Anne had felt resolute galloping through the darkened streets of London. But as she guided Lord Gladstone’s horse into the dim alley just past the Coade Stone manufactory, she heard sounds—crashes, thumps, and grunts—coming from one of the houses, and reality snaked its way through her chest like a vein of ice.
Someone was in a fight for his life, and she was fairly certain that someone was Michael.
She swung off the horse and rushed up to the door. She frantically inspected the front windows but could find no chink in their coverings through which she could peek.
Suddenly she heard, distinct amongst the commotion inside, a groan. It wasn’t a loud groan, or a long one, nor was it particularly agonizing.
But it was Michael’s voice. She knew it was. Michael was in there, and he was in danger.
She swallowed. There was nothing for it; she’d have to go straight through the front door, with no idea what she might find on the other side, and hope for the best.
She raised her little pistol with hands that shook and swung the door open. The scene that came into view was worse than anything she could’ve imagined. Michael was horribly battered. His left eye was red and all but swollen shut, and blood was caked around a wound on his forehead. But worst of all, Scudamore had him pinned, his arms twisted behind his back, and a gleaming silver knife pressed against his throat.
All it would take was a mere flick of Scudamore’s wrist, and Michael would die. There would be nothing she could do, nothing except cradle his beautiful face in her arms as he bled to death on the floor. Her knees started to buckle, and she caught herself with her shoulder against the doorframe. She managed to straighten, able to hear nothing but the roar of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.
The thought of Michael dying was agonizing. It was unbearable. It was a thousand times worse than dying herself. She didn’t want to live without him, she—she couldn’t live without him, she—
Oh, God.
An image sprang to mind, as clear as if it had happened yesterday, of that fateful picnic from all those years ago, and of fifteen-year-old Michael smiling as he rolled on top of her. In an instant of clarity, she finally understood, finally admitted to herself that when she had closed her eyes, she hadn’t just been thinking he was going to kiss her, but hoping that he would.
... my favorite person in the whole entire world...
... I can’t survive without you…
... the very finest man I know...
And all these years, she had told herself he was her best friend.
How could she have been so unbearably stupid?
And now she was the only one who could save him. Oh, God, why could it not be anyone but her? This was exactly like one of Harrington’s horrible shooting exercises, the ones she always failed, except it was a thousand times worse, because it was real, and it was Michael. Her hands were shaking with terror, and her palms were so slick she almost dropped her pistol as she pulled back the hammer.
“Let. Him. Go,” she said, with as much conviction as she could muster as she strode through the door.
“Well, well, well,” Scudamore said. “Lady Wynters. Isn’t this touching? It’s a shame, because I was planning on marrying you. And now I’ll have to kill you instead.”
“I would rather be dead than married to the likes of you,” Anne said, her voice quavering.
“That can be arranged, just as soon as I’ve dispatched Morsley here.”
Anne tried to line up her shot, but it was hard, given that Scudamore was cowering behind Michael, using him as a shield. She started as she realized—that was why he hadn’t done it, why he hadn’t cut Michael’s throat. Because as soon as he did, she would have a clear shot.
He wouldn’t kill Michael so long as she had her gun trained on him. He couldn’t.
She had a chance.
All she had to do was make this shot.
She peered at Scudamore, searching for a target. Michael was tall enough that he blocked him completely. The only parts of Scudamore’s body that were exposed were the hand that held the knife and his forearm, which was wrapped around Michael’s shoulder. Even if she made the shot to the arm, the bullet might very well pass through Scudamore and go straight into Michael’s chest.
She could target his hand, which hovered just above Michael’s shoulder. But if her aim was the tiniest fraction off, she might very well shoot Michael in the throat.
Her shoulders slumped. Oh, God, she couldn’t do this. No matter how hard she tried, she never came through when it really mattered. She was going to fail, and the price of her failure would be Michael’s life.
She looked at his beautiful face through her tears, wanting to memorize it.
What she saw brought her up short. Because Michael’s face didn’t hold any of the things she had been expecting—regret, farewell, and sorrow for the lifetime they wouldn’t get to spend together after all.
Instead, she saw joy. Relief. Confidence.
He—he trusted her to take the shot. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind.
He believed in her.
