Page 102 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

Prescott did not notice. He was staring at his wife and sipping little gasps of air. “You threw yourself in front of me,” he said.

“He threatened to shoot you.”

Prescott was pale. “He might have shot you.”

“He might still shoot you,” Beatrice said.

St. Blaise grinned. “Gun only had one bullet,” he said cheerfully. “It’s gone.”

“Accept the apology, William. Do it for me.”

“Beatrice, I— Right.” Prescott held out his hand to Leo. “I accept your apology, Your Grace.”

Leo ignored his hand. “You can’t put this right. She must leave her home because of you. A whole life she’s built here, and you take it away with your selfish, narrow-minded, pompous…” He punctuated each word with a jab of the gun in Prescott’s chest.

“Reparations!” Beatrice said. “He’ll make reparations.”

“I’ll make reparations,” Prescott repeated. “A sum of money. To support her new life abroad.”

Leo waved the gun like an enthusiastic highwayman. “And write another letter toThe Times. Tell them you were mistaken. Give her that Botticelli, too. Juno,” he added, without looking at her. “Does he have any other paintings you want?”

She chuckled, light-headed with relief. “If we really want him to suffer, force him to exhibit all his paintings, for everyone to see. Even the rabble.”

Prescott gulped visibly, but gamely said, “Whatever my wife asks.” He repeated, as if to himself, “She was willing to take a bullet for me.”

Beatrice remained unaffected by her brush with death. “Oh, I have the most marvelous idea! Let’s show your collection at our ball tonight.” She dipped her hand into her husband’s pocket and consulted his watch. “Look, ’tis barely five o’clock in the morning. We have a good sixteen hours until the first guests arrive. That’s sufficient time for you to hang all the paintings, isn’t it?”

His eyes bulged.

“But of course it is,” she carried on blithely. “All else is ready. I can see it now: The Prescott Art Ball. Society will be amazed!”

Juno sighed. Somehow, Beatrice was going to triumph from her own treachery.

“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Beatrice ventured, “it would aid Miss Bell’s reputation if she painted a portrait of you with your new duchess.”

“No!” Juno tried to compose herself. “Not a brilliant strategy.”

Leo did not look at her. “Leave my betrothed out of this,” he said coldly.

His betrothed. He was still promised to another.

Yet he was here because of Juno. Leo, always so calm and in control: He was disheveled and violent because of her. Oh, the poor darling. How she longed to slide her arms around him and feel his arms holding her.

With one of his sighs, Leo transferred the gun to his left hand and extended his right hand to Prescott. There followed one of those peculiarly gentlemanly transactions, where hands were shaken under sour glares and a murmured ducal threat. Then Beatrice was clapping her hands and cajoling her husband to hurry along for there was so much work to do!

Hand in hand, the newly happy couple trotted away. Beatrice had clearly forgotten Juno, but Juno would not get into a carriage with Beatrice and her husband right now for every Botticelli in the world.

St. Blaise smiled at her winningly. “Wasn’t that exciting, Miss Bell? I say, the morning air becomes you. You look—”

Leo shouldered him aside. “Get away from her,” he snarled. “Don’t talk to her. Do not even look at her.”

“You would be more intimidating if the gun were loaded, Polly. But I merely wish to apologize to Miss Bell. If I might?”

Leo extended his arm in front of St. Blaise’s chest like a bar. “You can apologize from there.”

“’Tis Leo to whom you owe apologies,” Juno said.

“You might disagree had you heard what I said about you.”

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