Having no more time to subdue Sampson, Lucan rushed across the hall. He was not going to stand by and watch his worst nightmare unfold. He was not going to lose another woman he loved to violence.
Horror filled him as Whitelock caught up with her. Reaching out, he pulled Frances’s hair, jerking her to a stop. She cried out.
Sampson tackled Lucan, taking him down to the floor, punching him in full view of what was transpiring upstairs. With desperation driving him, Lucan blocked Sampson’s next blow. Then with one uppercut, he sent the footman sprawling to the floor.
Frances grabbed hold of the railing while Whitelock took hold of her arm and twisted it behind her back. Crying out, she let go of the railing, and they both staggered.
Whitelock rammed into one of his pedestals, a bust of King George. It wobbled, clacking audibly on its marble base. The bust teetered, toppling forward, and Whitelock suddenly moved to save it. Apparently, he didn’t realize how heavy the head of a king could be. He staggered again. Before he could gain his footing, he crashed against the rail. He lurched backward over the edge—
On a sharp gasp, the room fell silent. Then it filled with Whitelock’s abrupt shout as he fell to the tile floor below. A sickening crack-thump echoed in the hall.
Focused on Frances, Lucan rushed up the stairs. Frances descended, tears streaming down her face, as she fell into his arms.
“I never should have doubted your honor,” she said on a sob.
He shook his head, crushing her to him. “No, you were right. I should have told you everything from the beginning.”
A low, warbling groan came from main hall. Lucan looked over the edge of the stairs to see Whitelock move his head back and forth on the floor. The bust of King George lay in pieces, scattered all around him. The viscount’s legs looked to be in similar shape but twisted at odd angles. And his hips were turned unnaturally as well. It was obvious his back was broken. While he might live, there would be no full recovery for him. He would likely spend the rest of his days confined to bed, with only a nurse to watch over him.
“My legs . . . ” the viscount croaked.
Mr. Greggs took one look at his lord and master lying crippled on the floor, turned on his heel, and walked out the front door. Sampson was still out cold. Hershell was just starting to stand up when the other servants came in from the back entrance.
There was a collective gasp at the scene. A maid with ebony hair looked up at Frances. “I told them everything. Mrs. Riley just . . . walked away. Burt is in the stables, comforting poor little Arthur.”
“Are you all right, child?” an older woman asked Frances.
“I am now.” Frances wrapped her arms around Lucan’s waist and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “I imagine the magistrate will be on the way soon.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” the woman said with a flit of her fingers. “We’ll see to everything.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Darby,” Frances said before she lifted her gaze. “Take me home, Lucan.”
On top of Quicksilver, they were both quiet on the ride to Fallow Hall. Frances leaned back against Lucan, taking pleasure in the steady strength of his embrace. She always felt safe with him, even when she had battled her better sense. Yet somewhere deep inside, she must have recognized his noble character. He was a good man. To have her faith restored, she’d needed only to open her eyes and trust what her heart had told her.
“I lied to you last night in the gallery,” she admitted. “I never stopped loving you.”
Lucan pressed a kiss to her head. “I don’t suppose you’d allow me one confession as well?”
She lifted her head from his shoulder. “You can tell me anything, Lucan. I will trust whatever you tell me. Or at least, give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“So then, if I were to tell you that I love you beyond reason, you would take the matter under consideration?”
Her breath left her lungs in one soft whoosh. Her heart felt light as vapor once again. “Well . . . it would have to be said in a convincing manner.”
He grinned, flashing a dimple. “Would it be convincing enough if I said the words over a blacksmith’s anvil in Gretna Green?”
He didn’t allow her to answer. Instead, he kissed her, tender and poignant at first, and then with a promise of passion.
In the end, she was thoroughly convinced.