Dear Future Husband

48. The Hotel Westminster

25 April 1894

Rosalie's hand was warm in his, the thin silk of her glove leaching her warmth into his palm. He was torn between finding Redmond Flynn and allowing the three of them to make a quick getaway, or facing down the men whose invisible hands had guided the course of his entire life.

As if sensing his conflict, Rosalie squeezed his hand, reaching onto the tips of her toes so that her mouth brushed the shell of his ear. "Somehow, I don't think I want to leave yet. And here, I thought this dinner party would be boring."

He smiled but winced at the jolt of pain that lanced through his face at the expression. "With you, darling, life is anything but boring."

As they stepped away from the table, his bruises aching and clothes still smelling faintly of smoke, Maximilian noted those present in the room, looking as though they were part of an elaborate and violent tableau. Lord Dennings was twirling a pistol and appeared moments away from challenging Edgar to a duel. Lady Winthrop was standing behind her brother–accomplice?–Edgar, and brandishing a bottle of wine like a club. Edgar, meanwhile, wielded a scalpel that he must have found in the "doctor's" case he carried.

"How dare you come into my house, Edwin," Lord Dennings said with cool, deadly venom. "And the nerve of you to send an agent to harm my son."

The dossier he had read on Edgar Wakefield so many months ago flashed into his mind once more. Edwin Wright. Was this the man standing before him, looking so uncharacteristically cowed?

"What would I want with your useless brat of a son anyway?" Edgar–Edwin?--sneered.

"You are his uncle, and you wish to kill him and take his place, as you are the bastard heir to Marlborough without him in the picture," snapped Lord Dennings. "And this viper–this temptress–is only in my home because you sent her here."

"That isn't true at all!" cried Lady Winthrop, her blonde curls bobbing as she stomped toward Oliver Dennings. "It is nothing but a falsehood. Edgar wants to kill your son. I wanted him to marry my daughter."

"The two of you only want my title, wealth, and estate!" roared the duke.

Maximilian almost felt a shred of sympathy for the man. After all, he was mislaying blame on Edgar for trying to kill him, when in reality he was sure it had been a botched attempt by Redmond to create a distraction for Maximilian and Rosalie to escape. Then again, his sympathy vanished when he thought of the man he might become if he had been under Lord Dennings' tyrannical thumb during his childhood.

"Your Grace!" Redmond bolted out of the door leading to the servants' passageway. "The kitchen is on fire!"

Lord Dennings sighed. "Not this nonsense again. Honestly, what sort of incompetent staff have I hired? Are you all a lot of frogs?"

Just then, Edgar rushed forward and made a swing at Redmond with his scalpel, a clumsy move that Redmond immediately blocked. "Are you, Lord Dennings, harbouring agents of the crown among your household servants? This man is a man of the law! How can you–"

"I have had enough of your antics, Edgar. Consider yourself fortunate to escape with your–"

Just as he was about to finish uttering his threat, Lord Dennings was knocked flat onto his face by a wayward burst of flame that erupted from the fiery gates of hell–that was, the underground servants' entrance, from which plumes of smoke were shooting into the air. He landed on top of Edgar, who made a noise that gave Maximilian good reason to think he had fallen on his own scalpel. The two men wrestled in a heap of limbs, each struggling to escape the burning heat.

Dropping her wine bottle with a crash, Lady Winthrop made for the nearest exit, apparently not caring if her only daughter survived. Maximilian pulled Rosalie toward the French doors leading to the garden, and felt Redmond's strong hand on his shoulder steering him toward safety. Just as his hand touched the crystal knob, he heard a croak.