The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(69)

In many ways, it would have been a blessed relief to faint and give himself time to think, to find a way out of this. But Benedict’s hard, violent eyes seemed to hold him upright. He couldn’t even pretend. Instead, he blurted, “Rosa has spoken?”

Benedict smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. “We can’t stop the flow of words from her now.”

Swayle felt sick to his stomach. He could deny whatever the child said, but he could not denounce her, make out she was lying from hatred since he’d just spent weeks convincing everyone he and Rosa loved each other like father and daughter.

“You made her,” he managed to choke out.

“Made her what, Swayle?” Benedict pressed. “And I really think you should remove your hand from Mrs. Grant’s arm, for she does not care for it. And if Grant does not knock you down, I will.”

“More violence, sir?” Swayle snapped, clutching at straws. However, he released Mrs. Grant, whom he’d forgotten in the sudden confrontation with Benedict. He needed to get away from here and either regroup or move on. Perhaps he should go back to London…

With what dignity he could muster he stalked past Benedict, ignoring the vicar and Richard Benedict who were approaching rapidly. He swiped up his cane from the corner he’d left it in and leaned on it a little more than before as he made his way out of the ballroom to the blessed coolness of the foyer.

Here he could at least draw breath and think. He could not ignominiously turn tail and run, for that would surely confirm his guilt. He would refresh himself in the gentlemen’s cloakroom and pray for inspiration.

Forcing himself to smile and bow to the few late arrivals in the foyer, he walked past them and abruptly stopped, staring at the individual leaning beside the doorman as though having a pleasant chat.

“Miller!” he blurted.

Miller grinned and tipped his disreputable hat. “Mr. Swayle.”

What the doorman was thinking of, allowing such an individual into these hallowed halls on the night of a gentry ball, was beyond Swayle. Presumably Miller had, finally, come to report his abject failure. Too late, for the evidence was flaunting herself inside.

“Get out,” Swayle snarled. “I’ll deal with you later.”

“This the man?” the doorman said. And Swayle, peering closer, saw that it was a different doorman from the last time he’d been here.

“Aye, that’s him,” said Miller, and the doorman straightened so suddenly that Swayle knew without doubt that he’d made a deadly mistake.

“Name’s Bolton,” the “doorman” said conversationally. “I’m from Bow Street, and you, Mr. Swayle, are under arrest.”

There was nothing else for it. Swayle leapt back and lashed upward with his cane.

“Watch out,” came Benedict’s warning cry from behind. “It’s a sword-stick!”

He remembered, damn him, he remembered everything. But it was too late. Swayle had already drawn the sword free and thrust hard, not at the runner but at Miller.

*

Caroline had observed the moment Swayle began to make his way out of the ballroom. Although naturally outraged by his part in trying to kill her—for no better reason than to make Javan suffer—it was his cruelty to Rosa that made her really want to witness his downfall.

She excused herself from the group of people Serena had introduced her to and followed him. She wasn’t surprised to meet her husband in the doorway. She even took his arm and felt the hint of tension in him. For he had planned this with military precision, including the unsettling of Swayle by their presence and by the accusations that had come from Kate Grant. They had been supposed to come from her husband the vicar, but it seemed Kate had got there first. Either way, the encounter had its desired effect. Swayle had left the ballroom, where the Bow Street Runner and Killer Miller awaited him.

There were only a few people in the foyer, and voices carried. Caroline heard Miller’s identification quite clearly, and then the runner’s somewhat arrogant introduction.

“Damn it,” Javan muttered, detaching his arm from her hold. “Bolton’s supposed to secure him before her reveals–”

He was already running across the entrance hall and shouting his warning when Swayle jumped out of easy reach and dragged the sword from his cane. His intention was clear—silence the man whom he’d paid to commit murder. And Miller was both bound and hemmed in by the door and the wall.

Terrified for Javan, Caroline stumbled after him. Two ladies emerging from the cloakroom screamed. A gentleman shouted a furious demand that the fight be taken outside.

Then Javan slammed into Swayle’s back, his arm streaking around his enemy’s throat and locking hard as he dragged him back. The sword missed Miller’s heart by a fraction of an inch.

Swayle jerked, trying to shake him off, to make use of the weapon in his right hand. But the sword could not reach Javan, and Swayle could not dislodge him with his constricted elbows or his feet. Javan seized his right wrist in a grip so hard that Swayle cried out in his effort to hold on to his weapon.

“You, stay where you are,” the runner instructed Miller and advanced menacingly upon Swayle.

The sword clattered to the floor, and Bolton, the runner, scooped it up. Javan’s arm squeezed tighter until Swayle made a horrible choking noise. Caroline, her heart in her mouth, was suddenly terrified that Javan would kill him. She ran the last few paces, seizing his free arm.