THE BEST MARQUESS: Wickedly Wed #2

by Nicola Davidson

  “I understand,” said Pippa. “I cannot run either. We do have Mr. Gordon, though.”

  “Alas, my days in the ring were cut short by a fall over a wooden stool that broke my ankle,” said the former fighter ruefully, even as he flexed his meaty fists. “That is why I train others rather than box for a purse now. I can knock anyone unconscious…except if they run away. Is your husband likely to run or fight, Lady Campbell?”

  “I don’t know,” said the baroness anxiously. “I honestly don’t know what Campbell will do. He’s got himself into a terrible lather about Bliss and the items they sell. That whole group think they are the moral guardians of the city, and it is so very tiresome.”

  Mr. Gordon’s gaze narrowed. “How many in the group, ma’am?”

  “I not sure exactly, but Sir Edwin Ironside is my husband’s aide de camp. Perhaps one or two others. Oh, do forgive me, I’m a foolish old woman who is no help whatsoever.”

  Reaching out, Pippa patted the baroness’s arm. This certainly wasn’t her fault, and it was perfectly obvious she didn’t condone what her husband or the other men were doing. “When we get there, we’ll make decisions based on the facts at hand.”

  Finn rubbed his jaw, something he often did when deep in thought. “When I met them on Rotten Row, there were five including Campbell and Ironside. The others are more bluster, though. At the first sign of danger, they’ll crumble…at least I hope they will. Thank Christ, here’s the mews. We won’t go in the front door; I’ve got a key to the back.”

  Pippa gulped. The entire journey she’d wanted the carriage to go faster, but now they had arrived, she wished for more time to plan. Yet how could they plan? They had no idea who was inside or what they had done and it was thoroughly unnerving.

  The second the carriage came to a full halt, Finn didn’t wait for a footman, but yanked open the door and jumped down onto the street. He turned and helped her and Lady Campbell down, Mr. Gordon followed, then the three of them lined up behind Finn while he peered around the corner of the mews, for he knew the area best.

  “Clear,” he whispered. “I’ll unlock the door, look about, then wave you over if it’s safe.”

  Oh God. They were actually doing this thing, a plan without a plan. Disregarding their audience, Pippa tugged on Finn’s cravat and kissed him fiercely. “Do not do anything foolish. I’ll be very cross if you are hurt.”

  “Can’t have that,” he said, his gaze tender yet understanding. Then he opened the gate and dashed down the path to the townhouse.

  The weak afternoon sun offered no warmth at all, yet Pippa felt perspiration trickle an itchy path down the back of her neck. The wait was almost unbearable, the silence heavy and tense as they watched Finn unlock the door and peer inside. But soon, he beckoned them forward. After entering the house, the four of them tiptoed down the narrow hallway; each creak of a floorboard, faint tap of a shoe heel, and rustle of fabric seeming louder than a brass band parade. However, worse lay ahead, for two footmen were sprawled in the entrance hall, one holding a bloodstained cravat to his cut forehead and the other clutching at his knee.

  So. There had been violence already.

  Pippa pressed a fist to her mouth as bile threatened to erupt. One of the injured young men pointed at the parlor and held up three fingers.

  What did that even mean? Three wretched skunks who didn’t belong here? Or three people in total? Damnation. When faced with disasters like this, heroines in novels were always bold and innovative. She just felt like vomiting. Much like storms, real life could be terrifying, even when one’s opponent was an older baron who had a dish of moldy syllabub where his brain should be.

  As they crept closer to the parlor, voices became audible through the ajar door. A calm woman. Abby. And a few angry men who couldn’t seem to agree on what to do next, which might have been reassuring except if they didn’t have a plan etched in stone, they could be unpredictable.

  And unpredictable people caused the worst kind of chaos.

  Oh God.

  Finn halted and held up a hand. Then he inched closer and briefly peered into the room before flattening himself against the wall and leaning down to her ear. “Xavier is in there.”

  Her jaw dropped in shocked confusion, but thankfully no sound emerged.

  What the bloody hell?

