Noble Scoundrel (Peril & Persuasion Book 1)

by Amy Sandas

  Right now, she intended to get some bloody answers.

  Breathing deeply through her nose, she shifted herself to a more upright posture. Though her head throbbed, she forced the encroaching fog from her brain and glared at her captor. “Why have you taken me? What do you want?”

  The older man’s grey eyes fell heavily on her position in the corner of the seat. “Your family has been far more trouble than I expected.” His gaze narrowed. “Let us hope, for your sake, it proves to be worth it.”

  Katherine tensed and repeated her question. “What do you want?”

  “Just a little time with the young duke,” he replied with a dismissive wave. “Nothing more.”

  She swallowed the lump of fear that arose at the mention of her brother—confirmation that Shelbourne had been behind the kidnappings the whole time. She felt so foolish for trusting him, for reaching out to him after Frederick went missing—the very man responsible! “You will never get to him.”

  Shelbourne’s smile was disturbingly confident. “We have means of persuasion, my dear, that have proven to be quite effective. One way or another, the boy will soon be in our hands.”

  Anger burst in her chest. “What could you possibly want with him? He’s a child.”

  “Ah, but the duke is not just any child, is he?”

  Katherine clenched her teeth. The arrogance and sly pleasure in the man’s voice was infuriating. “I don’t understand.”

  Shelbourne sighed. “You see, my dear, the prior Marquess of Warfield was quite helpful in recommending your father for a special task we needed completed. The old man claimed Charles Blackwell would be easily biddable. He was wrong in that but he was correct in your father’s talents. No one has been able to replicate your father’s results and we are running out of patience.”

  Steeling herself for the answer she already knew was coming, she met Shelbourne’s emotionless grey gaze. “Did you kill my father?”

  He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Your father’s death was an unavoidable consequence.”

  Grief and anger burned hot in her blood, but the man across from her didn’t seem to notice as he continued. “We couldn’t allow your father to destroy the work he’d done. After months, he’d finally managed to create the proper formula. The potion did everything we needed it to. And then he dared take it away from us. Unfortunately, his notes have not done a whole lot of good since our people have been unable to do anything with them. Every attempt has failed to produce the results your father reported. It has been infinitely frustrating.” He smiled. “Luckily, before his untimely death, Warfield managed to recall that the young duke was known to be quite a genius. Surpassing even his father.”

  The way he mentioned her great-uncle’s death had her suspicious that he’d somehow arranged for his demise. She couldn’t bring herself to mourn the prior marquess when he had betrayed them so completely.

  “You’re making a grave mistake,” she warned.

  “I don’t think so. In fact, if he’s even half as clever as he’s reported to be, I have every confidence your brother will solve all our problems.” Shelbourne’s expression turned darkly forbidding. “Especially once he understands what will happen to his sister if he doesn’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  A stir at Shelbourne’s front door drew Mason’s attention. Peering through the darkness, he cursed his wretched view. A hideously painted black carriage had pulled up a short time ago, and he’d had to reposition himself farther away in order to continue watching the townhouse.

  He thought he caught a glimpse of the lavender gown Katherine had been wearing, but from his current angle, he couldn’t tell what was happening. If she’d decided to leave the party early, he wasn’t about to complain.

  Unfortunately, due to all the other vehicles lining the road, it would take a few minutes to have Newton drive the carriage up from where he was waiting down the lane. With a muttered curse, he started toward the house. As soon as he was close enough to confirm it was Katherine in the doorway, he turned back to give a wave, hoping Newton would see it and pull the carriage up to meet them.

  He looked back to the townhouse just in time to see two men carrying Katherine’s slumped form down the down the steps, straight to the waiting black carriage.

  What the—

  Shock and rage claimed him in a chaotic explosion, bursting from his throat in a primal roar that echoed through the night as he bolted into a dead run.

  He watched in horror as the carriage lurched forward. He wasn’t going to reach it. They were getting away!

  Another sound of raw fury forced its way up from Mason’s chest. Stark terror twisted through his stomach. Though every primitive instinct urged him to keep after her, he’d never catch them on foot. Heart pounding, he prayed for the first time in his life as he begged whatever power was in control that Newton had seen his wave. He glanced swiftly over his shoulder to see if the Northmoor carriage was near. Instead, a curricle pulled by two horses approached at a reckless speed before coming to an abrupt stop beside him.

  The Marquess of Warfield stared at Mason from the driver’s perch with eyes that glittered strangely in the dark. Mason had known a few men with eyes like his—frozen, emotionless—but none with this man’s sharp intensity.

  “Get in.”

  Mason didn’t hesitate. He leapt into the swift two-wheeled vehicle. The second his arse landed in the seat, Warfield flicked the reins and they started off. The black carriage was already slipping into the darkness ahead of them.

  “Faster, dammit,” Mason growled. He didn’t trust the man beside him one fucking bit and had no idea why he’d inserted himself into this rescue, but as long as they were following Katherine, he’d have jumped in with the devil himself.

  The man beside him gave another flick of the reins and the curricle leapt to greater speed, forcing Mason to focus on keeping his seat.

