He spoke as though killing did not bother him in the least. “Where is my niece, by the by?” His tone held no trace of venom, only mild curiosity.

Stephen kept his expression neutral. “She is safe in London, far away from you.”

“Oh, no, I rather doubt that. She is quite fond of Royce and Victoria, you know. And my informants tell me she was traveling with Rothburne and your brother.” Nigel sipped his tea. “I do believe my men will find her soon.”

“Why did you want guardianship of the children?” Stephen asked. “What use would you possibly have for them?”

“I rather like them, actually. And young Royce has been quite helpful, giving me information about his father. As the children’s guardian, I could have full access to their father’s records and accounts. Not to mention, Royce is a nice lad. I may let him live if you cooperate.”

“You would harm your own family?”

Nigel clucked his tongue. “Now, now, Whitmore. We can’t have the two of you telling everyone in London about my shipping habits, now, can we?”

“You cannot kill everyone. Too many people know your secrets.”

“I suppose you may be right. We’ll just have to find out, now, won’t we?” Nigel gestured to Reynolds, sinking back against the couch. “I’m not terribly fond of this house. A good fire would take care of the bodies, and no one would be the wiser.” He stifled a yawn and signaled to Freddie. “Bring the marquess and the younger brother to me.”

Stephen lunged toward Reynolds. He managed to knock the man off balance, but Freddie shoved him against the floor. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

“I want to kill him now,” Freddie said, lifting a knife to Stephen’s throat. His voice sounded dreamy, almost like a caress. “And if he’s dead, Emily will be mine.”

“For one so devoted to murder, you seem to be rather incompetent at finishing your work,” Stephen remarked.

Glass shattered and gunshots roared from the outside. Though Stephen could not see his companions, he used the distraction to wrench himself free of Freddie’s grasp. The knife clattered to the floor, and Stephen threw himself toward it. With his hands bound behind his back, he struggled to grasp the weapon.

More gunshots erupted before an eerie silence fell across the room. Freddie lay in a pool of blood, his eyes open with surprise in the moment of death. Nigel appeared shaken, though he had fired several shots from his own pistol.

Anant emerged at the parlor entrance, holding the marquess by one arm. “The intruders are dead, my lord.” He bowed to Nigel, his black eyes vacuous. “Our guards handled the problem. You may finish your task.”

“And the younger son?”

“Will be dead in moments. He attempted to join Whitmore’s men and has a bullet wound.”