  Her twin was one of the puritans who hated Bliss? That made no sense whatsoever. Had she and Xavier drifted so far apart that she didn’t really know him at all? The thought rocked her to the core.

  “Also, Campbell and Sir Edwin,” Finn continued in a low whisper. “Abby and four maids, three footmen. I don’t…I don’t know where Nessie is.”

  Rage boiled inside her when Finn’s voice broke. All this fright because of some damned puritan’s scratched pride. Lady Campbell might have earlier requested no shooting or stabbing, but that promise was no longer on the table. Although, it would be a toss up to see who she flew at first; Lord Campbell or her damned twin. The fact that Xavier was here and part of this debacle, made her even angrier.

  It was time for action.

  Hitching up her gown, Pippa started for the parlor door. But a beefy hand curled around her upper arm, and she looked up in affront to see Mr. Gordon shake his head then mouth one word: gun.

  Pippa’s eyes widened. But before she could relay the message to Finn, he’d pushed past her and barged into the parlor.

  “No! Finn!” The words tore from her throat, but were almost lost in the pandemonium that broke out. Sir Edwin yelled even louder, and for a moment she wondered why no one stopped him, especially when there were several footmen in the room capable of throwing a punch. But when she moved closer and peered through the door, understanding dawned.

  Lord Campbell held Abby’s arm in a bruising grip, while waving a small pistol in her general direction. “Lord Pinehurst! You’ve finally joined the party. And whom have you brought? I hope the catering is sufficient.”

  Then he chuckled, and Pippa’s fists clenched. Shooting or stabbing was far too good for this sewer rat. “Three more,” she announced, sauntering into the room as though not possessing a care in the world. “Myself, Mr. Gordon…and your wife.”

  For a moment, the baron seemed to falter. “Iris?”

  Lady Campbell glared at him. “You are making an utter fool of yourself. Let the woman go. Let everyone go. And for the love of all that is holy, put down that pistol.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m doing this for your own good. Before Pinehurst corrupted you with his smooth words and charm, you were a biddable wife. But now you read the worst kind of trash!”

  “I read romance novels,” she snapped. “Something that makes me happy, because there is certainly no romance in my life. Now, put down that pistol.”

  “Listen to your wife,” said Xavier, his tone bored, as though commenting on an empty field or cloudy sky. “No need for weapons, especially when you’re agitated.”

  “I am not agitated!” the baron bellowed. “I am perfectly calm, you insolent pup!”

  Pippa hopped from one foot to the other. For heaven’s sake, she’d witnessed volatile situations before, even in Hanover Square residents lost their temper or got into fistfights, especially after a few drinks. Perhaps she could lower the temperature by asking questions. Wasn’t that supposed to be a good tactic? To get a criminal talking and distract them?

  “Perhaps, Lord Campbell,” she said carefully, “you might share your exact grievance with the business? Is there a compromise that could be reached?”

  But the baron wasn’t distracted. Faster than she thought possible, he shoved Abby to the floor, marched forward…and pointed the pistol directly at her instead.

  Oh God.

  She was going to die.

  Chapter 18

  He thought he’d known fear when the pistol was waved at Abby.

  But now it was pointed directly at Pippa.

  “Campbell,” Finn said, terror sharpening his tone far more than he wished. “Put
the damned gun down.”

  “I hold the weapon,” said the baron smugly, as he deliberately cocked the pistol, “therefore, I should be the one issuing the instructions. And my instruction is, each vile, lewd item in this den of sin will be destroyed. Every single one, into the fire. Your father would be proud of my industriousness.”

  “No doubt you are correct,” he lied as he inched closer, trying to get between Lord Campbell and Pippa. Xavier and Mr. Gordon had discreetly cornered Sir Edwin who looked much less defiant than a few minutes earlier. “I…strayed onto the wrong path.”

  “You did. Young rakes, the bane of London. Turning all the ladies’ heads. Even the married ones. Why can’t you just use the actresses like a respectable gentleman? They don’t matter…oooooowwwww.”

