“Bramble,” the dealer shouted over his shoulder.
The large man left his place at the entry and plodded toward the table. “What is it?”
“Seems this gent here,” the old man began, pointing at the menacing gamester, “thinks that gent there is counting cards. See if he is, will you?”
Iris guffawed at the dealer’s words. “Though I’m not intimately aware of the particulars of cheating at cards, I do know that it’s something one does with one’s brain. How do you propose, Mr. Bramble, to prove such a thing?”
“Simple, really. I’ll break your neck if you don’t tell me the truth.”
And with that, the giant moved toward Iris and made to pluck her by her head from her seat, hat and all.
God Almighty. James jumped to his feet, pushed Iris forward, then grasped the edge of the table, tipping it up and over onto the remaining players. The feel of Bramble’s thick fingers as they curled around his neck wasn’t unexpected, but still painful as the man took hold of him with a viselike grip and pulled him back away from the table.
Unable to break Bramble’s hold on his neck, James shoved backward with all of his weight and smashed Bramble into the wall, pitching forward and repeating the movement a second time and a third. Bramble’s fingers loosened. James grabbed an overturned chair and smashed it against the wall, breaking a leg free. By then Bramble seemed to have recovered some strength, his grip tightening yet again.
James gripped the chair leg and swung it over his shoulder, the sound of it connecting with Bramble’s face both gruesome and gratifying. James took several more whacks before Bramble fell away from him and landed on the floor with a deafening thud. James turned to make sure that the hulk had been knocked clean out then surveyed the room. All of the men were fighting now, save for the dealer, who was desperately trying to retrieve every last coin and pocket it for himself.
James found Iris tucked up in the corner, the upturned table a barrier between herself and the offended player. The maneuver had been quick thinking, but it was obvious she had little time left before the man captured her.
James quickly closed the distance to the gamester and then tapped him on the shoulder. When the man turned his angry face to see who had summoned him, James let loose with the chair leg, striking the man squarely across the cheek.
He dropped hard to his knees, looking as if he might say something, then his eyes rolled back and he fell flat on his face.
“Come, Iris, there’s no time to waste.”
Iris looked utterly surprised at the sound of her name, her eyes narrowing as she looked closely at James’s face. “Do I know you, sir?”
“It’s Rougier, mademoiselle. Now, come with me.”
The hidden door within the room at the Eagle’s Nest proved not to be the most direct escape route. James thumped on the door hard and it gave way, revealing a dank, dark hallway. He’d yanked a chair in one hand and Iris in the other through the opening, slamming the door shut and wedging the chair up against it in the hopes that the obstacle would hold the men off for a trifle longer.
He pulled Iris down the hallway, reaching a hot, cramped kitchen where a number of women looked up from preparing an assortment of meats and side dishes. James adopted a superior stare and continued on through the steaming, smoke-filled room as if he knew exactly where he was going. He spied what appeared to be a door to the outside and strode confidently toward it, Iris following behind him.
He turned the handle and shoved the door open, yanking Iris clear of the threshold before slamming it shut.
They emerged in the alley that ran behind the Eagle’s Nest. James heard and smelled the presence of horses. He looked across the alley and could just make out what he assumed were the Nest’s stables.
“Well, that’s a bit of luck anyway,” he said under his breath, tightening his grip on Iris’s arm as he prepared to go in search of their horses.
Suddenly Bramble burst through the door behind them, with the dealer following. “You weren’t thinking of leaving now, not when everything’s gettin’ interesting?”
James shoved Iris behind him and gave the two men a sardonic smile. “Bramble, it wasn’t sporting of you to attack the gentleman, especially when he was correct. One can hardly prove that a player is cheating.”
Bramble rolled up his sleeves and spit into his hands, rubbing them together with a bit too much glee. “I believe I’m going to enjoy this.”
“Leave him to us,” someone shouted from down the alley. James turned to his right and found three men coming their way.
