Page 98 of A Problem Princess

He continued to pace slowly after her around the room, and she prayed she could come close enough to the door to try to sprint for it.

“I was tired of having to beg my older brother and the Crown Council for my allowance and any position of power, no matter how slight,” he explained coldly. “So I took matters into my own hands. You can’t fault me for that.”

“You caused the death of Monrovian soldiers and sailors!”

“Who would have died in battle anyway,” he justified. “It was inevitable. Why not have some good come of it?”

“Good?” Dear God, she was going to be sick! “You’re a monster!”

“I’m a realist,” he shot back. “It was your father who lived in a fairy-tale fantasy about princes being just and caring rulers. When Reginald learned what I’d done, he insisted that I admit to my crimes before the Crown Council and resign from my royal offices. His mistake was giving me time to put my affairs in order while he visited Italy. Thank God he never returned.” His eyes gleamed wickedly. “When I became ruling prince, I began to think bigger. Why settle for only one throne when I could have two? The British tired of their mad and corrupt royals long ago, and they will welcome a better alternative. The death of Princess Charlotte and her son only worked to speed plans along.”

“No!” She shook her head, summoning all her courage to defy him. “I won’t let you do this!”

“Who is going to stop me? You?” He laughingly sneered, “Or that undersecretary of yours, the same man I plan on blaming for your murder?”

Her gaze darted toward the door. It was so close that she began to think she might be able to escape. But the hallway was impossibly silent.Wherewere the guards?

“The only thing standing between the British throne and me was you, Cordelia.” His face contorted with hatred as he snarled, “And you still are.”

He lunged. He grabbed her by the shoulders and tossed her onto her back on the large desk. Then he leaned over her, his hands clamping around her throat.

Cordelia grabbed at his wrists to push his hands away, but he was too strong. The most she could do was kick at him with her knees and struggle beneath him to free herself, but it wasn’t enough. Already, she fought to breathe, and her throat constricted. Black spots flashed before her eyes. But she wouldn’t surrender—shewouldn’t!

She let go of his wrists and began to strike at his face, clawing with her fingernails and jabbing at his eyes with her thumbs.

He arched himself away, but his hold on her throat remained as strong as ever.

Her arms fell away and hit the desk, which was covered with writing instruments and files. She reached desperately for whatever she could grab.Somethinghad to be there, something she could use as a weapon or—

Her hand touched a short, sharp object. Her fingers closed tightly around it.

The office door crashed open, shattering the frame and slamming back against the wall. Startled, Ernest looked up in surprise.

Cordelia let out a fierce cry and struck with the silver letter opener. The sharp blade sliced through his clothes and into his soft belly.

Ernest howled in pain and staggered back. Hatred burned from him, and he ran toward her even as scarlet blood seeped from his wound.

A large body hurled through the air and plowed into Ernest, throwing him backward against the stone wall.

“Clayton!” she cried hoarsely from her burning throat, her relief so great that she crumpled onto the desk.

She winced with each hard punch that Clayton pummeled into her uncle. Behind her at the door stood Danielle and two of the men from the Armory…and the comtesse, attempting to slip out the door.

Cordelia cried, “Stop her!”

With an angry glare, Danielle stepped in front of Marie and blocked her way. “Going somewhere, Comtesse?” The duchess pointed at a chair near the wall and ordered, “Sit.”

Seething with rage, Marie sank onto the chair.

But it was Clayton who filled Cordelia with fear. He continued to pound Ernest with his fists even as her uncle fell back helplessly against the wall and sank to the floor, even as he lay on the floor and whimpered beneath Clayton’s furious onslaught.

She pushed herself off the desk and grabbed his right arm as he pulled back yet again for another crushing blow. “Clayton, no!”

He stopped. His lungs heaved hard with exertion, and he gasped for both breath and control as he looked over his shoulder at her.

“Don’t kill him,” she pleaded.

She slid her hand down his arm and laced her fingers through his. He couldn’t swing another punch without yanking her with it.