Page 53 of Rakes & Reticules
Why?
As a distraction?
That must be it.
Where was Lord Darius?
The other guards?
Fletcher?
Lady Huxley laughed, a maniacal cackle that turned Siobhan’s blood to ice in her veins as she lifted her skirts, prepared to tear down the passageway.
What if the fire spread toDe la Chance?
Oh, God.Please.
It might already be too late for Fletcher, the club, her sister, and her brother.
A wail nearly tore from Siobhan’s tight throat.
She only madeit three steps before a large hand clamped onto her arm, jerking her to such an abrupt halt her teeth clattered together, and her neck snapped backward.
“Let me go.” Siobhan yanked ineffectively at the steely grip bruising her arm as the viscountess’s henchman dragged her toward the crazed woman. “We need to leave at once. Didn’t you hear? There’s a fire.”
I must get Paddy and Kimber out.
Still wearing that insane smile, the viscountess pressed the secret door’s hidden latch, and the door creaked open a couple of inches.
Terror momentarily stalled Siobhan’s heart.
Lady Huxley knew about the secret passage.
But how?
“Oh, rest assured. I’ll be leaving in good time.” Releasing a dramatic sigh, Lady Huxley flung an arm across her ample bosom. “You, however, will tragically be lost in the fire. As will Fletcher and this miserable club.”
Renewed dread slammed into Siobhan.
She might be small, but by all that was holy, she wouldn’t concede without a fight.
She dug in her heels, not that it did much good. The ogre towing her along was at least a foot and a half taller and double her weight. Nevertheless, she renewed her struggles. “I shan’t go with you.”
“I beg to differ.” A snide smile quirked the viscountess’s mouth upward, and madness glittered in her eyes. Pulling a small, ornate pocket pistol from her reticule, she toed the door open further with her beaded crimson slipper.
Just inside the threshold, Fletcher lay unconscious on the floor, a wicked-looking cut lashing his cheek and another splitting his lip.
No. No.
Please don’t let him be dead. Please.
Pale as milk, he lay perfectly still.
Siobhan couldn’t detect the rise and fall of his chest, and anguish eviscerated her.
He cannot be dead. He cannot.
Inside the dimly lit passageway, a pistol tucked into his waistband, Chandler appeared as smug as a cat with a fresh bowl of cream as he stood beside the other henchman.
