Tom had his eyes narrowed on Marianne. She was snarling at Rosalie, her mask of gentility utterly abandoned. For the first time in his life, Tom felt like he saw her, the real Marianne. The poor woman was undone with grief or madness. Both.
Then he saw the pistol. His first thought was that Marianne meant to shoot Rosalie. At point blank range, she’d kill her for certain. Rage and panic erupted from his chest in the form of a guttural cry as he lunged forward. But then a force slammed into him from behind, twisting him as the weight dragged him to the ground. At the same time, the shot rang out, echoing around the great hall.
All around, people screamed as Tom scrambled out from under the weight of whoever had shoved him aside.
Burke’s body went limp as he slid to the floor.
“No,” Tom panted. “Oh god—Burke—no!”
Behind them, James let out a feral cry, shoving his way forward. He dropped to his knees, helping Tom turn him over. “Where is it?” he barked, his hands searching frantically against the black of Burke’s coat. “We need a doctor! Now!”
Burke groaned as they jostled him. His eyes were open, but his gaze was unfixed as he panted through his pain.
“Shoulder,” Tom grunted, sighing with relief even as he blinked back tears of rage. Right shoulder. Away from the neck. Through and through. If they could staunch the bleeding. If the bullet had broken no bones. If no fragments remained to poison the blood. If—
“Rosalie,” James growled, placing both hands over Burke’s wound, red blood seeping through his fingers. “Renley—”
Burke’s blood.
Tom was going to be sick.
“Tom!” James barked. “Rosalie!”
Tom gasped as a wave of new terror flooded him. “Wha-where is she?”
“I don’t fucking know,” he snapped. “Go fucking get her! We can’t lose them both!”
Stumbling to his feet, Tom took off. He barreled through the crowded hall, shoving people aside. “Out of the way!” he bellowed. “Move!”
He couldn’t think about Burke bleeding on the floor. He couldn’t think about James and the terror in his eyes. Rosalie was all that mattered now. Finding Rosalie. Keeping her safe. He blinked as he spied a familiar face in the crowd. Little Madeline Blair.
“They ran off,” she cried, tears wet on her cheeks. “The lady with the pistol ran, and Rosalie followed.”
“Which way did they go?”
“That way.” She pointed with a shaking finger.
He took off, slamming through the side door into music room. This room connected on either side to a long set of ensuite rooms. He ran to the middle of the room, glancing sharply left, then right. Both doors were open. They could have gone either way.
Damn.
He paused, taking a deep breath, and holding it, quieting all sounds but the echo of his beating heart. He closed his eyes tight and waited.
A shriek.
A slamming door.
Right.
He took off again, sprinting through the right-side door, into the ladies’ sitting room, though to the morning room. He came skidding into a back hallway. At the end of the hall, he spied the tail of Rosalie’s blue pelisse disappearing around the corner. Desperation filled him. She was chasing after Marianne. She was going to get herself hurt or worse.
At the end of the hall, he darted left, nearly crashing into an ornate pair of glass double doors. The left one was partially open, and he shoved it, spilling into the conservatory. The heat of the room and the thick smell of exotic flora filled his nostrils.
“No!”
“Getoffme!”
“Give me the gun!”
With a growl, he sprang forward, darting down the row of fruiting trees. His heart dropped from his chest as he cleared them. There in the corner, near the wall of glass, Rosalie and Marianne were tangled together on the ground, scrambling for control of the pistol that shot Burke.
“Marianne, enough!” Tom barked, stepping forward.
Both women stilled at his voice. The distraction was all Marianne needed to tug a knife free from her leather half-boot. Tom watched in horror as she brought it up to Rosalie’s neck.
“I say when it’s enough,” she shrieked, pressing in with the knife point at Rosalie’s throat.
Rosalie gasped, going still.
Terror filled Tom as the knife pricked Rosalie’s skin. A bead of dark red blood streaked down the silver.
“Get up,” Marianne grunted. “Up, get up.”
Together, she and Rosalie shuffled to their feet, all while she kept the knife at Rosalie’s throat. The pistol lay forgotten. It was madness to fight over it anyway. It only had one shot. Marianne would’ve had to reload to use it again.
“Burke,” Rosalie whimpered, tears falling.
“Alive,” he replied.
“Don’t speak!” Marianne cried. “Don’t even look at her.” She pressed in with the knife and Rosalie strained her neck, trying to shift away from its sharp point.
Tom took a slow exhale, raising his hands in surrender. They were both stained with Burke’s blood. He saw the look of horror on Rosalie’s face, but he ignored it. He had to. “Okay, it’s alright. We’ll do this your way. I’m not looking at her. Marianne,” he coaxed, his voice soft. “Mari…look at me.”
Marianne blinked back her tears, pulling Rosalie back a few steps. In a panic, Rosalie put her hands around the arm holding the knife to her throat, but Marianne stiffened, pressing in again with the point until Rosalie stilled.
