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“He had what should have been mine, and had he not been so damned greedy and shared with me, he would still be alive,” Lord Timothy spat. “His greed was the end of him.”

As yours will be the end of you, she vowed silently.

Lord Timothy was a tall man, though he was lean. She wasn’t certain she could overpower him, even if she were to strike him with the fire poker at her back. She had to distract him. To keep him talking, at least until Apollo arrived.

“But what of Reggie?” she pressed, trying to keep the trembling from her voice. “You tried to push him in front of a horse and cart. He is just a boy. What has he ever done to you?”

“He stands between me and the title. When I arranged it so that I was made guardian, I thought it would be enough. The notion of killing a child was difficult to stomach. But then I realized how much easier it would be if he were simply gone. I would become the marquess.”

“If you harm me, everyone will know,” she said. “Reggie is safe now, where you will never get to him. You’ll never be the marquess.”

“When you die, your paramour will be heartbroken,” Lord Timothy said with a sneer. “He’ll abandon your brats to me as their rightful guardian, and then, it will be their turn. Accidents can happen so easily, you know. A fall down the stairs. A carriage accident. Gastric fever. I’m sure the poor lad will be prone to it, considering it claimed his father before him.”

It was the icy, deliberate calm in his voice as he spoke of plotting Reggie’s murder that undid her. Ophelia lost all semblance of control. With a fierce cry, she swung the fire poker at him, using all her might.

It connected with his shoulder instead of his head as she had intended, the solid blow sending it clattering to the floor. It gave her just enough time to race past him and out the door of the nursery.

“You bitch!”

Heavy footfalls sounded after her. He was close. Her skirts weighed her down, thick and layered and bustled at the back. She caught them in her hands and ran as fast as she could, down the staircase.

“Help!” she called out to the servants. “Call for the police!”

From below, barking sounded.

Bitsy and Henry began bounding up the steps toward her.

“No,” she cried, fearful Lord Timothy would hurt them. “Go down at once. Run along, you two.”

She suddenly felt a shove at her back, rough and hard. The impact sent her flying, tumbling end over end down the next flight of stairs.

Bitsy and Henry rushed past in a flurry of fur, barking and intent upon avenging her. She stopped on the landing on her stomach, dazed but somehow uninjured, and rolled to her back in time to watch Lord Timothy kicking at the dogs, who had seized his trousers in their jaws, growling.

“Bitsy, Henry,” she called, rising to her feet. “Come.”

But the dogs didn’t listen.

“Phee!”

Apollo’s desperate cry cut through the raucous noise.

“Apollo!” she called back. “Up here! Help me!”

Apollo sprinted up the staircase to the landing, the Duke of Wrighton at his side.

“Are you hurt, my love?” Apollo demanded, rushing to her and taking her into a protective embrace.

“He pushed me down the stairs,” she managed. “He’s going to hurt Bitsy and Henry.”

In the next moment, a tremendous thump sounded. Bitsy and Henry somehow managed to leap to the side and slide down the stairs as Lord Timothy fell end over end, punctuated by the dull crack of his head hitting the solid mahogany banister. He landed at the base of the stairs, his neck at an unnatural angle.

Bitsy and Henry scampered to her side, gathering around her skirts.

“I-is he dead?” she asked Apollo.

His arms tightened around her. “I don’t know. Mal?”

Wrighton approached Lord Timothy and rolled him onto his back using one booted foot. Lord Timothy’s chest wasn’t rising and falling, and his head lolled lifelessly to the side.