Alfred Chesterfield seemed to have aged a full score of years. His face was waxen, his steps faltering as Anant forced him into the room.

“Lord Rothburne.” Nigel smiled and gestured toward a chair. “So kind of you to join us.”

Stephen hid the knife behind his back, trying not to betray his motions as he eased the blade through the hemp. Nothing mattered unless he could free himself to save them. The ropes slipped, the threads fraying beneath the blade. Closer now…

“I possess a great deal of funds,” Alfred said. “We could reach an agreement.”

Nigel laughed. “I have stolen more money from you and others through the years by my own wits. Your paltry funds matter little to me.”

“You cannot possibly believe to escape justice,” the marquess insisted.

“I have lands in India and Africa,” Nigel said smoothly, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He yawned again, his voice growing softer. “And enough money to hide a multitude of sins.”

“No,” a voice said softly. “Your work here is finished.” Stephen turned and saw Emily standing. She entered the room, and Nigel aimed his gun at her.

Stephen’s world lost its footing when he saw her standing before his enemy. His beautiful, stubborn wife had no business endangering herself.

He ripped through the remaining ropes, clenching the knife in his palm. Before he could reach Nigel, Anant attacked, throwing him to the ground. The weapon slipped out of his grasp, and Stephen cursed, rolling sideways. When he rose to his feet, Anant now held the knife in his hands. His assailant struck with practiced assurance, moving in a deadly circle.

Weaponless, Stephen had no choice but to wait for his enemy to attack. When the blade swung toward his head, he blocked the strike, grasping the man’s forearm and wrist. Sweat beaded upon his forehead as he struggled to overpower the man.

“Stephen—” The words erupted from Emily’s mouth in a terrified whisper.

With a burst of strength, he rotated Anant’s arm, driving the blade down. The pair stumbled over Freddie’s body and Anant twisted, falling to the ground. Stephen seized control of the weapon and rolled, driving the knife into Anant’s chest.

He jerked at the sound of the revolver’s hammer drawing back.

“Quite impressive,” Nigel said, waving the gun in a mock salute. “But rather irrelevant, all things being equal.” He pressed the barrel to Emily’s forehead. “The only dilemma is which of you to kill first?”

“I was never a threat to you, Uncle,” Emily whispered. Her mouth trembled, and Stephen moved toward her.

“Take another step, and I’ll pull the trigger, Whitmore.” Nigel’s countenance appeared almost grey, his hands shaking. Stephen froze, not wanting the man to inadvertently harm Emily. Terror lanced him at the idea of her dying.