George ignored the cold and rather peevish words. It was hardly likely he and this distant relative would agree on any topic, ever, so he wouldn’t waste his breath arguing with him.
“Where is Miss Donovan?”
Percival frowned. “No niceties? See, this is yet another reason why you are entirely unsuited to be heir. Although you do dress well enough, I suppose. The sole benefit of being born of an unworthy tailor’s daughter, hmmm?”
George’s fists clenched. Christ, he was going to enjoy rearranging such a fucking elitist bastard’s face. “Indeed.”
“Well, hurry up, then. And where is the money?”
“In my pocket. You can see it when I see Miss Donovan.”
“In here,” said Percival, gesturing into a room.
George braced himself, but no movement caught the corner of his eye, no daggers coming at him or pistols aiming. And then he saw why. Sir Malcolm stood in the center of the room, Louisa in front of him. Her face and throat were bloodied and bruised, her wrists bound with rope, and he held a dagger to her throat.
Pure, raw rage gripped him, so fierce and feral a low growl escaped. “Let her go.”
“Ah,” said Sir Malcolm. “If it isn’t my former stepson. Aren’t you looking all wild animal! Well, m’boy, I’ve seen far worse attempts at angry intimidation, and destroyed them all.”
“Not this time,” said George softly.
Louisa visibly trembled, but she lifted her chin. “Exactly right. George is going to kill you. And I’m going to help…ahhhh.”
“Oh dear,” said Sir Malcolm casually, as he inched back the dagger from where he’d pierced her skin. “Did it slip? Perhaps you should remain silent, Miss Donovan, lest I become even more clumsy and slit your throat. Where is my bank draft, George?”
“You can have it when you let Miss Donovan go.”
“I have a better plan. You give me the bank draft, and I’ll give Miss Donovan to Percival.”
George’s gaze flicked to Louisa, and she inhaled heavily then gave him the tiniest of nods. Pride filled him. Even in the very worst of situations, his future countess was no spineless miss, but a brave fighter who never backed down. “Very well,” he said, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached into his jacket and withdrew the folded bank draft. “Here it is.”
Sir Malcolm shoved Louisa away from him, and she fell forward. Percival, his eyes gleaming with excitement, caught her, his hands going straight for her breasts, and leaving his torso entirely open for retribution. Which Louisa duly unleashed, with a swift and brutal knee to the groin. The Donovan footmen had taught her well.
Percival shrieked, falling to his knees and then onto his side as he curled into a ball and cupped his cock, and Louisa followed with several kicks to his stomach, and a heel stomp to his forearm. The sound of a bone cracking and another high pitched shriek was music to George’s ears, and Sir Malcolm actually paused, his gaze darting from George to Louisa, as if deciding whether he needed the bank draft or his accomplice more.
But Louisa had no such dilemma.
“And how do you like that, Mr. Grenville?” she spat, clearly wanting to tear the man to pieces, but unable to because of her bound wrists. “On behalf of all the women you have hurt, here is a few more,” she added, ramming her foot into his ribcage and then shifting slightly and doing the same to his temple, and Percival rolled onto his back, unconscious.
Abruptly Sir Malcolm pulled out a pistol from his trouser waistband and cocked it. “Enough,” he said coldly, pointing the weapon directly at Louisa. “Step away from Mr. Grenville. I need a live alibi for what is about to happen here. Poor George, unable to cope with the transition to his new life, visiting an opium-dealing apothecary for relief and being killed in a violent tussle with another customer. If you get in my way again, Miss Donovan, I will have no hesitation in putting a bullet in your pretty little skull also. Now, it is time to add some props to the scene.”
George stared at him in disgust. “Something you no doubt have vast experience in.”
His former stepfather shrugged as he lifted a satchel onto a small table with his free hand and unpacked several dark glass bottles and a rattling jar of pills. “Sometimes the law needs some assistance. Or deviation. Whichever suits my purpose.”
Pulling his own pistol out of his waistband, George cocked it and pointed it at Sir Malcolm. “No more.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard him,” said Louisa fiercely. “No more.”
