“Now I know you’ve lost your mind,” Nicholas snapped.
“I don’t like the situation any more than you do, but you must admit, her plan has merit.”
“Nicholas, you and Sir Percival will follow me into the house and ensure you hear the confession. I will be perfectly safe. You will be a few feet away should you need to intervene.”
Helen’s heart skipped a beat.
Desperate men did desperate things.
They wouldn’t be quick enough to stop pistol fire.
But she couldn’t think about that now. She was to play a key role in saving Nicholas, not watch proceedings from the stalls.
They debated the matter for another five minutes. Eventually, they agreed on a plan and vacated the carriage thirty yards from the house.
Opening the iron gate without it creaking, Helen descended the stone steps to the basement while Nicholas followed closely behind. She peered through the window and found the kitchen deserted.
“Do you plan on being this stubborn when we’re married?” he said, pulling her into the shadows and stealing a quick kiss before Sir Percival appeared.
“Most definitely. Being married to me will be one wild ride.”
“I don’t doubt it, but promise me you’ll have a care.”
“If you think I’ve waited seven years for nothing, think again.” She cupped his cheek and returned his kiss. “I won’t do anything to ruin what we have. I plan to be married to you for a very long time.”
Sir Percival appeared in their line of sight, and so Nicholas set about completing his task—finding a way for them to gain entrance. He shrugged out of his coat, pressed the folded garment against the small windowpane to muffle the sound as he used his elbow to shatter the glass.
Waiting a few seconds to ensure no one came to investigate, he reached inside and unlocked the door. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Dismissing a pang of trepidation, she entered the house.
All was quiet.
Stillness hung in the air like an ominous presence.
Every instinct said to turn around and put a hundred miles between her and the murdering fiend, but for Nicholas’ sake, she crept through the kitchen into the narrow corridor.
Voices reached her ears, feminine giggles and a man’s muffled moans. She followed the sounds to a door at the end of the cold corridor.
She beckoned Nicholas and the magistrate closer and then tried the handle. The door opened with ease, and she entered the room to find the maid and footman embracing on the unmade bed.
Helen cleared her throat. “Excuse me. Might you tell me where I can find Monsieur Laurent? No one answered when I knocked earlier, hence why I tried the basement door.”
The couple shot off the bed as quick as a wink. Both straightened their clothes and stood to attention, their cheeks burning so fiercely it took the chill from the room.
“Is that a concealed weapon?” she said, suppressing a grin and pointing to the hard rod in the man’s breeches.
“N-no, ma’am.” The footman wrung his hands and stared at the floor. “Monsieur Laurent is upstairs in the drawing room.”
“Thank you.” She gestured to Sir Percival, hovering in the background. “The magistrate would like to ask that you remain here until he says otherwise.”
The couple paled when the portly gentleman waddled into the room. He presented his dog-eared calling card and spoke in the sharp tones of a man with little patience. Then Mr Hope appeared with Sebastian and agreed to take the servants’ statements.
Sebastian drew her aside. “I’ll follow you upstairs shortly,” he whispered. “Once I’m certain there’s no one else in the house.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it like he might never see her again. “I’ve always had the utmost respect for you, Helen. Don’t let my highhanded ways convince you otherwise.”
“I know.” She came up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry for what I said about Michael. He loved you more than anything.”
“Be careful,” he said, releasing her hand.