Page 74 of The Countess Caper

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

Roarke planted his boot square on Beville’s midsection when the rat tried to scurry away. “Lady Kensington, you should probably leave.”

The Marchioness of Kensington, granddaughter to a duke, famous arbiter of fashion and collector of kittens, snorted at him. No wonder she got along so well with Tessa. She closed the door behind them on a sea of nosy guests and footmen. “What’s he done?”

“It’s nothing,” Tessa lied through her teeth.

He was so outraged at the thought of her in danger being nothing that he made the kind of strangled sound usually suited to the easily scandalized doyennes of the ton. Had he been the type to wear pearls, he would have clutched them. Instead, he set his back teeth and said, very carefully, “He put a knife to your throat.”

Kensington went still. “I beg your pardon?”

Lady Kensington sucked in a breath. They both stared at Tessa, at the red mark not quite hidden by the ribbon she wore as a necklace. She smiled weakly. “It’s nearly healed.”

Lady Kensington turned to Roarke. “In my house?” she asked, incensed. “Hold him down. I want a go.”

“A misunderstanding.” Lord Beville wiped blood from his lip, but it still stained his teeth. “I did not know she was your wife. It was weeks ago.”

“As if that excuses it.” Lady Kensington narrowed her eyes.

“And I did tell you I was a countess,” Tessa pointed out. She didn’t look scared, Roarke was relieved to see. But he was doing a superb job at saving her reputation and clearing her name. She dunked gentlemen in the punch bowl, and he launched them through the library doors. They made quite a team. He couldn’t help the small surge of satisfaction, of knowing, that went through him.

“I do not like you,” Lady Kensington announced, glaring down her nose at Beville. “Consider yourself ostracized.”

“Lady K—”

“I suggest you do not address my wife.”

“I do like you,” Lady Kensington said to Roarke. “And I do not wish to see you hanged for murder.” She opened the door and motioned to two footmen. “Lord Beville is to be taken to the edge of the laneway and dropped there like the sack of rotten potatoes he is. If he tries to return, you may shoot him for trespassing.”

Tessa grinned at her, a cheerful, happy grin best suited to a much younger girl receiving a present on Christmas morning.

Beville recoiled when Roarke approached him where he now hung between two burly footmen. “If I ever see you within a hundred feet of my wife, if you ever look at her again, so much as mention her name, I will end you.” Swords shaved every word from him. “Do you believe me, Beville?”

Lord Beville nodded once, jerkily.

“I’ll be checking on you,” Roarke said as Beville was dragged away. “This isn’t over.”

A short silence thrummed in the room when they were alone again. Tessa wrinkled her nose. “This is a bit awkward.”

Always so forthright. He wanted to kiss her. He contented himself with hauling her up against his side.

Lady Kensington fanned herself. “Well done, Dartmoor. I’m half in love with you myself.” Her husband grumbled. She blew him a kiss. “How about a glass of that pear brandy you hide in your desk that you think I don’t know about?”

Roarke picked up one of the chairs. The leg had splintered. He felt like a giant again as the fury and adrenaline burned out. “I apologize.”

“Don’t.” Lady Kensington waved her hand. “That was quite invigorating.”

“Things were getting boring,” Lord Kensington agreed, filling small, fluted glasses painted with cats. “You know how we hate to be boring.”

Roarke handed Tessa a glass. She tutted at his knuckles. “You’re bleeding.”

“Barely.”

“Why did he attack you?” Lord Kensington asked her.

“He decided someone he was looking for was living in my house.”

“Was she?”