“Go to the stables, Mademoiselle Bennett.” He gestured across the lane. “Find your horse and return to Kenwood House.”
“I cannot in good conscience leave you here—”
James hardly had the time to argue with the woman. “Go. Now.”
Iris’s terrified gaze flicked to Bramble, then to the approaching men, and finally back to James, before she spun on her heels and ran for the stables.
James sneered at Bramble, who’d taken notice of the men as well and was backing toward the door.
“Afraid, are you?” James asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.
Bramble pushed the dealer back through the door. “Not afraid. Just know when to leave well enough alone.” He stepped over the threshold and pulled the door shut.
The moment the door closed on the two, James focused his attention on the men in the alley. “Come now, gentlemen. Doesn’t this seem a tad excessive?”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” the apparent leader spat out as he toyed with the length of wood in his hand.
As a general rule, James quite liked fighting. He was naturally good at it and often started arguments with the full intent of finishing them by blackening someone’s eye. Carmichael claimed James could do with some boxing lessons, since his style was more underhanded than a gentleman’s should be. But that was, in part, what made James so good. He held no qualms about fighting dirty, especially when it came to opponents such as those he was about to face.
He glanced about and quickly assessed what there was to be found close at hand, reaching for a discarded broken bridle and reins. “If you insist.”
“Oh, we do,” the leader snarled, then ran at James. His club cut through the air at eye height and James instantly ducked, narrowly missing being brained before he could throw a punch.
The other two jeered at the man’s miss, which only angered him more. “Be a good boy and stand still now.”
James yanked the reins from the bridle and wound one end of the supple leather about his right hand. He swung the loose end until it whipped in the air, then flicked it at the length of wood, ripping it from his attacker’s hand.
The brute reacted with pure rage, running full tilt for James with his hands outstretched. James watched the man’s footsteps closely, counting down until his attacker had at most only three more paces before he reached James. At that exact moment, James lunged for the man’s gut and knocked him over, forcing him down to the ground, where he landed on his right side. James planted his foot against the brute’s ribs, pulled a knife from his own boot, and sank the blade in just below his armpit.
Blood began to run from the wound and the man’s body stilled. James looked up as the two remaining attackers moved closer, both with knives drawn. He slid his blade back into his boot and grabbed a discarded gig wheel. Gripping it to his chest with both hands, he braced himself for the impact as the two charged. The men split off from each other, one remaining directly in front of James while the other ran in a wide path around him. As the man in front attacked, James absorbed the force with the wheel then spun to meet the second man behind. He continued to twist, the two stabbing James three times before he flipped the wheel on its side and drove it into one of the men with a quick lunge forward. James spun and kicked the second man’s legs out from under him. The man hit the ground hard. James turned back to the first. He dropped the wheel on top of him and leapt on it, landing hard.
The sound of cracking ribs echoed in the alley. The attacker’s face grew more flushed until his eyes bulged and he ceased to breathe altogether.
Without warning, James was shoved forward. He landed hard on the packed earth in front of the stables. Instantly, he rolled from his stomach to his back just as the third attacker’s knife sliced through the air to narrowly miss James. The man dropped to his knees on top of him. His left hand grabbed at James’s neck and squeezed while his right hand raised to plunge a knife into James’s heart.
James reached for the knife and desperately attempted to pry it from his attacker’s hand. His chest was on fire, as was his throat, but he fought on, knowing he had mere seconds before the attacker robbed him of his last breath.
The man’s grip loosened slightly as he focused his strength on the knife. The blade was slowly moving closer and closer to James’s flesh, threatening to pierce his heart. He dragged a ragged breath into his lungs and willed every last ounce of strength into his hands, the knife finally dropping from the attacker’s hand.
The man scrambled for the knife, letting go of James’s throat. James punched him in the gut, then landed a second blow to his chin, knocking the brute to sprawl on the dirty cobblestones. James retrieved the knife, shoving upright and turning swiftly to find the man already rising.
