Page 84 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Forty-One

There was a scraping sound at the front door Lawrence knew only too well.

A pick-lock.

He felt Flora tense behind him at the unmistakable sound of the door clicking open, then being softly closed.

“He’s inside the cottage!” she whispered in outrage. “You must do something!”

Yes, he must. But something was making him pause. If he handed Nat over to the authorities, it would put an end—very likely a bloody one—to any future dealings with the local wreckers.

However, if he didn’t stop Nat, he’d be pitting himself against Major Wilberforce. And Flora, with her loyal adherence to legality and authority, would never speak to him again.

Cursing Fate in an extremely colorful way—but too low for her to hear—he slipped from their hiding place and approached the door.

When she moved to follow him, he signaled her back, then reached into his coat pocket and handed her his loaded pistol.

She accepted it with trembling hands, exclaiming softly, “But if I have this, what are you to do?”

“I don’t want to shoot anyone,” he whispered. “But you must if it comes to that. If anyone you don’t recognize comes near that door, don’t ask questions, just fire. It doesn’t matter if you miss, they’ll get the message.”

He hated leaving her on her own, but chances were that Nat had come alone, so she’d be safe enough.

As Lawrence crept up to the front door, he realized there was only one way he could emerge from this without risking everything. He’d have to knock Nat out and make sure the villain never had any idea who’d struck the blow. With any luck, the man would think it was Wilberforce who’d done it.

Lawrence put his ear to the door and opened it the tiniest crack, listening intently. Not until he was positive he’d heard a floorboard groan upstairs did he risk slipping inside and closing the door.

Taking a moment to get used to the darkness, he made his way up the stairs, presumably in Nat’s wake. It seemed to take him forever, stepping carefully on each tread, not trusting his weight to it until he was convinced it wouldn’t creak, keeping to the outside edges of the staircase where the boards were firmest.

So, Nat was expecting to find Flora in her bed, was he? The whoreson! Attacking a vulnerable woman in her own house? Lawrence was disgusted. How had he ever come to associate with such lowlife scum?

It wouldn’t take long for Nat to discover Flora wasn’t in her bed. Lawrence would have to act fast. What would it take to knock the bastard out? He needed a weapon, something hefty but not sharp. Noticing an open bedroom door, he eased inside and crept over to the fireplace.

A good quality brass poker. That should do the trick.

With it in hand, he peered through the open door of Flora’s bedchamber. He gauged Nat’s position, took a firm grip on the poker, and, in a single movement, burst into the chamber and dealt the man a mighty blow on the back of the skull.

Instead of dropping like a stone as he’d hoped, Nat spun around, bellowing like a rampaging bull, and lifted his hand.

Lawrence ducked, then went for Nat’s arm, not sure if his foe held a pistol or a knife. Neither was welcome, but Lawrence gave him no opportunity to use his weapon. A sharp uppercut to the jaw sent the wrecker reeling back against the tallboy, and before he could recover his balance, Lawrence rushed in with the poker once more and landed the intruder a one-handed blow to the temple.

This time, Nat succumbed. Which was just as well, because, at the very same moment, the room was filled with light, and a tremulous female voice said, “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot you where you stand, you, er, dog.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

Lawrence dropped the poker, spun around and dived at Flora, then wrenched the firearm from her hand.

“Ouch!” she protested.

“Sorry.” He stood over his fallen opponent, leveling the weapon at his head, just in case. Thankfully, he could see the man was out cold. But for how long? Had he recognized Lawrence as his attacker?

“Flora, you foolish wench, I told you to cover the door. How are we to know he has no accomplice? And please don’t point a firearm in an enclosed space when you don’t know how to use it. You could have put a hole right through me.”

She ignored his tirade. “What are we to do with him?”

“First, bind, blindfold, and gag him before he wakes up. Can you find some cord or rope?”

Bless her, she wasted no further time on questions, but bustled about, lighting lamps and divesting the drapes of their ties.