“Ahhh, how sweet. Two equally foolish people playing at being heroes,” drawled Sir Malcolm. “As nauseating as it is irritating. I did warn you, Miss Donovan, what would happen if you got in my way again.”
“No!” shouted George, hurling himself forward. “Louisa!”
But it was too late. Sir Malcolm’s pistol discharged with a loud bang and puff of black smoke.
And his fiancée fell backward, before lying unmoving on the floor.
~ * ~
Pain. Unimaginable, horrible pain.
As a child she had slipped and fallen into an icy river, and the feeling was the same. That first moment of shock and disbelief, like being stabbed with a thousand needles, all over her body. Then a numbness and floating sensation. And eventually fatigue. Such overwhelming fatigue, where even keeping her eyes open seemed an unearthly strain.
Except this time, there was a ceiling with peeling paint above her rather than forest canopy, and there was a loud ringing in her ears. A puff of smoke wafting in the air. Plus it smelled like…bloody hell. Gunpowder.
Good grief. Had she been shot?
That couldn’t be right. Who would shoot a woman? Damnation, if only her head didn’t hurt so much. The back of it especially. And her mind was so foggy. Where was George? He would help her. He loved her, even if he hadn’t said as much.
“George,” she whispered. Except the word didn’t come out of her mouth properly. In fact, it sounded more like a gurgle. And what was that revolting metallic taste?
Finally the ringing in her ears stopped, replaced by odd hollow echoing sounds, like she was listening to people talk from underwater. One man shouting. And another man laughing. A third…whimpering?
Cautiously, Louisa turned her head. An anvil danced on her temples, but she could do it. And flex her toes. But her arms hurt; one a dull ache, and the other a burning, throbbing mass of agony.
Her vision cleared, and she sucked in a breath. George and Sir Malcolm were fighting. Not boxing, but actual street brawl fighting with fists and elbows and knees. George stood at an angle to protect his damaged left side, and landed a powerful blow to Sir Malcolm’s nose, and she nearly cheered when blood sprayed in an arc across one bare wall. But then the older man responded with a fist to the jaw that snapped George’s head back, then managed to twist George’s wrist to disarm him.
“I’m coming. I’ll help,” she whispered.
Rolling herself onto her side, she attempted to get onto her knees to crawl. And promptly fell flat on her face like a fool who had forgotten for a moment that her wrists were bound. The coarse rope hurt. Sir Malcolm had tied it very tightly, damn him to hell. And her left arm was so very sore.
Glancing down, she stared in disbelief at a jagged, seeping wound. That bloody bastard had shot her! And now Sir Malcolm had George’s pistol. If she could just distract him, George could get it back.
Taking a deep breath, Louisa screamed.
And for one beautiful moment, Sir Malcolm moved his head just as George’s fist plowed into it, connecting a perfect punch with his chin. The man staggered backward, hit the wall, and slid down it, dazed, and George snatched back his pistol.
“Louisa!” said George, sprinting over to her and dropping to his knees. “Shit. Your arm. I’ll rip some hem, all right?”
She nodded, shivering. George untied her wrists and eased her arms back in front of her, and she gasped, tears springing to her eyes as sensation returned and her arms prickled and tingled unbearably. Then he swi
ftly tore another section from her ruined hem, and wrapped it tightly around the wound.
Just as she was about to relax, a shadow moved behind George and Sir Malcolm appeared, a cane in his hand. Oh God, not just a cane, but one with a deadly sword tip extended. “Look out!”
George twisted around, one arm raised to protect himself, and his other hand scrabbled against the floor for his pistol before raising and firing it.
Sir Malcolm froze, stunned confusion on his face as he slowly stared down at the bright red patch blooming on his chest. The cane dropped onto the wooden floor with a loud clatter, and seconds later Sir Malcolm followed, collapsing onto his backside with a heavy thud.
“Little…pisspot,” wheezed Sir Malcolm, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “While I enjoyed horsewhipping you…and those hot pokers…should have killed you…years ago. Why didn’t you…fucking die?”
