Chapter Sixteen #3
Bright continued. “What the devil do you think is going to happen to all of you now? I must tell Bow Street what I’ve learned, regardless of your penchant for keeping secrets and threatening me as well as my wife.”
“Which is why we can’t let you leave, Inspector.” Mrs. Benson slowly came toward him with the knife clutched tightly in her hand. “We have a chance to start our lives over with relief; we’re finally free from the duke and his stranglehold of evil, and we aren’t going to let anyone ruin that.”
Lady Rebecca nodded. “I have a wedding to look forward to; my brother will represent me if needed, and without Papa, I’ll have a chance to move through society without fear that he’ll be out there saying embarrassing things or antagonizing the very people I need for my own purposes.”
Did everyone in this convoluted family think nothing of using others for their own gain?
Then everything seemed to slow down as if she were running through a muddy field.
As the conversation had wended its way to the inevitable conclusion, Lord Arsdale used the lull to slip out of the room with his fiancée.
When Cravitts noticed the pair was gone, he roused the alarm, and as he ran to follow them, Bright sprang into action.
Time accelerated. She rushed at Mrs. Benson while the inspector knocked the butler’s legs out from under him. The pistol was thrown from his hand and skittered over the floor. Exclamations of alarm came from various family members, but Mary ignored all the noise.
With a grunt, she engaged the housekeeper and was obliged to dodge thrusts from the knife.
The tip of the weapon caught her on the neck, but thanks to the high collar of her dress, the fabric tore but her skin remained untouched.
Sounds of a struggle between her husband and the butler reached her ears, but she concentrated on the housekeeper.
“Put down the knife, Mrs. Benson. It’s over. This horrible farce can be laid to rest.”
“It can’t be, Mrs. Bright. We’ve worked too hard to be free.” She slashed again, and the tip of the knife cut through the front of Mary’s dress.
“Drat. Do you know how much this frock cost?” Could a seamstress repair the damage? Such a waste, for she’d just had the garment delivered last month.
“You have lost touch with your roots, Mrs. Bright, since marrying into the Quality.”
Yes, Bright was the second son of a viscount, but that didn’t mean they lived off that family money. Not once had he asked his brother—the current Viscount Stansbury—for coin or assistance of any kind. He got his own living and pursued his own career without help.
“Being titled or from a beau monde family doesn’t make a man or a woman. It’s what a person does with themselves that sets them apart.” Again, she jumped out of reach of the blade. “For good or ill, a person chooses their own path.”
Bang!
The report of a gunshot brought all activity in the room to a halt.
Apparently Bright had managed to grab the dropped pistol and had shot Cravitts in the shoulder.
Smoke rose from the nose of the weapon. The butler writhed on the floor, clutching a hand to the bleeding wound.
With the distraction of the shot, Mary pounced on the housekeeper.
Once they fell to the floor, she grabbed Mrs. Benson’s wrist and banged her hand against the hardwood until she released the knife.
Mary kicked it away. She sat on the older woman’s legs to keep her immobile.
Yes, she was winded, but she was alive. When she glanced over at her husband, who stood with a boot planted on the butler’s chest to keep him on his back, she nodded. “All good, Inspector?”
“All good, sweeting. It’s finally over.” His chest heaved from his exertions. “Hopefully, and I can’t wait to shake the dust of this house off my boots.”
Seconds later, the sound of running footsteps reached her ears, then Major Kourier came into the room, pistol drawn.
“What the hell, Bright?” the major asked as he took in everyone occupying the room.
Her husband shrugged then handed the pistol to the major. “You know how it is when you close out a case. Sometimes, it’s messy.” Gesturing to the butler, he eased his boot off the man’s chest. “Get the wound wrapped. I need to think.”
Then he came over to Mary, and assisted her into a standing position. Once Mrs. Benson was hauled to her feet, he frowned. “Are you hurt?” he asked Mary.
“No, but my modiste will be upset her creation was wrecked.” The urge to cry beset her, from both reaction and the aftermath of adrenaline, but she blinked back the tears.
“What are we going to do about this?” She made a vague gesture to encompass the whole of the people in the room.
“Everything is a mess. There is truth buried in the dreck, but can it stand on its own?”
“God, I don’t know.”
Mrs. Benson sniffled. “Don’t you think that fate has seen justice served, that the duke got his just desserts?”
“That isn’t for me to say. I’m not a judge of realm.”