  “If we lose them, I’ve an idea where they’re likely to be going. Though...if I’m right, it doesn’t bode well for your lady.”

  Warfield’s voice was starkly controlled despite the breakneck pace they were keeping through the streets.

  Mason turned a glare on the man. “What d’you know of it?”

  Without shifting his focus from the street in front of them, Warfield replied, “Lord Shelbourne, the gentleman who took her, is involved in some very dark dealings.”

  “Like murder and kidnapping?” Mason retorted. “We’re aware.”

  Warfield did turn his head then, giving Mason an intense look. “Worse.”

  An icy fear slid down his spine. “What does he want?”

  The marquess frowned and the angles of his face sharped. “I suspect it has something to do with the prior duke’s work.”

  Katherine’s instincts had been right.

  Mason’s chest tightened painfully and a growl rumbled up from deep in his core. Dammit. He’d feared the kidnappers would turn their attention to her if they couldn’t get to Freddie, but he’d believed he’d be able to protect her.

  He should have had her locked in her bedroom—and him with her—until this whole fucking business was dealt with.

  While his head and heart churned with emotions he hadn’t felt since he’d gotten Claire back, he started to notice the distance between them and the black carriage was slowly widening. The curricle was slowing. Mason turned to snatch a fistful of Warfield’s coat. “What the fuck are you playing at, Warfield?”

  Unperturbed, the marquess replied, “I told you I know where he’s taking her. At present, I don’t believe he realizes hes’s being followed. If we hope to have any element of surprise, we’ll need to be stealthy in our approach. I know another way.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  The other man’s expression darkened as a tic became visible at the edge of his jaw. “I’ve no desire to see my cousin harmed,” he muttered angrily.

  Mason scowled. “That’s why you’ve been following them?”


  “It is, actually. I was trying to determine if they were in any danger. When I realized they’d enlisted a guard, I figured they’d be safe.” Warfield sneered. “Apparently, I was wrong.”

  It was unbelievably difficult to resist the urge to send a swift jab into the man’s arrogant face, but Mason somehow managed. “And why’d you think they might be in danger? What else d’you know?”

  The marquess clenched his angular jaw and stared straight forward. When he finally replied, Warfield’s voice was as black as the night sky above. “That is none of your concern.”

  Losing patience, Mason tightened his grip on the man’s coat and leaned forward to stare directly into Warfield’s unnaturally light eyes. “Everything about this is my fucking concern. Talk.”

  The marquess narrowed his gaze to glittering slits. “Release me, Mr. Hale, or I may decide not to assist you.”

  “I don’t need your bloody help.”

  Warfield’s expression hardened. “Yes. You do. You’ve no idea what you’re up against.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m getting the woman out of there and that gentleman can go to the devil.”

  “That he will.” He tipped his head forward. “We’re approaching the estate.”

  Mason released him. Reluctantly. They were driving along an ancient lane crowded with old twisty-limbed trees. It took a moment to realize it was the mews that ran behind walled estates far larger than any seen in central London.

  The marquess directed the horses off the lane to a spot between two spreading oaks. After applying the brake and securing the reins, Warfield leapt to the ground. Hale was already there.

  “Follow me. And stay quiet.”

  A short grunt was Mason’s only reply. The lord’s attitude was getting on his last nerve, but he’d ignore it if it meant getting Katherine out of those bastards’ hands.

  Creeping silently beneath a slivered moon, they approached an ancient mansion near the end of the lane. The imposing house and grounds were unkept, dark, and silent, suggesting the place had been abandoned some time ago. They stopped when they reached the high stone wall separating the garden from the lane.

  Peering over the wall, Mason scanned the house for movement, light, voices, anything. “You sure they’re here?”

  Warfield tipped his head to the shadows around old stone-built stables located on the far side of the garden. Barely visible was the black carriage.

  “Let’s go,” Mason growled as he planted his hands atop the wall in prep to vault over.

  Warfield stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, gripping with surprising strength. “Do you want the woman safely recovered?”

  “I want her out of there. Now.” The tension in his body was about to explode. And the violence in Mason’s expression had to be obvious, yet the marquess stared calmly back at him.

  “You can’t just charge in with fists flying. There are sure to be guards inside. No telling how many.”

  “I don’t give a bloody fuck.” He turned back to the wall and leapt over in one smooth movement. Landing in a crouch on the other side, he scanned the shadows around him. Nothing moved. Through the bramble of overgrown hedges and bushes, he studied the back of the house, looking for a way in. He’d rather not break through a window when the noise would alert those inside to his presence—Warfield did have a point about stealth—but he didn’t relish having to waste time searching the place for a proper entrance, either.

  Sensing another presence, he turned to his left to see Warfield walking silently toward him. “The gate was unlocked,” the lord offered casually.

  “How d’we get in?”

  “There’s a door round by the stables.”

  Mason took off through the garden at a crouched run. As he came around the corner of the house, he noted two large men leaning negligently against the house. One of them was strikingly familiar—the retired Runner, George Boothe.

  He experienced a brief moment of satisfaction when he saw the flash of fear in Boothe’s eyes a second before Mason’s fist had him crumpling to the ground, knocked out a second time. The second man put up more of a fight, but it was still a useless endeavor and he soon joined Boothe in an unconscious heap.

