Page 118 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
She still couldn’t see his point. “So you…what? Kill me, making Drago a widower, then…” She could guess the immediate next steps, but not what came after.
Sure enough, Thomas confirmed, “Then I explain to him—or better yet, get Crawthorne to—that in order to satisfy the terms of his father’s will, Drago has to actually be married on his thirty-fifth birthday.”
She nodded. “So he’ll have to find a suitable bride very quickly, and most families would find that difficult to accept, given he’ll be in mourning.”
“But the Melwins—via Hubert—will understand and encourage Alison to do the right thing and put aside her beau to become a duchess. And then,” he rolled on, warming to his exposition, “I’ll wait until Alison bears Drago’s heir and the child proves to be healthy, then I’ll arrange for Drago to have a fatal accident. How tragic.” His tone dripped with fake sympathy. “By then, of course, Crawthorne will have retired, and I’ll have taken over the legal affairs of the Helmsfords. Although Denton might be named executor and guardian, I’ll be able to deal with him, especially as I will be in a position to ensure that, as Alison’s older brother, Hubert will be named co-guardian for the Helmsford heir.”
Thomas’s features assumed an expression of intense, almost-beatific anticipation. Meg stared as he went on, “After that, of course, it’ll be a simple matter to slowly drain the coffers dry. I’ll be wealthy beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.”
Then he refocused on Meg, and his expression sobered, growing unnervingly intense. “You can see, now, why I couldn’t let you—a Cynster—be Drago’s duchess. If you bore his heir and he then died, I wouldn’t have a hope of getting anywhere near the dukedom’s riches. You and your meddlingly protective family would see to that.”
He tipped his head, took one last step, and brandished the rope. “So be a good girl and let me tie you up.”
Meg blinked. “Tie me up?” She’d assumed he was going to hang her or strangle her or, in some dramatic way involving a rope, murder her.
“It’s that or”—he reached into his pocket, and she heard aclick, then saw he was aiming a small revolver at Ridley—“watch as I blow the mutt’s brains out. And then yours, of course. Messy, but it’ll achieve the same end, meaning the one I want.”
She swallowed. “And if you tie me up?”
He smiled. “I’ll leave you here—you and your dog—to die. If and when anyone finds you, who knows what they might think? Regardless, there’ll be nothing to connect me to your sad demise.”
They were far too far from the house for anyone to hear her shouting. And while she didn’t doubt that when she didn’t return, a search would be mounted, how many people knew of this cottage, let alone the cellar beneath it?
His gaze locked with hers, Thomas weighed the rope in one hand and the revolver in the other. “Lady’s choice as to which way you both meet your end.”
Earlier, he’d spoken more accurately than he knew; both plans—his and theirs—hinged on trust. She had to trust that regardless of whatever tale Thomas had spun, someone had still been watching her and had followed them from the house. She knew Drago had slipped from their bed last night; she strongly suspected he’d gone to arrange for more protection for her, but she’d fallen asleep again before he’d returned.
She hadn’t heard anything—not the crack of a twig or the rustle of leaves. She had no idea if anyone was out there, but she’d wanted to play bait to draw out the villain, and she’d succeeded. Now she had to trust her co-conspirators to keep her alive.
“All right.” She held out her hands.
But Thomas shook his head. “No. Turn around and cross your wrists behind your back.”
Meg hesitated, but then complied. Ridley whined when she moved her leg, but when she took up her new stance, he quieted and leaned against her other leg. He growled softly at Thomas as he stepped forward and lashed her wrists together. Tightly. Painfully so.
She gritted her teeth. At this point, protest would be useless. Then she thought of another question. “What are you going to—”
Fabric circled her face and cinched tight over her lips. A muffled “Mm-hmm!” was all the sound she could make.
The fiend behind her chuckled. “You didn’t think I’d leave you able to scream for help, did you?”
She clenched her jaw, then sensed that he’d backed away.
She swung around and saw Thomas swiftly climbing the cellar steps.
He reached the doorway and stepped outside, then turned and bent and raised the old door. Before he set it in place, he looked down at her. “Pity. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and chose to save a man you should have left to reap his just rewards.”
With that, he lowered the door into place.
Meg stood in the dark, testing the bonds holding her wrists, but he’d known what he was doing, and the knots didn’t ease by even a smidgen.
Then she heard a scraping noise and realized that Thomas was pushing a heavy rock across the cellar door.
Even if she freed her hands, given how much difficulty he was having shoving the rock into place, she doubted that, pushing from the inside, she would be able to escape.
Reaction hit her, and she decided to sit down before she fell.
Immediately, Ridley crowded close, trying to comfort her as he sought comfort.
