Lucy’s uncle froze.
Gregory’s hand tightened around the trigger. “Release Lucy and step slowly away.”
“I don’t think so,” Abernathy said, and he turned just enough so that Gregory could see that his gun was now resting against Lucy’s temple.
Somehow, Gregory held steady. He would never know how, but his arm held firm. His hand did not quiver.
“Drop your gun,” her uncle ordered.
Gregory did not move. His eyes flicked to Lucy, then back to her uncle. Would he hurt her? Could he? Gregory still wasn’t certain just why, precisely, Robert Abernathy needed Lucy to marry Haselby, but it was clear that he did.
Which meant that he could not kill her.
Gregory gritted his teeth and tightened his finger on the trigger. “Release Lucy,” he said, his voice low, strong, and steady.
“Drop your gun!” Abernathy roared, and a horrible, choking sound flew from Lucy’s mouth as one of his arms jammed up and under her ribs.
Good God, he was mad. His eyes were wild, darting around the room, and his hand—the one with the gun—was shaking.
He would shoot her. Gregory realized that in one sickening flash. Whatever Robert Abernathy had done—he thought he had nothing left to lose. And he would not care whom he brought down with him.
Gregory began to bend at his knees, never taking his eyes off Lucy’s uncle.
“Don’t do it,” Lucy cried out. “He won’t hurt me. He can’t.”
“Oh, I can,” her uncle replied, and he smiled.
Gregory’s blood ran cold. He would try—dear God, he would try with everything he had to make sure that they both came through this alive and unhurt, but if there was a choice—if only one of them was to walk out the door . . .
It would be Lucy.
This, he realized, was love. It was that sense of rightness, yes. And it was the passion, too, and the lovely knowledge that he could happily wake up next to her for the rest of his life.
But it was more than all that. It was this feeling, this knowledge, this certainty that he would give his life for her. There was no question. No hesitation. If he dropped his gun, Robert Abernathy would surely shoot him.
But Lucy would live.
Gregory lowered himself into a crouch. “Don’t hurt her,” he said softly.
“Don’t let go!” Lucy cried out. “He won’t—”
“Shut up!” her uncle snapped, and the barrel of his gun pressed even harder against her.
“Not another word, Lucy,” Gregory warned. He still wasn’t sure how the hell he was going to get out of this, but he knew that the key was to keep Robert Abernathy as calm and as sane as possible.
Lucy’s lips parted, but then their eyes met . . .
And she closed them.
She trusted him. Dear God, she trusted him to keep her safe, to keep them both safe, and he felt like a fraud, because all he was doing was stalling for time, keeping all the bullets in all the guns until someone else arrived.
“I won’t hurt you, Abernathy,” Gregory said.
“Then drop the gun.”
He kept his arm outstretched, the gun now positioned sideways so he could lay it down.
But he did not let go.
And he did not take his eyes off Robert Abernathy’s face as he asked, “Why do you need her to marry Lord Haselby?”
“She didn’t tell you?” he sneered.
“She told me what you told her.”
Lucy’s uncle began to shake.
“I spoke with Lord Fennsworth,” Gregory said quietly. “He was somewhat surprised by your characterization of his father.”
Lucy’s uncle did not respond, but his throat moved, his Adam’s apple shifting up and down in a convulsive swallow.
“In fact,” Gregory continued, “he was quite convinced that you must be in error.” He kept his voice smooth, even. Unmocking. He spoke as if at a dinner party. He did not wish to provoke; he only wished to converse.
“Richard knows nothing,” Lucy’s uncle replied.
“I spoke with Lord Haselby as well,” Gregory said. “He was also surprised. He did not realize that his father had been blackmailing you.”
Lucy’s uncle glared at him.
“He is speaking with him now,” Gregory said softly.
No one spoke. No one moved. Gregory’s muscles were screaming. He had been in his crouch for several minutes, balancing on the balls of his feet. His arm, still outstretched, still holding the gun sideways but steady, felt like it was on fire.
He looked at the gun.
He looked at Lucy.
She was shaking her head. Slowly, and with small motions. Her lips made no sound, but he could easily make out her words.
Go.
And please.
Amazingly, Gregory felt himself smile. He shook his head, and he whispered, “Never.”
“What did you say?” Abernathy demanded.
Gregory said the only thing that came to mind. “I love your niece.”
Abernathy looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “I don’t care.”
Gregory took a gamble. “I love her enough to keep your secrets.”
Robert Abernathy blanched. He went absolutely bloodless, and utterly still.
“It was you,” Gregory said softly.
Lucy twisted. “Uncle Robert?”
“Shut up,” he snapped.
“Did you lie to me?” she asked, and her voice sounded almost wounded. “Did you?”
“Lucy, don’t,” Gregory said.
But she was already shaking her head. “It wasn’t my father, was it? It was you. Lord Davenport was blackmailing you for your own misdeeds.”
Her uncle said nothing, but they all saw the truth in his eyes.
“Oh, Uncle Robert,” she whispered sadly, “how could you?”
“I had nothing,” he hissed. “Nothing. Just your father’s droppings and leftovers.”
Lucy turned ashen. “Did you kill him?”