  In other circumstances, it might have been comical to watch Abby stab the baron’s trouser-clad leg with a short chisel used to shape dildos. But as the older man hopped around, clutching his thigh, the cocked pistol waved about in his other hand like a deadly flag. And he was still so close to Pippa. If he accidentally shot her…

  Finn took a ragged breath. No. He had to get that gun by any means necessary. He had to be the hero. No one else in the room was close enough, and now that Abby had created the distraction, he could make his move.

  The baron kicked Abby, and she sprawled backward. “Guttersnipe. You belong with the rats I told you about, alongside Lady Pinehurst who has her common mother’s bad blood and is unworthy of the Nash name.”

  “How dare you,” snarled Pippa, darting forward, one fist raised as though she meant to hit Lord Campbell.

  Abruptly the world seemed to slow, everyone moving and speaking like they swam through molasses. Lord Campbell once again pointed the pistol at Pippa, and Finn hurled himself in front of her, directly at the baron, just as a gunshot cracked.

  As the sound echoed in the sparsely furnished parlor, Finn landed heavily on the wooden floor, the wind knocked out of him and his ears ringing like he’d been tied to Cheapside’s Bow Bells. Now his damned shoulder hurt. Had someone punched him? Had he landed on the chisel?

  As he lay on the floor, his foggy head whirling with confusion, he watched Nicholas knock Sir Edwin unconscious with a brutally efficient blow to the jaw, and Xavier rather expertly wrest Lord Campbell to the ground and secure his hands behind his back. But when Finn tried to get up to assist, his limbs did not cooperate. Gah. How embarrassing.

  Then he saw Pippa struggle unsteadily to her feet. He’d knocked her over with his ungainly leap. “Forgive me, Pippet. Bad form.”

  His wife screamed, pointing at him.

  Finn frowned as his teeth began to chatter. Why was there an odd scent in the room? It smelled like the time he’d caught his knee on a nail and a gush of blood had made a small pool…ugh, his shirt was wet. “I’m sweating,” he muttered in disgust.

  Pippa dropped to her knees beside him, then gently lifted his head into her lap. “Finn? Can you hear me? Finn!”

  He stared up at his wife. Of course, he could hear her. Well, in truth he would hear her much better if his ears stopped ringing and his teeth stopped chattering. And now the sweat was making his shirt stick to his chest. This was more than embarrassing; it was downright humiliating. Some hero he’d turned out to be.

  “I’ll send for a physician and fetch some bandages,” said Abby sharply. “In the meantime, Pippa, take off his cravat and press it on the wound. Do that now. Lady Campbell, you come with me. Lady Campbell? Now!”

  “I’ll fetch a constable,” said Xavier, crouching next to him. “You just stay still, Pinehurst. Let Pip tend you. Mr. Gordon has seen to Sir Edwin, so nothing for you to worry about. Well, apart from your wife, of course. I think you’re about to get your ears burned off, old chum.”

  “Are you angry, Pippet?” Finn mumbled.

  “What did I say to you earlier?” she said hoarsely, her face starkly pale. “I specifically said I would be very, very cross if you were hurt. Then you go and throw yourself at a man with a gun!”

  “You like acts. Not just words. Had to show my love.”

  Pippa cradled him tighter. “Listen carefully. You may not leave me. I won’t stand for that. I haven’t…I haven’t said things. Haven’t told you how I feel. But I know what is true. It is so clear. Well, it was clear earlier but I had to confirm, of course.”

  He blinked heavy eyes at her. The pain in his shoulder was getting worse now, like someone had stabbed him. He tried to lift his left arm, but it still wouldn’t work. Then he tried his right arm. That moved, but when he touched his left shoulder, he gasped. Was that…blood? “What is true?”

  “I love you. You are my sunshine. My grand passion. My hero. You are the man I one day wish to have babies with, because let me tell you, Finlay Charles, I would not undertake all that damned nonsense for months then endure labor, for just any gentleman. Only you. The man who makes me laugh, holds me during storms, and dries tears. Who sees me. Who thinks I’m beautiful with spectacles and messy hair and introduced me to the kind of pleasure I only ever dreamed about. I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to open my heart to love. But I have. With my Finn. I love you forever and ever after. Just like in the novels.”

