The Kiss of a Stranger (23 page)

“Don’t touch it, Cavratt.”

Thorndale.

Crispin heard the distinct click of a gun cocking.

Chapter Twenty-six

Uncle. Catherine’s heart seemed to stop for a moment. They were too late.

“Come here, wench!”

Catherine shook as she turned to face him. Uncle held one of his Mantons aimed in her direction.

“Thorndale, be reasonable.” Crispin, too, had turned to face the foe.

“This is a family matter. None of your concern.”

“You have threatened my wife. That makes this my concern.” Crispin spoke with excruciating clarity and obvious anger.

“Get out!” Uncle yelled, purple-faced.

“No.” Crispin released Catherine’s hand and stepped between her and Uncle.

“Not a step closer,” Uncle shouted. “I am aiming for your heart Cavratt.”

Catherine felt her own heart nearly stop at Uncle’s words. Crispin was in danger, precisely as she’d feared from the moment Crispin informed her of his suspicions.

“Put the pistol down, Thorndale, and let us work this out.”

“There is nothing to work out. That wench owes me!”

“I will give you the fifty thousand pounds. The entire sum of her inheritance.” Crispin waved his hand behind him where only Catherine would see it. What did that mean?

“This isn’t about the blunt!” Uncle kept the pistol pointed at Crispin’s chest, though it shook violently.

Catherine stared in panic at Uncle’s wide, nonsensical eyes. Something in his demeanor bordered on insanity. “It would have all been mine without her. It should have been mine.”

“Name your price.” Crispin’s voice remained steady despite the trembling pistol aimed right at him. “I’ll give you anything you want to simply walk away and forget about all of this.”

Uncle shook his head, his eyes fiery. “Can’t do that.”

“You certainly can. Take my offer. You’d be a very rich man.”

“It’s not about the money.”

Catherine would have expected Uncle to shout, to rattle the windows with his anger. He spoke no louder than he would have for a calm conversation. No one would hear him outside the room. If only he would bellow, someone might come to their aid.

“I came here for the chit and I won’t leave without her.”

“Stealing another man’s wife? Holding a gun to an unarmed man? You are apparently no gentleman.”

What in heaven’s name was Crispin doing? He had questioned the honor of an obviously deranged man—a man who held him at gunpoint. Sheer madness! And he hadn’t stopped waving behind his back.

“How dare you, sir!” Uncle’s eyes narrowed angrily. “You dare to insult me?”

“Crispin,” Catherine pleaded desperately with him. Making Uncle more angry couldn’t be a good idea.

“Stay out of this, Catherine.” Crispin’s eyes remained glued to Uncle. “This bounder was simply making a spectacle of himself.”

“
Bounder
?” Uncle’s voice raised a fraction more. “You’ll answer!”

“Fine.”

Fine?
Catherine grabbed Crispin’s arm, Uncle’s many lectures on the efficiency of pistols to eliminate enemies and sources of discontent plaguing her thoughts.

“But I choose weapons,” Crispin continued, undeterred.

“Crispin,” she frantically whispered. He could not do this. Uncle would shoot him dead.

“And we settle it now,” Crispin said. “Here.”

“Perfect,” Uncle growled.

“Fisticuffs.”

“Impudent pup.” A foreboding chuckle escaped Uncle’s chest. “And by the time you regain consciousness you’ll be a widower. My condolences.”

Crispin shrugged off his jacket and began fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Crispin.” Catherine pulled on his arm, turning him enough to look into his face.

He smiled tensely at her as he undid the last button of his waistcoat. “This will distract him,” Crispin whispered. “You can get out and alert the staff. Do not come back in.”

“I will not abandon you, Crispin,” Catherine insisted sotto voce. “Uncle is dangerous when he is angry.” She took Crispin’s discarded waistcoat, hoping Uncle would believe she was merely helping her husband prepare for the impromptu duel.

“Believe me, Catherine, I have been wanting to do this since the day I met you.” Crispin’s eyes flashed with obvious anger when he glanced past her to where Uncle waited.

“But he has a gun.” She couldn’t help the tremor those words sent through her. Uncle would have no qualms about shooting a man dead in his own house.

“He set it on the mantel.” Crispin’s gaze fixed firmly on her. “Bring someone back here.”

Catherine nodded. He placed his long, crumpled cravat in her hand and gently squeezed her fingers before stepping around her to face Uncle. Catherine laid his discarded clothes on a nearby chair and watched the two men approach each other. Uncle had, indeed, set his pistol aside.

