or, failing that, anyone who would help.
“Let him up,” Maeve asked. “Fischer will stay with me.”
Yet Sprot did not seem to hear or respond to her command. Instead, the man leant over Fischer threateningly, drawing a sheathed doctor’s knife from his pocket, rather like the ones that Maeve had seen Dr. Copeland use in his surgery. She had never previously thought how dangerous or lethal they looked.
“How did you find me? Did he send you after me?” Sprot’s voice was low and urgent as he spoke almost entirely to Fischer. “Who is the woman?”
Gargling, Fischer’s response was lost as he tried to speak with his windpipe blocked. It struck Maeve that Silverton’s choice to keep their marriage so quiet had worked, and few knew of their union. Sprot clearly had no idea that Maeve was pregnant by Silverton. It was crucial he did not find that out.
“It was merely a clever ruse, in order to trap you here and question you,” Maeve said, inching forward, still holding the poker but careful not to brandish it. She tried to use her most soothing, teacherly voice, one which would have the students confiding in her on a frequent basis. “It did not take a genius to realise Harlington and you were indeed connected in some way, but what we wish to find out is why you would poison Silverton for his brother.”
“I have not seen the man for years,” Sprot shot back. The parlour, which had been so welcoming an hour ago, now seemed to be closing in around Maeve, the very wood panelling and snug bedding taking on a sinister gleam. If she could not talk Sprot down, would this be the last place she ever saw?
“No.” Maeve drew nearer, her eyes moving to the prone form of Fischer as she tried to work out what to say that might allow him to be freed. “But Harlington has many ways of communicating—of the kind that means he does not need to be seen.”
“You have no proof I have ever been associated with that man.” Sprot’s face flushed, and he seemed close to hysterical, his body wobbling. If only she were a man, Maeve thought, she would rush him. Although, the knife he held could cut through anyone’s skin regardless of sex.
“Lord Silverton knows of your plan.” She tried a different approach, pausing when Sprot’s knife pointed towards her. “And he is recovering. My colleague and I could allow you to leave here, to slip away and—” As she spoke, Maeve ran through what might have motivated Sprot—money? It seemed possible. A threat to someone he cared about? Unlikely, as Silverton had told her Sprot had no family. Love? Who could the man love enough to risk everything for? Suddenly, Maeve’s foggy brain slotted it all together. She could have squealed with delight at working it out, except optimistic crowing did not seem like a sensible decision given the situation she found herself in. “You did this because someone asked you, but it wasn’t Charles Brennan—it was for Lady Silverton. The heart moves in mysterious ways indeed.”
“Don’t you dare to speak her name.” This had the doctor spluttering, and his posture changed as he saw red. His expression did, too, as if he was ready for a fight.
If she could lure him off Fischer, it was her best chance—and mentioning, pursuing the dowager seemed wise. Maeve forced a cheeky grin on her face. “They say she’s a mighty fine lady. What did she promise you for your help?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“She wanted one of her sons dead, why?”
“Lady Silverton is the best of mothers. She would never kill her boy. But she loves them too much to be apart from them,” Sprot said as Maeve moved away, dancing out of his reach. Her sickness was suppressed for the time being.
“So, you poisoned Silverton? Why would she want that?”
“Because, you fool, she needed her youngest back,” the doctor shouted, his motivation to grab at Maeve, to cut at her, overwhelming as he reached out across the distance that separated them.
“To lure Charles to Silver Hall? He’s back here?” The question burst forth, and for a fraction of a second, Maeve paused. It was enough, and Sprot made a play for her, grabbing at her wrist eagerly. The movement left him off balance, and he let out an undignified shout. In reaction, Maeve lifted her poker and tried to bring it down on him.
In the struggle, Fischer loosened himself and attacked too, grabbing and pulling Sprot away from Maeve as she held on to the stonework of the fireplace.
The two of them, doctor and Fischer, tussled and then fell apart as Maeve watched the doctor stagger backwards and land heavily on the bed that she’d been planning on sleeping in just an hour ago. Sprot let out an agonised cry of pain, and Maeve saw the knife he’d threatened both Fischer and her with was buried in his middle. With a few guttural noises, the doctor spasmed on the bed, his body shaking, and his words incoherent before he fell silent.
“Is he dead?” Maeve asked. The question hung horribly in the chamber, and the pain in her stomach clenched again with an odd sensation of guilt. The doctor may have been cruel and may have hurt Silverton, but he had entered this chamber to care for her.
Fischer stepped away, his body vibrating with shock. “I didn’t mean to—I haven’t ever done that before.” He looked over at Maeve as blood drained from his face.
“Fischer, you did it in defence of me. And yourself.” She made her voice gentle. “You must go warn the viscount. He needs to know about his mother’s treachery and that Charles is close by. Can you hear me?”
“What about the doctor?”
“I’ll stay with him and rouse the household.” The clock on the mantlepiece read nearly midnight, and all Maeve could see before her was a string of questions that she did not know how to answer. But most importantly, she knew it was vital that Silverton be informed of the risk of Charles being so close. With a horrible realisation, the thought hit her—no wonder Charles had vanished from London—he was hiding out here. “Go, I will deal with everything here. Get to Silver Hall now. You need to tell his lordship.”
“Don’t dare follow me, my lady, it won’t be safe.” With that, Fischer ran from the bedchamber, leaving Maeve to edge closer to the bed and look down at the ashen face of Sprot, hoping against hope that the loyal manservant could reach her husband in time.
Again, the knowledge that Silverton’s life was at risk hurtled through Maeve, and it brought tears to her eyes. It hurt her to know Silverton was in danger because she realised him being injured, damaged her. Every wound, every knock, every scrape that might happen to him would come bounding back to her. That was what happened when someone you loved was hurt.
“I love him,” she whispered, as if it were a prayer for his safety and for her own.
