Page 91 of A Rogue to Watch Over Me
His gaze lit upon the wrinkled carpet. “What’ve your hooligans done to my floor?”
“Recently, I have noticed that the board has worked loose. I had not wished to trouble you with the matter, but perhaps now that you’re aware of it, you will send someone to make the necessary repair.”
“I will do no such thing.” His scowl intensifying, he marched to the spot on the floor, kicked the rug aside, and lifted a corner of the unmoored plank. “When you leave, I will expect compensation for the damage. How in thunder did you—”
The tap of a walking stick against the floor cut through the landlord’s tirade.
Good heavens, not now.Amelia whirled around.
Cecil Mansfield strolled toward them.Blast it. Why had the infernal man returned?
A wiry, sharp-featured man in a well-tailored suit followed Mansfield into the room. Had he brought his solicitor to pressure her to accept his offer?
Mansfield coolly took in the scene. “In view of this unsightly damage, perhaps I shall have to adjust my offer.”
“I was not expecting you.” Appearing ill at ease, Mr. Driscoll set the board back in its place. “I will see to the repair.”
“Obviously.” Mansfield’s mouth shifted into a serpent’s smile. “It appears it is rather fortunate for me that you had not anticipated my arrival.”
“Pay no mind to this,” Driscoll said, seeming to picture the sum he’d counted on from his deal with Mansfield evaporate into thin air. “I’ll fix up the place. You’ll see—”
“Yes,” Mansfield said, leaning heavily on the silver cane. His attention fixed on the crumpled rug. “I can see what has happened here. It’s quite clear, isn’t it, Mr. Smith?”
“Without a doubt,” the wiry man replied.
“I will see Mrs. Stewart and her companions on the street before the ruffians who frequent this place do more damage,” Driscoll went on.
“Ruffians, eh?” Mansfield toyed with his walking stick.
Driscoll offered a solemn nod. “Unsavory sorts of the worst—”
A wolf’s smile curved Mansfield’s mouth. Light flashed against the metal cane. Without warning, he whipped the rod around in a brutal arc.
The walking stick crashed into Mr. Driscoll’s temple.
He sank to the floor. Eyes wide and uncomprehending, his mouth moved weakly. “Help me,” he choked out.
Amelia’s scream echoed in her ears as Mansfield met the man’s helpless plea with another ruthless blow. This time, Driscoll’s eyes went shut.
Betraying no sign of emotion, Mansfield wiped the walking stick against the landlord’s coat and began to search the pockets of the unconscious man’s jacket. “This one’s always so bloody nervous. Makes me wonder what the fool has been hiding from me. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Smith?”
“Indeed.” The tall, lean man nodded as he eyed Driscoll with distaste. Stepping past the unconscious man, he turned his attention to Amelia. “It’s high time we had a talk.” His tone was as coolly threatening as the dagger in his hand.
Instinctive fear surged through her. She could not surrender to it. She had to stay calm. There was no choice.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Johnstone raise her weapon. Amelia’s pulse thundered in her ears. She needed to keep the men’s focus on her.
“Don’t... do not come any closer,” she said, deliberately infusing her words with a pleading tone.
Smith continued his advance. The look in his eyes told her he enjoyed the sight of her fear. “You’ll do what we tell—”
Mrs. Johnstone squeezed the trigger.
The bullet slammed into Mr. Smith.
He froze in mid-stride. For a moment, it seemed he did not comprehend what had taken place. He stared blankly at the ugly red stain spreading over the formerly pristine wool of his coat, a hand’s breadth beneath his right shoulder.
“Bugger it,” he murmured. Slowly, he turned to Mrs. Johnstone. He took a lumbering step toward her. “You’ve only one shot. You think that will stop me?”