Fury surged through her body, dulling the pain, and she slid forward and grabbed the cane. Turning it around so the sword end pointed directly at Sir Malcolm, she glared at him, aiming to strike at his black heart.
“No, darling,” said George, gently removing the cane from her hand.
Shocked, she turned to him. “Why not?”
“Because this one is mine.”
Sir Malcolm chuckled, and another spurt of blood ran down his chin. “You don’t…have the mettle. Weak little…pisspot. Show me…that back so I can…admire my handiwork.”
“No,” said George. “Instead I’ll show you…hell.”
And with one fierce twist of his hand, he forced the sword end deep into Sir Malcolm’s heart, and the man fell back onto the floor with a guttural howl, twitched once, then twice, then didn’t move again.
A choked cry escaped her lips, and she crawled onto George’s lap and burrowed against his broad, warm chest. “Oh my God, George. I was so scared. I thought I’d never see you again.”
His arms wrapped around her wonderfully, perfectly securely. “You were so brave, my darling. And so smart. That scream of yours couldn’t have been better timed. Christ. I’m so glad you aren’t too badly hurt. When I saw your face, and your throat…then when Sir Malcolm shot at you…fuck.”
“Take me away from here…oh no.”
“What now?” said George, his eyes wide.
“We are going to have to send for Dr. Murray again. The poor man won’t want to see another Grenville or Forsyth as long as he lives.”
He grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. I think he secretly loves it. Makes a change from head colds and megrims and suspicious rashes, no doubt—”
The door to the room banged against the wall, and both she and George jerked around to see a group of armed men burst through the doorway, including Howard and Lord Standish.
“Oh, thank God, you’re all right,” said Howard, his huge shoulders slumping. “Donovan sent a runner, and…Percival. You fucking cart of excrement—”
“No, your grace,” said a scruffy, ginger-haired man, as he gripped Howard’s arm. “He’s mine first. Earlier this week I stopped by the Tower and had a most interesting chat with an Irish marquess who sang like a canary when offered the chance. Mr. Grenville here has been involved in some nasty things beyond his extended family, haven’t you, sir?”
Percival groaned when two of the men hauled him to his feet. “No idea what you are talking about. I am the victim here. It was Sir Malcolm. All of it. I say, take your filthy hands off me. I am worth a hundred of you!”
Lord Standish strode over and crouched beside them. “Bloody hell, you two. How about just getting married, and then living a quiet life after that? I think all my spare nerves have been used up.”
“Don’t let White hear you say that,” said George, his lips quirking.
“Who is White?” said Louisa, confused.
“My employer,” said Lord Standish, offering his hand to help her get to her feet.
“The man over there who looks like he hasn’t slept or combed his hair in a few years,” added George, as he stood. “Very useful in…odd situations. Like the one Stephen and Caro had last year. I do believe he will assist in, er, dealing with Sir Malcolm’s body.”
“Indeed I will,” called White. “Do not trouble yourselves further over this, hmmm, tragic accident. Nor a certain dowager duchess. I do believe after extensive questioning, the woman will choose to take a long, long sojourn to a rather austere and secure asylum we know of in Cornwall.”
Louisa blinked as darkness began to encroach on her vision, and she shivered violently. “I…um, I’m not feeling very well. My arm hurts.”
Immediately George slid a supporting arm around her waist. “I would scoop you up, darling, but my left side is still rather weak from you know, the other incident.”
“Good God,” said Standish, as offered his arm for extra balance. “The pair of you. I’m going to get you matching suits of armor as a wedding gift. When is the date, by the way?”
“When George asks me properly. On one knee. And says he loves me,” mumbled Louisa as her legs turned to syllabub and the darkness rushing toward her swallowed her whole.
And then she knew no more.
~ * ~
“Miss Donovan’s facial cuts are superficial. The bruising around her throat will fade in about a week, but one of Victoria’s lotions will assist in easing the discomfort. The bullet passed neatly through Miss Donovan’s arm in a thankfully shallow wound, which I have cleaned and stitched and bound. Rest, as always, will help immensely with the healing process. And if you ask me one more question, Lord Trentham, I will have you gagged.”
