Page 102 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Chapter 38
Michael straightened and slowly turned. Nick scrambled to his feet beside him, rubbing at his recently bound wrists. Without tearing his eyes away from the pistol, Michael placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder and pushed the boy behind him.
“To answer your question, Morsley, the reason I haven’t killed Nick is because he’s worth nothing to me dead. Alive, on the other hand, I can sell him to a ship captain I know who makes sail four days hence. I’ll be eight pounds richer, and he’ll be far enough away that he can’t go squealing to Bow Street. Considering my friend runs the West India route, he’ll probably be dead soon enough from some hideous tropical disease. It’s the ideal solution.”
Michael glowered at Scudamore. “The West India route—do you mean a slave ship? You disgust me, that you would count such a man as your friend.”
Scudamore sneered. “Ah, yes—there’s the sanctimonious prig I remember from school. Always sticking up for some sniveling first-year and ruining my bit of sport.”
“If that’s how you remember me, then I’m glad not to have changed.”
“Oh, but you’re about to.” Scudamore grinned. “You’re about to be transformed. Into a corpse.”
Michael’s mind raced, trying to come up with any sort of strategy. “You’re not going to kill me,” he said, even though he was fairly certain that was wrong. The only thing he could think of was to keep Scudamore talking.
“Dim, as always, Morsley. Of course I’m going to kill you. You know that I’m the one who had Smithers killed. You therefore have to die.” He waved to his henchmen, who began fanning out into the room. “Besides, I need you out of the way so I can marry Lady Wynters.”
“You will never marry Anne,” Michael growled.
“She’ll need someone to console her after the tragic death of her childhood sweetheart. As the only one who can describe your final moments, I’ll be well positioned. Then I’ll get her thirty-five thousand pounds and access to that lucrative charity of hers.” He grinned even bigger, clearly enjoying himself. “To say nothing of getting her flat on her back for me every night.”
Michael started forward with no thought in his mind but ripping Scudamore’s head from his worthless body. Nick grabbed his arm. “Don’t listen to him, m’lord,” he murmured.
Michael drew in a breath. Nick was right. The situation was bad enough without him going off half-cocked.
He turned to the man from Bow Street who’d accompanied them. “Hewitt, listen to me. You work for Bow Street. You swore an oath to uphold the law.” Hewitt looked away and shifted his weight uneasily but said nothing. Michael tried again. “You’re better than this. It’s not too late—”
“Of course it’s too late,” Scudamore said. “Who do you think quashed the investigation before you went and appealed to Lord Hobart? He took his thirty pieces of silver, now he has to see this through.”
The man with the black eye stepped forward. “Can we have some fun with him before you shoot him? I owe his lordship here a facer.”
“You know, I would quite enjoy seeing that.” Scudamore took a step back but didn’t lower Anne’s pistol. “Enjoy yourselves.”
The last thing Michael did before two of the thugs seized his arms was to shove Nick back toward the corner. He scarcely had time to brace himself before the man with the black eye punched him in the gut.
Getting punched wasn’t particularly comfortable, but after four years on the Canadian frontier, he was used to uncomfortable.
He ignored the pain, ran through his options, and made a decision.
Giving a great roar, he surged forward, trying to headbutt the man who’d punched him.
It didn’t work, but that was all right.
He hadn’t intended for it to.
It did cause the two thugs holding his arms to pull as hard as they could, struggling to restrain him.
That was what Michael had wanted.
He abruptly relaxed his right arm. This had the effect of sending the man to his right, who’d been expecting his resistance, stumbling off-balance. Michael followed this up by reversing course and pulling in the same direction as the man on his left, which sent him careening into the wall.
They wound up in a tangle, causing just enough confusion for Michael to wrench his arms free.
Now that he was loose, he figured Scudamore would try to shoot him, so Michael dove for the wall. Surely enough, the report of a pistol filled the room, accompanied by the sound of a shattering windowpane.
He caught a glimpse of Scudamore scowling at him through a haze of smoke, but he didn’t have time to gloat, because there were four men closing in on him.
There was a ladderback chair by the wall. Michael snatched it up and wheeled to face his opponents.
