Duke rose a little and peered around the church. “The vestry.” He pointed to the right of the altar. “Hide in there.”
The front door inched open, the bench screeching on the flagstones. Violet grabbed his arm. “He’s going to break through.”
“Go. Quickly,” he urged.
She caught the determined set of his chin and the steel in his eyes. If he felt any fear, she could not sense it. His muscles were rigid beneath her fingertips, and she drew strength from it. Whatever happened, Duke would ensure everything was fine.
“What are you going to do?”
He flashed her a grin. “I have the upper hand.”
“He has a gun,” she hissed.
“Go and hide, Vi. I mean it.”
She swallowed, searched his gaze, and nodded. Doyle wanted to use her for leverage, and he still wanted Duke for his father. They had to take advantage of that. She could not let Doyle use her against him.
Remaining low, she hastened down the length of the pew then straightened and dashed to toward the vestry. At least, she supposed, the church was empty. The candles on the altar remained lit so there was a high chance the vicar or someone had been here for prayers. She had no doubt Doyle would have used anyone here against Duke, and Duke was too good a man to let someone get hurt because of him.
She only hoped he hadn’t been bluffing. She hoped he really did have the upper hand.
Violet ducked into the room and stole one last glance at Duke sneaking his way down the line of pews. Every inch of her body ached and throbbed, but nothing was as painful as the ache in her chest as she shut the vestry door and pressed her back to the icy stone wall to gather her breath. This was Duke—the cleverest man she knew. The bravest too it seemed. He’d survive this.
He had to. Tears singed her eyes and made her throat tight. He simply had to.
She glanced around the room. Many a Sunday had been spent at St. Michael’s but she’d never stepped foot in the vestry. It housed a large wooden trunk, two shelves worth of leather-bound books, and a simple mahogany desk and large candles she often stared at during a particularly boring sermon during Sunday worship. Should she look inside the trunk? See if she could hide there perhaps in case it all went horribly wrong?
No. She pressed her hands against the wall behind her, allowing the chill to seep through her gloves. If it all went horribly wrong, she would fight until the bitter end to be by Duke’s side.
A thud made her jump, and she held her breath, able to make out footsteps and Doyle calling Duke’s name. A sickening heaviness weighed on her chest while she waited. Her skin pricked when the slow footsteps increased in volume. The door handle rattled and squeaked, and she swung a glance sideways to see it twisting. Violet dashed a look around. She should have tried the trunk, but it was too late. Frozen, she forced herself to take a long, shuddery breath and tensed.
The door inched open. A gunshot reverberated about the church. She clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from crying out. No pain came and no bullets lodged themselves in the walls or door.
The thudding of boots stalked away.
She couldn’t bring herself to feel a sense of relief. The gunshot had been aimed somewhere in the main building. Duke could be shot.
Violet narrowed her gaze at the empty candlesticks. Duke might have told her to hide but she knew what she had to do. The door remained ajar, allowing herself to press her face to the gap and peer out. Doyle stalked amongst the pews as he reloaded his pistol with shot and powder but he didn’t spot her.
Time was short. She slipped through the open door, sprinted to the altar and snatched up one of the candlesticks. It was heavy but not as heavy as she’d hoped. The flame wavered in protest and a dash of hot wax singed through her gloves.
Doyle twisted at the sound of movement and lifted his pistol. Movement behind him caught her attention and Duke threw an arm around the man’s neck then snatched the hand holding the pistol. Violet instinctively ducked as Doyle pulled the trigger, but the shot went wild, embedding into a pew with an explosion of wood. The pistol dropped from Doyle’s hand and skittered down the tiled aisle.
Violet had no use for it without shot and powder, so she kicked it far away from the tussling men, watching wide-eyed as Duke latched his hand onto his arm and pulled tighter. Doyle staggered and clawed at the hold Duke had on him.
She mirrored their steps, candlestick clasped in both hands. Duke strained to hold the tall man and muttered something about “Just give up, damn it.”
Face red, Doyle shoved back, slamming Duke into the wall. Duke issued a groan of pain and his grip weakened. Doyle made to repeat the movement, moving forward. With all her strength, she tossed the candle at him. He howled as hot candlewax splattered across his chest and face while the candle stick clanged to the floor.
When he threw himself back again, Duke released him and leapt aside. Doyle’s momentum carried him, and his head connected solidly with the stone church wall. Violet winced at the awful, hollow sound it made. His eyes rolled upward, and he slowly sagged, his knees going from beneath him before he dropped forward with a thud.
Violet put a hand to her mouth. “Is he dead?”
“We’re not staying to find out.” Duke took Violet’s hand and lead her out of the church. She spied the curricle coming up the lane and he dragged her toward it.
The driver gave her a sheepish look. “I-I thought I should probably help seeing as I—”
“You’ll take Lady Violet home.” Duke practically shoved her up onto the vehicle.