“I must say, I’m surprised at the lack of loyalty within Les Moines,” James ground out breathlessly, pulling his elbow back, then thrusting it forward, the knife savagely coming to land in the attacker’s stomach.
“I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about,” the man replied, holding his stomach as bubbles of blood spilled from his lips.
James released the knife and stood, quickly moving his injured body toward the stable doors. He opened one roughly and limped inside, noticing a growing spot of blood on his breeches just below his hip.
He ignored the groom who appeared from out of the first stall and continued down the aisle, searching for the gray.
Squeak stepped from the last stall, eyeing James with horror. “He’s here, sir,” the boy called.
James walked to Squeak, reaching awkwardly into his waistcoat pocket and producing a handful of coins. “Did you do as I asked, boy?”
“Yes, sir. He’s been fed, watered, and treated like a king, he has. I wanted to help—when I heard the row and all,” the boy answered apologetically. “But Smith there told me to stay put.”
“Then you wouldn’t have done the job that I asked you to do, now would you?” James reassured the boy. He dropped the coins into the lad’s waiting hands then walked into the stall. “Now, do me a favor and give me a boot up, would you?”
The boy did as James asked, then stood back and watched James maneuver the gray out of the stall and down the barn aisle. “And if anyone asks after me, Squeak?”
“I never heard of ya, nor seen ya neither, sir.”
“Well done, boy.”
She should have brought a lantern, that much was clear. Clarissa tripped over a molehill for what seemed the thirtieth time as she ran toward the barn. The moon in the dark night sky afforded some light—sufficient enough for Clarissa to have picked her way through the cutting garden’s neat rows and hedges. But the lawn that stood between Kenwood House and the barn was proving more problematic.
Pettibone had detained Clarissa until she’d nearly screamed with frustration. Their search of the library had proven fruitless, as Clarissa had known it would be. Pettibone had mentioned he needed to speak with Daphne, setting Clarissa’s mind racing. She’d insisted he accompany her to the kitchens where, in all likelihood, James would be discovered enjoying a light supper. When they’d not found James there either, Pettibone had suggested they partake of the cook’s secret supply of port. Clarissa had reluctantly agreed, the few sips that she’d taken of the strong drink doing little to settle her already jangling nerves.
She saw a growing light in the distance. Certain it could only be the stables, Clarissa ran toward it. Pettibone had refrained from accusing Clarissa of withholding James’s location, but just barely. The truth was that she didn’t know where James was—not precisely anyway. Her opportunity to follow him to the gaming hell had vanished the moment she’d heard Pettibone’s voice outside James’s chamber. She only prayed that Daphne had made it safely to the stables in time.
Worry made her run faster until her lungs threatened to burst. She hit the pebbled path to the stables with a satisfying crunch and sprinted the remaining distance.
She reached the large double doors and pried one open. The light emanated from the left. She carefully closed the door behind her then hurried to the tack room.
“Merde, Thomkins,” James yelled from inside the room.
Clarissa pushed open the door and found a chaotic scene. James, shirtless and bleeding, sat on a wooden chair in the corner. Iris was holding a clean length of gauzy fabric and a bottle of brandy. Thomkins stood over James, a crude needle and thread in his hand as he stitched up what looked to be one of three fresh cuts that Clarissa could see.
“What is going on here?” Clarissa demanded, shutting the door behind her and rushing to where the three worked.
James flinched as Thomkins set the last stitch and bit off the thread with his teeth. “How did you know where I was?”
“Daphne,” Clarissa replied tightly, the sight of James in pain making her blood run cold. “Is she safe?”
“I drove Daphne to the Fireside Inn myself, sir,” Thomkins answered, tying off the thread.
Clarissa sighed, thankful at least for the maid’s escape.
“Monsieur St. Michelle, please accompany Mademoiselle Bennett back to the house,” James pressed, his hands gripping the sides of the chair as Thomkins readied the needle. “And be sure that no one sees you.” He implored Clarissa with his eyes that she simply do what he asked.
