Page 100 of Cold November Rake

Whitlow tsked and shook his head. "She may be carrying an heir. I would have preferred not to hurt her, but you had to go and fill her with a child. That is your doing, not mine."

"I shall leave everything in my will to you."

"It is not enough." Whitlow drew a folded handkerchief from his pocket and stepped close. "Open your mouth. We will wait until the servants are asleep."

He bent toward Sutton, the pistol in one hand and the linen in the other.

The library door opened.

"Edward?"

Whitlow's head snapped toward the sound. It lasted barely a heartbeat, but it was enough. Sutton lunged upward, closing both hands around the gun.

"Run!" he shouted.

They crashed against the desk, sending the ledger and the lamp tumbling. Whitlow, stronger than he looked, fought like a cornered cat. They hit the carpet together, and the pistol skittered from their grasp, sliding across the floor toward the hearth.

They rolled, Whitlow clawing toward the weapon. Sutton caught his collar, dragging him back, taking a knee to the ribs for his trouble.

Over Whitlow's shoulder, he saw her.

Temperance.

In her nightrail and bare feet, her hair tumbling down her back, she ran not from the fight, but toward it. Or, more precisely, toward the gun.

"Tempe, leave!"

The half-second he spent looking at her was the half-second Whitlow needed. A fist caught him squarely in the jaw, and the room swung. Whitlow tore free, lurching to his feet.

Then he dashed toward her.

Temperance yelped, and then the shot rang out.

Whitlow cried out, a thin, astonished sound, and dropped to his knees, one hand clamped to his shoulder, red welling between his fingers.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then boots thundered in the hall, and the room filled with footmen in nightshirts and breeches, one clutching a poker, all looking about like madmen. They took in the shattered lamp, the earl on the floor, the countess standing with a smoking pistol in both hands and a face white with shock, and the bleeding man of business on his knees.

In the space of a breath, they decided who the villain was.

"Got him," one of them said, and three of them tackled Whitlow to the carpet.

Temperance could not feel her hands.

Or her feet.

Or anything for that matter.

She watched as though from a great distance as the footmen bound Whitlow's wrists and half-carried, half-dragged him out, while the butler sent someone running for the surgeon. The room emptied slowly. The smell of powder hung in it, sharp as a struck match.

Then Sutton crossed the carpet in three strides and took the pistol from her fingers. He set it on the desk very gently, as though it might go off again. Then he took her by the shoulders.

He was white to the lips, his eyes frantic.

She thought he would envelop her in a tight embrace. Kiss her, perhaps.

Instead, he gave her shoulders a little shake.