Wentworth twitched again, and Valentine wondered if Bronwyn’s hit hadn’t knocked something loose in his head. He seemed deranged, tapping his head with the handle of one of the guns, and mixing insensible words with coherent ones. He glanced around, eyes widening on them, his head lolling from side to side.

“You were swiving in here, weren’t you? I can see the lust written all over you.” He leered. “Was she good? I always wondered if she was loose in morals. Perhaps I should kill you and avail myself of her sweet body. Then I’ll shoot her. It will be like a scandalous lovers’ quarrel.”

Valentine felt Bronwyn stiffen behind him and turned his palm at his side slowly to where she could see it. He had no idea if she was looking down or not, but he pointed toward his right boot. There was very little chance that someone wouldn’t get shot, but with two guns in play, he wanted to even the odds that it would only be him in danger. A few short taps with her fingers on the middle of his back let him know that she understood. It would take some coordination and finesse, but first they needed an opening.

“No one would believe you,” Valentine said evenly. “I proposed to Lady Bronwyn just this evening before your man abducted her. Ashvale would never believe it. There would still be an investigation.”

Wentworth shrugged. “I could say that the lady and I were seeing each other in secret for months, and you were a jealous lover.”

“People, like her mother, would ask questions.”

Wentworth stared at him and let out a frustrated roar that went to the rafters, making the horses in the nearby stalls whinny and stamp. “I need to think. I can’t bloody think!”

“Let Lady Bronwyn go, and then you and I can talk.”

Wentworth shook his head, pacing back and forth. “You’re trying to trick me. Let her go so she can call for help? I’m not a fool, sir.”

The seconds ticked by with their options dwindling. Perhaps he could make a dive for the guns and hope to take Wentworth down before he got a shot off. He seemed distracted, which could bode well or ill. Either way, there was no guarantee Valentine wouldn’t get killed by being rash. Or Bronwyn.

“Your Grace,” he heard her say from behind him. “I don’t feel well. It’s too hot in here. Oh, dear me, I’m going to swoon.”

Wentworth’s eyes fastened on them, but he didn’t do anything but watch as Bronwyn let herself slump in a slow graceless slide down to the floor. Valentine didn’t dare look down. He kept his gaze firmly on the man with the guns.