Page 36 of The Scoundrel and the Debutante
The tall man’s gaze slid to Prudence. “Don’t ye, indeed?” he drawled as his gaze moved over her.
Prudence thought she might vomit. She must have made a sound of distress, because Mr. Matheson gripped her arm and pulled her to stand behind him. “As I said, we’ve nothing to share,” he reiterated, his voice deep and angry.
The tall man moved closer, and his two cohorts circled around them. One of them stooped to pick up Prudence’s valise.
“No!” she gasped, then heard the sickening thud of fist on bone. Mr. Matheson had apparently hit the tall man squarely in the face when she’d cried out, knocking him to the ground. He leaped on him before he could gain his feet.
Prudence shrieked as the two men began to roll about on the ground trading punches, rendered almost immobile with her fear for Mr. Matheson’s safety. Especially when the tall man’s two companions pulled Mr. Matheson off him.
But Mr. Matheson was not ready to end his fighting. He took a swing at one of the two men, connecting with his jaw with such a crack of bone on bone that Prudence thought she might be sick. That man tumbled to the ground, his hands covering his face. Mr. Matherson continued to fight all three of those men, managing to strike them all and to dance just out of their reach. In the melee, his pistol fell and scudded across the grass. Prudence dived for it, picking it up before any of the other men had noticed.
But tackling three grown men at once was all too much for Mr. Matheson—and with some difficulty, the two men finally caught hold of Mr. Matheson’s arms and held him while the tall man hit him in the stomach.
Prudence panicked then, fearing Mr. Matheson would be killed, and without thinking, she screamed.
That scream brought all four heads around as if they thought someone else had joined them.
“Are you mad!” Prudence shouted at them. “Do you think his lordship will waste a single moment finding who has done this to his guest?”
The tall man’s fist froze midswing. He slowly turned toward her.
“That’s right,” she said heatedly, nodding with great enthusiasm as she hid the gun in the folds of her gown. “This man is the guest of Lord Cargyle!”
“Prudence, don’t—” Mr. Matheson tried, but one of the men ended whatever he might have said with a punch to the ribs.
The tall man laughed. “Cargyle, you say, pretty? He bemilesfrom here,” he said, slowly advancing on her. “No one to hear yer screams.”
Prudence couldn’t catch her breath. She suddenly brought the gun up, pointing it at the tall man before he took another step. “Or yours,” she croaked.
The gun served its purpose—he hesitated and lifted his hands. “Put the gun down, pretty,” he said. “Ye don’t know how to use it—”
“But I do,” she said. Her voice was hoarse with fear. “My father, the Earl of Beckington, made sure of it.”
With a hoot of delight, the man looked back at his companions. “Beckington, is it?” he repeated, and bowed grandly...but his gaze was on her gun.
Prudence cocked it as Mr. Matheson had shown her how to do.
“Prudence,don’t—”
“Shoot him?” she finished quickly. Her heart was pounding so hard now that she was shaking. “Let him go,” she said to the tall man. “Let him go now, or I will shoot you square between the ears!”
“Will you now,” the tall man said, and grinned in a lascivious and disgusting manner. She knew instinctively that he sensed her fear. He began to move toward her again. “I like a lass with a bit o’ fire in her.”
“Prudence!” Mr. Matheson shouted at her, which was followed by another sickening thud of fist on bone.
Prudence was frightened, but she was also very angry. She was suddenly reminded of the lesson Lady Chatham, a grand dame of Mayfair society, had told Prudence and the other debutantes who would be presented at court. “It will not do to look as if you might faint,” Lady Chatham had said. “Clasp your hands at your back and squeeze them tight to keep from shaking.”
Prudence did that now, clasping her hands so tightly around that gun that it felt as if the metal was cutting into her skin. She lifted her chin, looked the man in the eye, just as she’d met the king’s eye. “Take one more step, and I will shoot you, sir. That is your only warning.” She sighted him with the gun pointed directly at his head.
The tall man’s gaze narrowed. He studied her, clearly debating. “Give me the gun.” He lunged for it at the same moment Prudence fired. She couldn’t say what part of him she hit, only that she’d hit him—he screamed and fell to the ground. His companions dropped Mr. Matheson and ran for him. In the chaos, Mr. Matheson managed to get to his feet. He struck out at one of the men with a knife, slashing across his arm.
“Get him up, get him up!” one of the men shouted, and they helped the tall one to his feet. He was clutching his arm as they half dragged, half pushed him back into the woods.
Prudence stood there, the gun pointed ahead of her, trembling badly.
“Prudence? Put the gun down,” Mr. Matheson said hoarsely.
Her gaze moved from the trees to him. He was on two feet, weaving. The knife he’d pulled from the air clattered to the dirt. And then he collapsed down to his knees. “Oh!Oh!”she cried and scrambled for him, catching him before he toppled over, sinking to her knees with her arms around his shoulders.
