Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(165)

He let out a contemptuous snort. “You are a very foolish woman to even think such nonsense. To accuse the duchess of wanting to murder—”

“You may deny it all you want,” she said fiercely as she took a step back and to the side of the cradle. “But I will not let you touch this child.”

The count’s distinguished features pulled down in a snarl. “You are indeed a fool, Mrs. Steele.”

With a deft twist of the wrist, he pulled a slim, lethal-looking blade from his walking stick. Justine stifled a gasp. Sweat gathered under her stays and at the base of her spine.

Marzano flicked a glance at his henchman. “Fetch the child.”

The thug had barely taken a step when Justine whipped her pistol up and pointed it straight at his chest. In some distant part of her mind, she heard her father’s voice whispering encouragement and counseling her to hold the weapon in a steady yet comfortable grip.

The big brute pulled up, rolling a startled glance at Marzano.

The count had gone still, but his dark gaze sparked with heightened fury. He studied her, clearly calculating the risk. “Put the gun down, Mrs. Steele, before I am forced to hurt you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And yet I would appear to be the only person in this room holding a pistol.”

He gave her a smile that chilled her to the bone. “But you will never use it. Even you cannot be so foolish to think you can simply murder the lawful representative of San Agosto, ally to the British Crown. I have the Regent’s personal support. No one could save you in those circumstances, not even your precious Sir Dominic.” He laughed. “And certainly not your husband.”

Again Marzano flicked a glance at his man. The thug started toward the cradle.

“Perhaps,” Justine said. “But I can shoot him.”

She pulled the trigger and the pistol kicked in her hand. Her ears rang as she saw the brute grab his shoulder and stagger into the chair by the cradle, tangling himself up with it and falling to the floor. The baby’s high-pitched shrieks echoed the deafening explosion of the gun.

For an instant, Justine and Marzano froze in a horrible tableau. Then he whipped up his blade, his countenance red with fury.

“She-devil,” he hissed. “Now I will kill you.”

He crouched as if to spring, but before he could come at her someone hurtled through the door, taking Marzano down to the floor. The crash of bodies shook the floorboards.

Griffin.

Justine gaped as her husband fought Marzano for control of the blade, still clutched in the Italian’s hand. Terrified the glinting length of steel might catch Griffin, she started toward them.

“Stay back,” her husband snapped in a voice more exasperated than breathless. “I’ve got this under control.”

And despite the harrowing struggle, he did. In mere seconds, he had hold of Marzano’s wrist, twisting it backward with a brutal, efficient snap. She heard the sickening crunch of bones over the count’s shrieks. As the blade clattered into the corner, Griffin swarmed to his feet in a fluid blur. Reaching down, he grabbed Marzano by his coat with one hand, lifting him halfway off the floor. Then, with his other hand, he drilled a punishing right fist into the man’s jaw. Marzano’s eyes rolled back in his head and Griffin released his grip, letting the count thump back to the floorboards.

Griffin straightened up, tugging his tailcoat back into place. Aside from the long hair tumbling out of its tie and the slight flush across his cheekbones—and the bleeding knuckles of his right hand—her husband seemed hardly discomposed. Justine could only stare at him, openmouthed, stunned at how quickly and effectively he’d dispatched his opponent.