If only she could get around them and to an exit without Uncle noticing. Catherine kept her eyes firmly fixed on the two men looking daggers at each other. Each was down to his shirtsleeves, fists held in ready position, circling one another. Catherine inched closer to the terrace doors—the brawl about to explode prevented her from reaching the door leading to the corridor.

Catherine inched along the wall. If Uncle noticed her trying to escape . . . She wouldn’t think about it—the plan simply had to work.

Uncle’s massive fist flung through the air. Crispin slipped out of reach, untouched and unharmed. Another swipe from Uncle. Another near miss. In the next second, Crispin’s fist connected with Uncle’s jaw, sending him stumbling backward.

“Not as easy facing a grown man as an innocent woman or child, is it Thorndale?”

Catherine had never heard Crispin sound more livid. She didn’t think even Uncle looked as viciously angry as Crispin did at that moment.

“Greedy, grabbing wench! I ought to have strangled her the minute I laid eyes on her!”

“And I should have called you out the first time I saw you lay a hand on her.”

Neither man seemed to notice her moving further away. Encouraged, Catherine increased her pace. She reached the terrace doors just as Crispin landed a resounding blow to Uncle’s jaw.

Catherine hesitated. Suppose Uncle noticed she had left? What if he did something horrible? Went for his gun again?

The sound of quiet footfall up the terrace steps made Catherine’s heart race in panic. Did Uncle have others there? Accomplices?

In an instant, however, she recognized Philip. She ran toward him and the red-vested man at his side.

“Philip! You have to help! My uncle!” She pointed back to the open door. “He has a gun.”

“Hancock heard commotion.” Philip’s demeanor was uncharacteristically serious, almost authoritative. “We didn’t want to risk startling your uncle into anything rash by bursting through the other door. But if you are safe—”

“Crispin is still in there!”

Philip and the other man bounded from the edge of the terrace toward the doors, Catherine hot on their heels.

“Not used to your sparring partner fighting back, then, old man?” she heard Crispin bark as she stepped back through the doors.

Uncle’s face was bloodied and purple with rage. Crispin stood with his back to her. Catherine’s heart hammered. Philip’s friend inched carefully inside—Philip did the same, only moving toward the opposite side of the room.

Help him!
Why weren’t they jumping in?

Crispin landed another punch, and Uncle bent over in pain. Perhaps Crispin didn’t need help after all. She had never in her life believed anyone could overpower Uncle.

Her breath caught in her lungs when Uncle straightened again. He held in his hand the tiniest pistol Catherine had ever seen.

She saw her husband stiffen at the sight of the gun aimed for his heart. Philip and the other man stood stock still, eyes focused on the weapon no one had expected.

“You are a fool, Cavratt.”

“Murder is a hanging offense.” Worry touched Crispin’s expression.

Please, no.

“You can’t inherit if
you
are dead.”

“This is not about the money!” Uncle’s voice rattled the windows and doors of the room. He looked demented. Deranged. There was no telling what he would do.

“Put down your weapon.” Crispin’s voice was calm.

Catherine held her breath, watching Uncle in horror. His jaw was set. His hand flinched. He was going to shoot.

Blinded by panic, Catherine shouted, “No!” and ran toward Crispin.

She felt his arms wrap around her. He turned her, placing himself between her and her uncle just as the air exploded.

* * *

For a moment Crispin couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Had he been fast enough? Was Catherine safe? Had Thorndale shot before he’d sufficiently shielded her?

He looked down at her pale face, panic threatening. Her eyes were open—a good sign.

“Are you hurt?” He clasped her face with his hands, nearly unable to breathe. If she was hurt . . . !

She shook her head. “Are you?”

“No.” Crispin’s heart raced. He had to keep Catherine safe. How long before Thorndale shot again or came after her in another way? Could he get her out? Crispin turned back toward Thorndale, prepared to do whatever he must.

Thorndale wasn’t there. An unknown man in a red vest stood over what Crispin was certain was Thorndale’s unmoving form. A Bow Street Runner? What was a hired investigator doing in his music room?

“I have impeccable timing,” a familiar voice observed from the direction of the French doors.

“Philip?” A Bow Street Runner
and
Philip? What was going on? And what had happened to Thorndale?