  The door they’d been guarding was unlocked and allowed Mason into the dimly lit hall of a servant’s entrance. With his eyes already acclimated to the darkness outside, it wasn’t difficult to make his way into the house, listening intently for anyone else who might be lurking about.

  After a moment, he felt Warfield join him.

  They said nothing as they continued silently forward. The hall led to a kitchen that didn’t appear to have been in use for decades. Beyond that was another hallway, but this one led to a room dimly lit by a few sparse candles in tall iron stands. The room was empty but for a long, heavy table surrounded by a dozen wingback chairs.

  As soon as he realized there was no one there, Mason rushed through the room, again not bothering to pause before charging through the open double doors at the far end. He stepped into the mansion’s grand hall, where four more guards stood loitering somewhat carelessly around the base of a wide curving staircase. Judging by their lack of vigilance, Mason would guess the place wasn’t often—if ever—infiltrated.

  The guards had a moment of surprise before Mason charged the closest one, sending his shoulder into the man’s gut and lifting him off the floor. He slammed him into the wall, making the whole place shudder and moan at the impact.

  “There goes our element of surprise,” Warfield noted caustically.

  Mason ignored him. A couple quick hits to the kidney then an uppercut knocked the guard out, just as two more grappled with Mason from behind. A backward headbutt to one, followed by a low sweep of his leg had them both landing hard on their backsides so he could address the fourth. He barely had to think. Instinct and years of training guided his fists in a swift and efficient assault. The blood was rushing too fiercely through Mason’s veins. His vision was tunneled and focused. It felt like his body had been rigorously trained over more than a decade for this purpose and this purpose alone. To save his woman. The last man had no greater chance for being slightly more prepared. He hit the floor within seconds.

  Mason turned in place, scanning the room for any other comers. He was alone. Not even Warfield was about.

  With a curse, he started for the stairs only to make it about halfway up before the sound of someone rushing down had him squaring off for another confrontation.

  Warfield appeared on the landing above. “The upper levels are empty.”

  “You know it was four against one down here,” Mason muttered.

  The marquess shrugged. “I’d have only gotten in your way. Besides, I saved us a little time.”

  He finished speaking just as three more guards came running along a short hall beside the stairs.

  Mason squared off against them, but these men had come prepared. He caught sight of a long knife in the hand of one before his eyes locked on the more dangerous weapon, a pistol. As his muscles bunched to dodge a possible bullet, the marquess threw his greatcoat in an obscuring arc that momentarily blocked the gunman’s view. It was just enough time for Mason to leap down the steps with a driving punch, followed quickly by a spinning kick that sent the pistol skidding across the floor.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t turn in time to block the slicing path of the second man’s blade as it seared across his back in a shallow, stinging arc. He turned to see Warfield take the man down with a neat jab to the throat, but not before the third got Mason in a choke hold. A quick evasive maneuver had the man flying over his head to the floor.

  “Go on,” Warfield stated with surprising calm as he stepped up to one of the fallen who was rolling about, groaning. The marquess placed his booted foot on the man’s back. “I’ll keep these men from following.”

  “You?” Mason’s doubt was clear. The man had a nice, clean punch, but if the guards regained consciousness, it’d be one against seven.

  The man’s sm
ile was cold. “Me and the length of rope this one is carrying.”

  With a hard nod, Mason turned down the short hall to a stairway that obviously led down to the cellar. The way was heavily shadowed but a faint glow illuminated from below. Rushing down the worn steps, Mason could hear the low murmur of a man’s voice echoing off the stone walls. At the bottom extended a narrow hall that led to what appeared to be a well-lit, open chamber.

  Mason entered the space boldly. He quickly scanned the scene, taking in every detail.

  The room was wide and cavernous. A low ceiling. Walls covered in black silk and a floor of polished white marble. About a dozen iron candelabra stood sentry around the perimeter of the room, flooding it in golden light. In the center was a raised dais.

  Shelbourne, he presumed, stood close behind Katherine atop that dais. One hand wrapped tight around her upper arm while the other held a blade beneath her chin.

  Relief and purpose flared. She was alive and within his reach.

  As Mason met her gaze, his stomach clenched hard at the flicker of fear in her eyes. But shining stronger than her fear was her stubborn, indignant bravery.

  His lips twitched. There’s my duchess. “Hello, dove.”

  She parted her lips to reply, but Shelbourne spoke first. “Not another step or I’ll slide my dagger across her throat.”

  Mason stopped and held Katherine’s gaze for as long as he could, willing her to prepare herself for any opportunity to escape. Then he shifted his attention to her captor. “Threatening her’s a very bad idea.”

  “You may have gotten past my guards, but this is my domain. I’m in command here.”

  Mason lifted his brows as he began to circle around their position, forcing the lord to turn in place if he wished to keep Mason in his sights. Mason hoped Shelbourne’s focus would be weakened when divided between Katherine and himself, providing an opening they could take advantage of.

  “If you say so,” he replied flippantly. “But you should know I didn’t come alone. I don’t see any way for you to get out of this.”