“Mari, just look at me,” he pleaded. “Talk to me. I’m right here. You wonder why there’s such confusion between us, but you don’t talk to me anymore. You only talk to her. But she doesn’t matter,” he soothed. “She is nothing compared to the history we share, you said it yourself—”
“Don’t placate me,” she cried, tears falling. “And don’t you dare pity me!”
“I don’t pity you,” he replied. “Only, help me understand. What is it you want from me?”
“Why-why won’t you just love me?” she cried. “I’ve done everything I can to make you love me. I wanted you to fight for me, but you didn’t. I had to marry Thackeray. And then in the spring, when I heard you’d come back, I knew this was our chance. But you’re spoiling it with her!”
Confusion swirled with suspicion in his gut. “Oh, god,” he whispered. “Mari, when did you learn I had returned to England?”
She shook her head, her lips a thin line.
His suspicions turned to a deep sense of knowing. “Mari…what did you do?”
“I did nothing!” she spat. “Nothing except fight for the future I’ve always wanted. The future we are meant to have together! I will not let one more person stand in our way!”
Rosalie let out another whine that threatened to tear Tom apart.
“Mari, tell me what happened to Thackeray.”
Suddenly Rosalie stilled, putting the pieces together. Her eyes went wide, and he knew she shared his suspicions.
“It was a carriage accident,” Marianne replied, her tone emotionless. “A foggy day. The coachman was going too fast, and Thackeray was clipped crossing the street.”
“Did you arrange it?” Tom whispered. “Did you push him?”
Marianne hissed. “How dare you suggest such a thing?”
Tom shook his head, putting the pieces together. “I arrived back in England…then your husband suffers an accident that claims his life. You wait barely three months, hardly even a proper mourning period, before writing to me, seeking to renew our friendship.”
“I did only what I had to do! I would do anything for you, Tom. Shall I prove it yet again?” She pressed in with the knife and the blade sliced Rosalie’s skin, red blood dripping onto the white lace at her collar.
“Tom, please—”
“Don’t speak to him!” Marianne shrieked.
“Mari, look at me,” Tom barked. “Look at me right now.” Her red rimmed eyes focused on him, and he took a breath. “She does not exist. Just let her go. She is nothing. A penniless ward. The only one in this house who truly cared for her is George, and he just let his title be stripped away. She has no one left. There is no one left to care for her. You’ve won. You’ve already won.”
He couldn’t bear to look Rosalie in the eye and say the words. It was all he could do to inch closer, ignoring her panting breaths, her blood dripping from her neck.
“Mari, let her go now,” he soothed. “You don’t want to hurt her. She’s harmless. Just let her go and come to me. I didn’t understand before how much you loved me. I see it now. You don’t have to keep fighting so hard to win me. I just want your love. Come…” He took a step closer, holding out his hands. “There is only us.”
Her bottom lip quivered. Slowly, her grip on Rosalie loosened. In moments, she was shoving Rosalie away.
Rosalie dropped to her knees, gasping for breath through her sobs, her hand at her throat.
Tom rushed forward, wrapping Marianne in his arms. Marianne sobbed, clinging to him as the knife clattered to the flagstones. He held her tight, trying to soothe her, even as his pulse raced out of control.
“I just wanted you,” she cried into his chest. “I’ve only ever wanted you.”
“You have me,” he replied, banding one arm around her waist and one around her shoulders. “I’m right here, Mari.”
Giving Rosalie a nod, he held tight to Marianne.
With a feral shriek, Rosalie raised a potted plant and slammed it down on the back of Marianne’s head. Tom felt her go limp in his arms. He sagged to his knees, letting her fall with him, and laid her down. Putting two fingers to her neck, he checked for a pulse. It was faint, but there.
“She’ll live,” he muttered.
Shaking with emotion, Rosalie dropped to her knees on Marianne’s other side. He reached for her, but she slapped his hand away, tears falling thick and heavy.
“If you meant any of what you just said—”
“I didn’t,” he growled. “You know I didn’t.”
She sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I think she killed her husband,” she whispered, looking down at Marianne’s prone form.
Tom nodded. “I think she did too.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“We need to go,” she said at last, getting to her feet. “Come.” She held out her hand. “Burke needs us.”
“You go,” he replied, ignoring her hand. “And send Mrs. Robbins or Wilson as soon as you can. I’ll wait here with her. We need them to call the constables.”
Rosalie stood over him. He could feel her eyes taking apart each one of his threads. “You are not to blame for this,” she declared. “Marianne is unwell. She has been for a long time. None of this is your fault.”
Tom just nodded. He knew it was the truth, but he wasn’t ready to hear it. “Go, Rosalie. Burke needs you. If he wakes and you’re not there, the doctor may have to do the same to him,” he said, gesturing to the shards of broken flowerpot.
She put her hands on her hips, her gaze boring into him. “I love you, Tom Renley. Find us later, or there will be hell to pay. You think she’s possessive? You clearly haven’t considered what it means to belong to James Corbin.”
