Wicked Becomes You(77)

“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, Mr. de Grey—please, it was—not at all what you think!”

“It was exactly what you think,” Barrington said. He yanked down his suit jacket. “What do you mean, poking about up here?”

Alex fixed him with a grim stare. He had no idea what Gwen thought she was achieving by loitering across the room from him. Did she want to witness bloodshed? He felt unusually willing to deliver it. “I will ask you,” he said icily, “the same question. Did I not make it clear that Miss Goodrick is off limits to your attentions?”

Barrington worked up a smirk. “The lady does not seem to agree. Perhaps we should consult her in this matter.”

“Oh!” Gwen put her hands behind her back and looked at her toes. “Oh,” she said softly. She looked up to Alex, eyes woeful, almost pleading. “I’m so sorry, Mr. de Grey. But it is such a hard decision. On the one side, you’ve been everything good to me. On the other, Mr. Barrington . . .” She trailed off and sighed, as if his magnificence were too large to be put into words. “I begin to understand,” she said hesitantly, “why ladies used to insist that knights joust for their attention. If only one victor were left standing . . . it would be so much easier to decide, wouldn’t it?”

For a brief moment, Alex actually felt in sympathy with Barrington: the man’s sneer was fading into a puzzled frown. “Miss Goodrick,” Barrington said, “I would joust any number of men for you, were we knights.”

“But I don’t think you’d win against Alex,” she said pointedly, and gave Alex a sudden urgent look.

Oh, Christ. He understood where she was going with this. He hoped she had a good reason for it. He sighed and cracked his knuckles to loosen them. Fists were not his forte, of course, but the week in Paris had sharpened him up after the laziness of the sea journey.

Barrington reached into his jacket, outright scowling now. “All right, enough,” he said, and as he withdrew his hand, metal glinted in the light. Alex went very still. “I must say, I’m disappointed,” the man continued to Gwen. “I’d hoped you were merely a talented trollop along for the ride.” He lifted the gun, then turned it on Alex. “Time for some truths,” he said evenly. “I waited for you to approach me, but now I begin to think you never intended to do so. Which leads me to ask: what the hell are you doing in my house? Weston wises up, discovers shit where his liver should be? That’s a fine specimen of manhood.”

Alex distantly registered Gwen’s gasp. A cold calm descended, just as it did in the training salon. His thoughts felt clear and sharp. “I have no idea what you mean,” he said flatly. Guns were tricky beasts. A kick could disarm the man or it could cause the gun to discharge. And Gwen had no cover to take.

Barrington gave a sharp laugh. His grip on the gun did not waver. “You think me a fool? I thought I recognized you that first night. Something familiar about the eyes. But it took a bit of inquiring to confirm it. The ruthless Mr. Ramsey. Curious choice of an emissary—I never heard Weston speak highly of you.” His eyes narrowed suddenly. “But if it’s dirty work he’s designing, I can understand the choice.”

Alex sensed some movement from Gwen. Stay still, he willed her. He could not risk looking to her to telegraph the message. He did not want to lead Barrington’s attention back to her. “I’m no emissary of my brother,” he said. Christ. How pathetic that he’d not remembered this truth before bringing Gwen along. He’d risked her, here, thinking himself in aid of his brother, when his brother was—what? The victim of a swindle? Common blackmail? What the hell was going on here? How had Barrington convinced him to part with the lands?

“Then explain yourself,” said Barrington. “Or shall I ask the lady to explain?”

Thoughts of Gerry evaporated. “She knows nothing.” He watched Barrington intently. The man was nervous. The corners of his mouth were twitching. Earlier, Alex had mistaken that tic for a very irritating smile. “And I discuss nothing with a gun trained on me.”

“Forgive my approach,” the other man said dryly. “Your deception does not inspire politesse. Although why I bother, I don’t know. Indeed, why do I bother? Weston is a gutless sack. If he hired you to play the man in his stead—well, I am sorry for you. Would that you had stuck to your own game; I can’t afford distractions right now.”

Instinct was everything. Alex could sense, in the minute shading of the man’s voice, the slightest shift in his posture, that he had made a decision, and it boded no good for anyone. “All right,” he said quietly, intention coiling through him. One single kick—