He blinked and closed his mouth. There was a slim chance that Dr. Murray was joking, but from this stern, brusque, genius of a physician with the worst bedside manner, it was highly unlikely.
Instead, George perched on the edge of Louisa’s bed and took her hand in his. She looked far too pale in sleep, the contrast even starker with her sunset hair. “Very well. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Perhaps the pair of you could avoid trouble at least until then? Mrs. Murray will scarcely remember what I look like soon,” said Dr. Murray irritably as he repacked his brown medical satchel.
Biting his lip to halt an irreverent reply, George solemnly inclined his head as the physician marched from Louisa’s room in the Donovan townhouse. The fact that she was here rather than Grenville House displeased him no end, but as his mother had requested, and with the agreement of the Donovans, for once in their lives all the proprieties were being observed.
“Is he gone?”
Startled, George turned his head to see a pair of wide silver eyes peering at him. “Never say you were…foxing…the doctor?”
Louisa sighed and shifted on the bed with a wince. “Not the whole time. Just enough so poor Victoria could take a breath. He’s just as sharp with her.”
“Because she is a female. Dr. Murray is not exactly a modern man when it comes to the ladies. Maybe best not to try and discuss experiments with him, or he might swoon.”
“I’m not sure anything could make him swoon. How do you think he wooed Mrs. Murray? Dosed her with a tonic until she agreed? Stitched a cut closed with a heart shape?”
George grinned. “I suspect he told her the date and time of the ceremony, then packed his satchel. Perhaps he inclined his head or shook her hand to express his undying affection. Is that what I should do? Ahem. Miss Donovan, I am here to inform you that we are going to be married as the clock strikes eleven in the morning, on February 1st in the year of our Lord 1815.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are we indeed, my lord?”
“Quite. It’s the obvious conclusion to the experiment.”
“And what experiment might that be?” said Louisa, but her tone was soft, and those stunning storm-silver eyes were looking at him with such…hope.
Taking a deep breath, he ran a thumb over her knuckles. “One where you take a very tall, very blond man with very little to his name…we’ll cal
l him the tutor…and pit him against a petite redhead with rather a lot…we’ll call her the chemist. They will have a number of epic word wars—”
“Which the petite redheaded chemist will win.”
“Which the petite redheaded chemist will occasionally win because the very tall, very blond man lets her…ow, no pinching of the tutor, who speaks nothing but the truth.”
Louisa sniffed. “Truth smoof.”
“Smoof? Is that even a word?”
“Of course it is. Ancient, ancient Latin. Meaning, er…”
“Man attempting to declare his feelings for the woman he wants for time without end,” he said softly.
She reached up and cupped his cheek. “What a splendid language. So much in one word. By all means, proceed.”
“So…within this experiment, there will be disasters.”
“Boo.”
“And triumphs.”
“Huzzah!”
“And some rather ghastly color choices. Not to mention certain dance-related injuries. And a sad lack of embroidery.”
Louisa shook her head. “The petite redheaded chemist cannot be perfect in every way. How very dreary.”
“Indeed. But as the experiment began to bubble away, the tutor made certain…discoveries. Such as he missed the chemist when he was apart from her. That he only truly felt alive when they had discussions that would cause mass swoons amongst the ton. And that the way she kissed kept him awake at night.”
“And so in his initial findings the very tall, very blond tutor thinks he might love the petite redheaded chemist despite the fact she hasn’t a drop of ladylike in her?”
George leaned down and slid his fingers through her hair, gently tilting her face. “Not thinks,” he whispered. “Knows. I love you, Louisa Eleanor Donovan.”
Tears sparkled in her eyes. “Well, that’s the best bloody news I’ve heard all day…all year…in forever, really. Because I love you, too, George Henry Grenville. So much it feels like my heart is going to explode with happiness. For everything you were, everything you are, and everything we are going to be together.”
Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2) Page 25