Page 135 of The Boxing Baroness

Elliot gave one of his rare grins. “It’s good to be seen. I’ll admit it was touch-and-go for a while, thanks to our friend Dominic, here.”

Dominic pushed himself up until he was sitting on the floor, still cradling his bleeding arm. “How in the name of all that is unholy did you get away from Broussard? The man has thirty-five armed men!”

“I had some excellent help.” Elliot cut a look at Blade, who was stripping off the big white mob cap and heavy clothing she’d been wearing, exposing a pair of battered breeches, an old coat, and boots.

“One bloody woman?” Dominic scoffed.

“She took you down quickly enough,” Elliot pointed out, smirking.

Dominic glared up at him and struggled to his feet, clutching his arm. “I don’t suppose you’ll—”

“You lying, cheating son of a whore!” Barnabas shoved past Jo and Elliot and barreled right into Dominic, flinging him to the floor for the third time in less than ten minutes. He straddled the other man’s much larger body, grabbed his lapels, and banged his head on the floor. “We had a bargain—I helped you plan your death and got you out of Britain and you were supposed to leave that goddamned book. You always—”

Elliot and Jo marched up on either side of Barnabas and slid hands under his arms, lifting the squirming, thrashing older man off Dominic’s body and setting him on his feet.

Dominic struggled to his feet, glaring at Barnabas with loathing. “How dare you lay hands on me, you—” He lunged at Barnabas, as if he were going to strike him, but at the last moment he slid an arm around his neck, the elbow of his bleeding arm locking tight, clutching a knife—probably the one Blade had thrown at his arm—in his undamaged hand.

“Get back!” Dominic snarled at Jo and Elliot, dragging Barnabas along with him as he backed up to the fireplace, where the king stood gawking.

“Now,” he said when he’d reached the wall, “I want all of you out of this room—and I want His Royal Highness’s post chaise harnessed, with Staunton’s trunk full of money in it.”

“Or what?” Guy shouted from up on the balcony.

“Or I’ll kill Barnabas.” He gave an ugly laugh. “He’s not much of a hostage, I’ll admit—but I know there aren’t any murderers among you beacons of morality willing to—”

“I’m sorry for everything, Marianne,” Barnabas said, his voice strangely calm as his hand slid into his opposite sleeve and he pulled out a knife.

“Uncle—no!” She lunged toward him as he drove the knife into Dominic’s side.

And then three things happened at once: Dominic plunged the blade into Barnabas’s throat, an ear-shattering bang filled the room, and Dominic’s head exploded, showering the room in bone, blood, and brain matter.

“Nooooo!” Sonia screamed, her agonized cry drowned out by Gustav’s far louder shriek.

Marianne pulled away from Sin’s grasp and ran to Barnabas, dropping to the floor where he’d fallen. She took one look at the huge wound in his throat and knew there was no hope.

Barnabas fumbled for her hand, his lips moving, but no sound emerged as his life blood pumped from him.

Sonia fell to her knees on Barnabas’s other side, weeping loudly while she tried to close the gaping slash in his neck.

Marianne squeezed his hand. “I love you, Uncle.”

She would never know if he’d heard her. Barnabas was there one second and gone the next, leaving an empty shell in place of the man she’d always believed to be her only living relative.

Chapter 33

“Staunton?”

Sin looked up at the sharpness in Guy’s voice. Both he and Cecile had come down from the minstrel’s gallery, whose staircase must be somewhere outside the dining room.

They hovered by the door, where Gustav was attempting to sidle past them.

Sin strode over to the king, who looked pitifully small between Guy and Cecile, who was still cradling her Baker rifle.

“Where are you going, Your Royal Highness?” he asked.

Gustav’s guilty gaze flickered to the table before jumping away. Sin turned to see what he’d been staring at, and then swung back when he realized what was missing.

“That letter is not yours.” He held out a hand.