And in that moment, she decided she wasn’t going to be that person anymore, the one who failed, the one everyone dismissed, the one who always missed the shot. More precisely, she realized she had never been that person in the first place. Who she had always been was the heroine Michael trusted to save the day, the lady Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy respected, the woman the people of London called a virago, their virago, the one they summoned in their darkest moments, because they knew she would always fight for them. She was not the one who stumbled; she was the one who got back up, the one who tried again, the one who never gave up.
The one who won in the end.
That was who Michael saw when he looked at her, and she realized that he was right. That was who she was, who she had really been all along.
A calmness descended over her. The hands that had shaken just seconds ago were steady. She could not fail Michael. She would not fail Michael. She refused to live without him, and how dare Scudamore hold that knife to his throat! She focused everything on her target, squeezed the trigger...
... and watched the lead ball fly true, catching Scudamore just where she had aimed, right in the hand that held the knife.
He screamed and dropped the blade, clutching his hand. Michael was on him in a second, kicking the knife clear, then shoving him up against the wall.
But two of Scudamore’s thugs were still sensible. One of them grabbed Anne’s arm. As she struggled to free herself, she watched in horror as the second man stole up behind Michael, fists raised. Anne tried to scream but her throat had gone dry with terror.
That was when the door flew open, and Samuel and Lord Gladstone came charging into the room. Samuel ripped the man holding Anne’s arm off of her, smashing his head against the wall for good measure.
Meanwhile Lord Gladstone charged the man creeping up behind Michael and took him out with a ferocious headbutt.
Anne blinked at them in confusion, then noticed a third person coming through the door—a shirtless, soot-streaked Nick.
“Nick!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Thank God you’re alive.” She caught him in a hug as she turned to Samuel. “What are you doing here?”
“I received your note. Having spent most of last night searching Notting Hill, I happen to know that it does not feature a”—he pulled Anne’s note from his pocket and consulted it—“Butterfield Lane. I went to your house seeking clarification, and who should I find sitting on your front step but this fellow, looking more than a little confused.” He clapped Lord Gladstone on the shoulder. “Once Gladstone recounted your conversation, I was able to put two and two together.” He nodded toward Nick. “We were trying to figure out which house you were in when this intrepid young man came scrambling down a gutter pipe, shouting for help.”
Anne turned to Nick. “Scrambling down a gutter pipe? But how did you get out? We were coming to rescue you.”
“I went up the chimney, naturally,” Nick said, retrieving his shirt from the floor by the fireplace. “I did it the first night, too, but they caught me and dragged me back. That’s why they were keeping me tied up.”
“But why did you remove your shirt?” Anne asked.
Nick thumped his concave stomach. “I’m getting downright stocky, what with those two rolls at breakfast. Figured I’d better buff it.”
Anne laughed as Samuel stepped forward. “Lord Scudamore, you’re coming with me. I’m taking you straight to Bow Street.”
Scudamore made a vain attempt to jerk from Michael’s grasp. “I am a peer of the realm. You cannot lay hands on me.”
Lord Gladstone stepped forward. “Then allow me to do the honors.” He stripped off his cravat and proceeded to bind Scudamore’s wrists.
“Look, Gladstone,” Scudamore said, “I can explain—”
“You’re a bad person and an even worse friend,” Lord Gladstone said, jerking the knot tight. He leveled a glare at Scudamore. “Even I’m smart enough to figure that one out.”
Michael surrendered Scudamore to Lord Gladstone, who hustled him across the room, making a point to steer his former friend into the doorframe on their way out.
Anne’s eyes met Michael’s, and she flew across the room, throwing her arms around his waist. Suddenly she was crying uncontrollably.
After a few moments she pulled back, and gently raised a hand to his battered face. He might be bruised and bleeding, but he was alive, which made him the most beautiful sight in the world as far as Anne was concerned. “Oh, Michael,” she said, burying her face in his chest.
“Now I really do look like I wrestled a bear,” he said. He ran his thumb over the top of her head, frowning. “Er, I’m afraid I bled on you.”
Anne hugged him closer. “I could not possibly care less.”
She was distracted by a rustling sound. Glancing around, Anne saw half a dozen little boys emerging from dark corners and beneath the furniture. She smiled as Nick herded them together.
Anne ruffled Nick’s hair. “Come, and I mean the lot of you. Let’s go home.”