“Thought playing the hero would be the dashing thing to do.” Philip shrugged. “So I brought a Runner. Good thing, too. Grimes here is a crack shot.”

“He shot Thorndale?” Crispin looked from Philip to the Runner and back again. “You saved our lives.”

“I’ll send you my bill later.” Philip tugged at his canary yellow waistcoat.

“Is he dead?” Catherine’s voice shook.

Crispin pulled her tightly into his embrace. His heart had not yet stopped furiously pounding.

“No, m’lady,” the Runner replied. “There’s a doctor at Newgate. He’ll see to ’im.”

“Jason’s on his way.” Philip dropped into a chair near the pianoforte. “He’s bringing Thorndale’s solicitor and a couple of Grimes’s colleagues. His idea of a regular society gathering, no doubt.”

“The group o’ us can handle ol’ windbag, here,” Grimes assured them, motioning at Thorndale’s prostrate form on the floor. “And don’t you worry none, m’lady. He won’t bother ya no more. We’ll be sure of it.”

“Th-th-thank you.”

“Thank you, m’lady, for yelling out like you did. Distracted the blackguard just long enough . . .”

“He would have shot my husband.”

Crispin stroked her hair, closing his eyes a moment in an attempt to convince himself she was truly well and whole.

“I hate to contradict a lady,” Philip rejoined the conversation, “but Thorndale was aiming for you, Catherine. Not Crispin.”

Crispin’s heart dropped to his feet. He’d nearly lost her. The thought kept repeating in his mind. He’d almost lost her.

“I should have left when you first asked me to,” Catherine said from within the circle of his arms. “If I hadn’t argued with you—”

“Shh.” He didn’t blame her, not in the least. But at the moment all words escaped him. The sight of Thorndale pointing a gun at her remained far too fresh yet. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.” He spoke to himself as much as to Catherine. She was safe. She was safe.

He spent the next half hour giving directions and overseeing the removal of Thorndale, who had regained consciousness, though he remained incoherent, out of Permount House and into a coach bound for Newgate Prison, where Thorndale would, if he recovered, await trial.

Jane retrieved Catherine within minutes of Thorndale’s being felled by Grimes’s bullet. Catherine’s pale countenance and clearly distressed eyes worried Crispin. She needed to lie down. She obviously needed to be away from the chaos and blood. So he’d reluctantly let her go.

Crispin pulled Philip into the sitting room before letting his lifelong friend leave. “I cannot thank you enough.” He dropped one hand firmly on his friend’s shoulder. “For myself and, especially, for Catherine.”

Philip began his trademark shrug.

“No! Stop! I am being serious. Drop all this and listen to me. You saved my life. You saved my Catherine. You have no idea . . . how . . . indebted I am . . .” No words seemed sufficient.

Philip’s face transformed one more time to the person he had been years before, to a man Crispin sorely missed. “I’d have shot the man myself, but Grimes has better aim. I didn’t want to accidentally kill my best friend.” Philip actually looked a little shaken.

“It was rather a close-run thing, wasn’t it?”

Philip nodded without a hint of the dandy he pretended to be.

“I am in your debt,” Crispin said.

“Well, then, if I ever find my life threatened by a lunatic, I will fully expect you to rescue me.” Philip smiled—not the empty-headed smile he usually affected, but a true smile.

“It’s a deal. And thank you again.”

Philip waved off Crispin’s gratitude as if it weren’t important. “You rather beat old Thorndale to a pulp before I arrived to save him from your violent temper.”

Crispin knew he was grinning like a schoolboy. “Cannot tell you how good that felt.”

“Do you still plan to flee London, then?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Crispin admitted.

“Suffolk is quite a sight in the late fall,” Philip suggested with a raise of his too-knowing brow. “Catherine would love it.”

“You mean Kinnley?”

“Unless, of course, you’re still planning to ship the poor woman off, leave her dangling on the edge of society. With her uncle no longer a worry, you wouldn’t have to wait on the annulment. This attack would probably strengthen your arguments, in fact.”

“I . . . It’s not like that . . . Things have changed . . .” How did he put it in words? “I can’t let her go like that.”

Philip nodded with understanding. “I’m happy for you,” Philip said genuinely. “You will be good for each other.”

“And if she doesn’t agree?”

“Tell her. Convince her,” Philip replied, making his way out of the sitting room. “Better yet,”—He turned back, a look of pure mischief on his face—“
show
her.”