And she knew why. If this had anything to do with Pettibone, then Iris was in just as much danger as they were.
“I should stay and help,” Iris argued, gripping the fabric tightly. “After all, you risked your life for me. The least I can do is see to your treatment.”
Clarissa couldn’t think straight, the strength it was taking just to remain calm nearly draining her. “Mademoiselle, why, after Rougier informed you of our decision, did you venture out? And alone, no less.”
“I wasn’t alone,” Iris said defensively, looking at all three with desperation in her eyes and voice. “There was a servant—Smith, I believe. He escorted me to the Eagle’s Nest. Once I’d paid my way into the punters’ room, he went in search of rum punch. He never returned.”
Clarissa looked meaningfully at James. If this Smith was indeed a member of Les Moines, wouldn’t he have been given strict orders to stay with Iris, no matter what may have arisen?
Perhaps the issue wasn’t whether Smith was a member of the organization, but rather just what his orders had been—and who gave them to him. It was Pettibone, of course. It had to be.
Clarissa could feel her head growing light as fear and anger bubbled up inside her. She’d suspected that Pettibone could not be trusted. She should have gone to James sooner. If she had, there was every possibility that he would not have been harmed this evening.
“It’s of no concern now, je vous assure,” James said reassuringly to Iris, even attempting a small smile though he was clearly in a great deal of pain.
“I’ve put plenty of horses back together, Mademoiselle Bennett. At least Monsieur Rougier here won’t kick me,” Thomkins said, then smiled. “That is, I hope not.”
“Come, mademoiselle, you look exhausted,” Clarissa urged, taking the girl’s hand and all but dragging her to the door. “I’ll see you to your room and find a maid to assist you to bed.”
Iris set the fabric down on a grain barrel and looked back at James. “Not that I am doubting your skills, Thomkins, but I would be more than happy to call in a proper surgeon.”
“That will not be necessary, Mademoiselle Bennett, but thank
you for your kindness,” James replied, his voice resolute.
Iris looked as though she would continue to argue, so Clarissa pulled her out as quickly as she could. The darkness, save for the small sliver of light from beneath the stable doors, greeted them as they began their short journey back to Kenwood House.
“Was it worth it?” Clarissa knew that she shouldn’t have asked. She sensed that even Iris, such a formidable, headstrong, obstinate girl, could not bear the question. It was spiteful, asked out of pain and guilt. But she asked it all the same. The shock of seeing James injured and the realization that Pettibone presented a far more urgent threat than she’d thought had been too much.
“I could have died in that gaming hell—should have, really,” Iris responded, her voice oddly distant. “If not for Monsieur Rougier …”
The moon was enough to dimly illuminate Iris’s face. She wasn’t crying. No, she was staring straight ahead as if she could only see the gaming hell and nothing else.
“I don’t know why I do the things I do, St. Michelle,” she continued as she pulled the hat from her head. “Do you ever feel that way?”
Clarissa’s problem was the exact opposite of Iris’s. She knew far too much about why she did the things she did. It presented its own set of challenges, but she didn’t see the point in saying so. “What do you mean?” she countered, the girl’s demeanor softening Clarissa’s anger.
Iris unwound her heavy braid of hair and let it drop against her back, her fingers combing through a few tendrils that had escaped to curl about her face. “I’m driven to do these things as though they mean something. But they don’t. Not really. All my life I’ve perfected whatever it was that someone told me I ought to do. And then I grew bored and went looking to hone my skills at something stupid and dangerous. It makes me sound ridiculously shallow, does it not?”
“Not at all,” Clarissa assured her in a softer tone than she’d intended. She’d been there once, a daughter with certain expectations and responsibilities. She’d been lucky, though, to have possessed a personality that could endure. And she’d had her painting.
The Sinner Who Seduced Me Page 18