“Don’t come closer or she’s dead.”

“And then you’re dead. I’ll break your neck.”

At that ferocious vow, Richard imagined the crack of his bones and felt the prickle of cold sweat. For an instant, he considered using the single bullet on himself rather than face his cousin’s wrath. His death would be quicker and less painful. But there’d be no need for bloodshed if everyone cooperated.

“Don’t hurt Miss Fanshawe,” Leo yelled, wiggling against his bonds.

“Hush, darling,” she said with surprising calm. “Everything will be fine.”

Her composure irked Richard. She’d always acted high-and-mighty, as if she were the equal of him and his family. It also annoyed him that she stood an inch or two taller than himself, an unnatural Amazon of a female. But at least she was slack, making no move to fight him.

If he could just reach his carriage, spring his horse, head for the coast …

He backed toward the door, dragging her along with him, his gaze fixed on his cousin’s murderous expression. “You’re to stay right here, Clayton, while she and I go to my phaeton. Bert, get his pistol.”

The groom started around the table. It was then that it happened.

Miss Fanshawe shifted one arm slightly. Richard yelped as something sharp pierced the tender flesh of his groin. A knife.

“No,” she stated. “You give your pistol to Hadrian. Unless, of course, you prefer to be gelded.”

Her threat wrested a whimper from him. God only knew what tricks she’d learned from living in the wilds of America. He slowly lowered the gun and then stood paralyzed, his attention fixated on the proximity of the blade to his privates. “Do have a care!” he choked out.

The next moment happened in a blur. As Clayton took a step forward to collect the weapon, Bert made a dive for the duke. Clayton spun toward him. A gunshot split the air, and the groom crashed to the floor with a loud thump. He lay there, moaning, clutching his leg, blood staining his thigh.

Horror-struck, Richard surrendered his own pistol to Clayton. His limp fingers had lost the strength to grasp it, anyway. “The knife, Miss Fanshawe! Do remove it at once!”

The duke removed Richard instead, pulling him away from her with an ungentle yank. The brutal fury on his face curdled Richard’s blood. “I wouldn’t have hurt her—or the boy, I swear it! It was my blasted debts … I’m sorry!”

“Sometimes being sorry just isn’t enough.”

Clayton’s fist flashed out and struck Richard’s jaw. The force of the blow jerked his head back and propelled him into the wall. Fiery pain splintered his skull, a torment so excruciating that he lost the ability to hold himself upright. He crumpled into a groaning heap on the floor, his mind dazed to all but the throbbing agony in his head.

He lay there in a half-faint, sensing movement around him but unable to comprehend what was happening until he felt someone staring at him. He cracked open his watery eyes and struggled to focus.