“No,” her uncle replied. Nothing else. Just no.
“Please,” she said, her voice small and pained. “Do not lie to me. Not about this.”
Her uncle let out an aggravated breath and said, “I know only what the authorities told me. He was found near a gambling hell, shot in the chest and robbed of all of his valuables.”
Lucy watched him for a moment, and then, her eyes brimming with tears, gave a little nod.
Gregory rose slowly to his feet. “It is over, Abernathy,” he said. “Haselby knows, as does Fennsworth. You cannot force Lucy to do your bidding.”
Lucy’s uncle gripped her more tightly. “I can use her to get away.”
“Indeed you can. By letting her go.”
Abernathy laughed at that. It was a bitter, caustic sound.
“We have nothing to gain by exposing you,” Gregory said carefully. “Better to allow you to quietly leave the country.”
“It will never be quiet,” Lucy’s uncle mocked. “If she does not marry that freakish fop, Davenport will shout it from here to Scotland. And the family will be ruined.”
“No.” Gregory shook his head. “They won’t. You were never the earl. You were never their father. There will be a scandal; that cannot be avoided. But Lucy’s brother will not lose his title, and it will all blow over when people begin to recall that they’d never quite liked you.”
In the blink of an eye, Lucy’s uncle moved the gun from her belly to her neck. “You watch what you say,” he snapped.
Gregory blanched and took a step back.
And then they all heard it.
A thunder of footsteps. Moving quickly down the hall.
“Put the gun down,” Gregory said. “You have only a moment before—”
The doorway filled with people. Richard, Haselby, Davenport, Hermione—they all dashed in, unaware of the deadly confrontation taking place.
Lucy’s uncle jumped back, wildly pointing his gun at the lot of them. “Stay away,” he yelled. “Get out! All of you
!” His eyes flashed like those of a cornered animal, and his arm waved back and forth, leaving no one untargeted.
But Richard stepped forward. “You bastard,” he hissed. “I will see you in—”
A gun fired.
Gregory watched in horror as Lucy fell to the ground. A guttural cry ripped from his throat; his own gun rose.
He aimed.
He fired.
And for the first time in his life, he hit his mark.
Well, almost.
Lucy’s uncle was not a large man, but nonetheless, when he landed on top of her, it hurt. The air was forced completely from her lungs, leaving her gasping and choking, her eyes squeezed shut from the pain.
“Lucy!”
It was Gregory, tearing her uncle from atop her.
“Where are you hurt?” he demanded, and his hands were everywhere, frantic in their motions as he searched for a wound.
“I didn’t—” She fought for breath. “He didn’t—” She managed to look at her chest. It was covered with blood. “Oh my heavens.”
“I can’t find it,” Gregory said. He took her chin, positioning her face so that she was looking directly into his eyes.
And she almost didn’t recognize him.
His eyes . . . his beautiful hazel eyes . . . they looked lost, nearly empty. And it almost seemed to take away whatever it was that made him . . . him.
“Lucy,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion, “please. Speak to me.”
“I’m not hurt,” she finally got out.
His hands froze. “The blood.”
“It’s not mine.” She looked up at him and brought her hand to his cheek. He was shaking. Oh dear God, he was shaking. She had never seen him thus, never imagined he could be brought to this point.
The look in his eyes—She realized it now. It had been terror.
“I’m not hurt,” she whispered. “Please . . . don’t . . . it’s all right, darling.” She didn’t know what she was saying; she only wanted to comfort him.
His breath was ragged, and when he spoke, his words were broken, unfinished. “I thought I’d— I don’t know what I thought.”
Something wet touched her finger, and she brushed it gently away. “It’s over now,” she said. “It’s over now, and—”
And suddenly she became aware of the rest of the people in the room. “Well, I think it’s over,” she said hesitantly, pushing herself into a seated position. Was her uncle dead? She knew he’d been shot. By Gregory or Richard, she did not know which. Both had fired their weapons.
But Uncle Robert had not been mortally wounded. He had pulled himself to the side of the room and was propped up against the wall, clutching his shoulder and staring ahead with a defeated expression.
Lucy scowled at him. “You’re lucky he’s not a better shot.”
Gregory made a rather strange, snorting sound.
Over in the corner, Richard and Hermione were clutching each other, but they both appeared unharmed. Lord Davenport was bellowing about something, she wasn’t sure what, and Lord Haselby—good God, her husband—was leaning idly against the doorjamb, watching the scene.
He caught her eye and smiled. Just a bit. No teeth, of course; he never smiled quite so broadly.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be.”
Gregory rose to his knees beside her, one arm draped protectively over her shoulder. Haselby viewed the tableau with patent amusement, and perhaps just a touch of pleasure as well.
“Do you still desire that annulment?” he asked.
Lucy nodded.
“I’ll have the papers drawn up tomorrow.”
“Are you certain?” Lucy asked, concerned. He was a lovely man, really. She didn’t want his reputation to suffer.
“Lucy!”