  Finn beamed at her. “Darling Pippet. I’ve always loved you. And I certainly hate to put a dampener on the moment, but I think I’m bleeding—”

  “Beg pardon, madam. If I could just get closer to the patient? Much obliged.”

  A new face appeared above him, a stranger’s face, weathered and tanned and grave as he efficiently unpacked a large black leather satchel. A physician.

  “What are you going to do?” Finn asked curiously. How odd that his foggy head had cleared, but his shoulder was worsening. “Sew up my cut? I think I landed on a chisel.”

  The physician’s expression eased. “No sir. I am going to examine your shoulder and see if I must remove a bullet or merely stitch up where a bullet grazed. It will help if you take a few swigs of this brandy.”

  A bullet?

  He’d been shot?

  Furious, Finn turned his head and glared at that sack of shit, Lord Campbell. The baron now sported a swollen-shut eye thanks to Nicholas and had been gagged with a cravat and tied to a chair with what looked like Bliss soft weave bondage rope. On another day he would have admired the fighter’s efforts, but getting shot goddamned fucking hurt. Instead, he gratefully accepted the fiery brandy glow as he took several swallows from the bottle Pippa held to his mouth. Next, the physician cut away his jacket and linen shirt, and he shivered as the cooler air hit his overheated skin.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but this is going to hurt. A lot.”

  Finn swore as the physician poured two fingers of brandy on the open wound to clean it. In novels, heroes who were shot acted as though it was a mild inconvenience much like the removal of a splinter, while their one true love cooed beside them. In reality, even after the brandy to dull his senses, it was still taking every ounce of his will not to yowl like a cat with a trapped tail. And Pippa kept frowning at him, as though charging at an angry baron with a pistol had been an exceedingly foolish thing to do rather than dashing and brave.

  On the other hand…she loved him. Had said she loved him in front of witnesses, something that for him put every declaration ever said in a romance novel to shame.

  “I am your sunshine and your grand passion,” he mumbled through gritted teeth while his shoulder burned in another wash of brandy hellfire.

  “You are a twit,” said his wife irritably as she smoothed his hair, yet she also observed the physician like a hawk, as though she wanted to shove the older man out of the way and do the task herself.

  Finn took another swig of brandy, spluttering a little as the liquid hit the back of his throat. “And by twit you mean I am your hero, now and forever after. You said it and cannot take it back, for Gordon and even that numbskull Campbell heard you.”

  “It was very nice,” said Nicholas, from where he stood guarding the groggy pair of Lo
rd Campbell and Sir Edwin. “Reminds me of when Octavia first said I love you. Well, a bit, anyway. I believe her exact words were, I love you, you damned fool, but if you ever again risk life and limb to climb a tree and play the flute outside my window, I will pelt you with rotten fruit. Apparently, we don’t have to risk death or injury to win a heart, my lord.”

  Finn almost smiled.

  But where was the excitement in that?

  “There is no bullet or bullet fragment inside your husband’s shoulder, ma’am. He was very fortunate; it has gouged a nasty path across his upper arm which will require stitches, but no damage to limb, bone or sinew.”

  At the calm, matter of fact words, Pippa closed her eyes briefly and took deep breaths. It might take a while to rid herself of the cold, numbing fright that had taken hold of her entire body when she’d thought Finn, her husband, her best friend, her lover, the man who had been at her side for sixteen precious years, might be lost forever.

  Because a world without him was entirely too bleak and dark to even contemplate.

  Thankfully, she didn’t have to.

  “I’m much obliged for your care,” she murmured to the physician, surprised her lips were still able to form words. “Do you see a lot of wounds like this?”

  The man nodded as he bathed a needle in some brandy, patted it dry, then began threading it with reassuring expertise. “I was an army surgeon for twenty years, retired after Waterloo, so have tended more bullet wounds than you’ve had hot suppers. Now I enjoy painting, like many others who live in Golden Square. Good people. Friendly. Well, except the visitors with pistols,” he finished pointedly, staring with acute dislike at the baron.

  “A painter? How lovely. My husband sketches.”

  “Oh?” said the physician, brightening. “What do you sketch, sir? Portraits? Landscapes?”