She turned quickly to Gregory. “Sorry. I didn’t mean— I just—”
Haselby gave her a wave. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. It was the best thing that could possibly have happened. Shootings, blackmail, treason . . . No one will ever look to me as the cause of the annulment now.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good,” Lucy said brightly. She rose to her feet because, well, it seemed only polite, given how generous he was being. “But do you still wish for a wife? Because I could help you find one, once I’m settled, that is.”
Gregory’s eyes practically rolled back in his head. “Good God, Lucy.”
She watched as he stood. “I feel I must make this right. He thought he was getting a wife. In a way, it’s not precisely fair.”
Gregory closed his eyes for a long moment. “It is a good thing I love you so well,” he said wearily, “because otherwise, I should have to fit you with a muzzle.”
Lucy’s mouth fell open. “Gregory!” And then, “Hermione!”
“Sorry!” Hermione said, one hand still clapped over her mouth to muffle her laughter. “But you are well-matched.”
Haselby strolled into the room and handed her uncle a handkerchief. “You’ll want to staunch that,” he murmured. He turned back to Lucy. “I don’t really want a wife, as I’m sure you’re aware, but I suppose I must find some way to procreate or the title’ll go to my odious cousin. Which would be a shame, really. The House of Lords would surely elect to disband if ever he decided to take up his seat.”
Lucy just looked at him and blinked.
Haselby smiled. “So, yes, I should be grateful if you found someone suitable.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
“You’ll need my approval, too,” Lord Davenport blustered, marching forward.
Gregory turned to him with unveiled disgust. “You,” he bit off, “may shut up. Immediately.”
Davenport drew back in a huff. “Do you have any idea to whom you are speaking, you little whelp?”
Gregory’s eyes narrowed and he rose to his feet. “To a man in a very precarious position.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You will cease your blackmail immediately,” Gregory said sharply.
Lord Davenport jerked his head toward Lucy’s uncle. “He was a traitor!”
“And you chose not to turn him in,” Gregory snapped, “which I would imagine the king would find equally reprehensible.”
Lord Davenport staggered back as if struck.
Gregory rose to his feet, pulling Lucy up along with him. “You,” he said to Lucy’s uncle, “will leave the country. Tomorrow. Don’t return.”
“I shall pay his passage,” Richard bit off. “No more.”
“You are more generous than I would have been,” Gregory muttered.
“I want him gone,” Richard said in a tight voice. “If I can hasten his departure, I am happy to bear the expense.”
Gregory turned to Lord Davenport. “You will never breathe a word of this. Do you understand?”
“And you,” Gregory said, turning to Haselby. “Thank you.”
Haselby acknowledged him with a gracious nod. “I can’t help it. I’m a romantic.” He shrugged. “It does get one in trouble from time to time, but we can’t change our nature, can we?”
Gregory let his head shake slowly from side to side as a wide smile began to spread across his face.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, taking Lucy’s hand. He couldn’t quite bear to be separated from her just then, even by a few inches.
Their fingers twined, and he looked down at her. Her eyes were shining with love, and Gregory had the most overwhelming, absurd desire to laugh. Just because he could.
Just because he loved her.
But then he noticed that her lips were tightening, too. Around the corners, stifling her own laughter.
And right there, in front of the oddest assortment of witnesses, he swept her into his arms and kissed her with every last drop of his hopelessly romantic soul.
Eventually—very eventually—Lord Haselby cleared his throat.
Hermione pretended to look away, and Richard said, “About that wedding . . .”
With
great reluctance, Gregory pulled away. He looked to the left. He looked to the right. He looked back at Lucy.
And he kissed her again.
Because, really, it had been a long day.
And he deserved a little indulgence.
And God only knew how long it would be before he could actually marry her.
But mostly, he kissed her because . . .
Because . . .
He smiled, taking her head in his hands and letting his nose rest against hers. “I love you, you know.”
She smiled back. “I know.”
And he finally realized why he was going to kiss her again.
Just because.
Epilogue
In which Our Hero and Heroine exhibit the industriousness of which we knew they were capable.
The first time, Gregory had been a wreck.
The second time was even worse. The memory of the first time had done little to calm his nerves. Just the opposite, in fact. Now that he had a better understanding of what was happening (Lucy had spared him no detail, a pox on her meticulous little soul) every little noise was subject to morbid scrutiny and speculation.
It was a damned good thing men couldn’t have children. Gregory took no shame in admitting that the human race would have died out generations earlier.
Or at the very least, he would not have contributed to the current batch of mischievous little Bridgertons.
But Lucy seemed not to mind childbirth, as long as she could later describe the experience to him in relentless detail.
Whenever she wished.
And so by the third time, Gregory was a little more himself. He still sat outside the door, and he still held his breath when he heard a particularly unpleasant groan, but all in all, he wasn’t wracked with anxiety.
The fourth time he brought a book.
The fifth, just a newspaper. (It did seem to be getting quicker with every child. Convenient, that.)
The sixth child caught him completely unawares. He’d popped out for a quick visit with a friend, and by the time he’d returned, Lucy was sitting up with the babe in her arms, a cheerful and not the least bit tired smile on her face.
Lucy frequently reminded him of his absence, however, so he took great care to be present for the arrival of number seven. Which he was, as long as one did not deduct points for his having abandoned his post outside her door in search of a middle-of-the-night snack.