Page 46 of The Rakehell of Roth
He examined his wife, scanning her body to make sure that she was not hurt. Other than the fear etched on her face, she appeared to be unharmed as she’d claimed. It didn’t stop his heart from thundering in his chest, however. “What happened?”
“There was a man,” she stammered, her hands trembling as she clasped them in her lap.
Winter looked around. “Is he still here? What did he look like?”
“No, he ran when I screamed. He was young with dark hair, and well-dressed.” She swallowed hard, tears filling her eyes as they landed on an ashen Clarissa. “I saw the glint of something in his hand just before he grabbed for my reticule on my wrist, and then Clarissa pushed in, shoving him out of the way. He must have cut her somehow. And then he took off.”
“A thief?” Westmore asked from where he stood, his large body partially blocking them from scrutiny, eyes narrowing.
It wasn’t uncommon for thieves to frequent events open to the public. Flashmen were becoming more creative, dressing their footpad accomplices up in fancy clothing to take advantage of wealthy patrons in crowded settings. But something in Isobel’s face made Winter pause.
“What is it?” he asked.
She bit at her lips, the nervous gesture telling. “He said something.”
“He spoke to you?”
“Yes, at least I think he did. He said I would pay.”
Winter rocked back to his heels, his eyes locking with Westmore’s. That could only mean one thing—that the thief knew exactly who Isobel was. Fury and fear twined in his veins. It hadn’t been an isolated incident by a random pickpocket. She had beentargeted.
But by whom?
Ludlow had said that Oliver had received the invitation and he’d passed on the tickets to the women since he could not attend. Had his brother been involved somehow? Would he go to such extremes as to hurt his own sister-in-law? Winter’s rage intensified to inhuman levels.
Fuck, he was going to throttle the lily-livered bastard.
His gaze caught Westmore’s as he rose. “See them safely home.”
“I will,” the duke replied. “My carriage is in front. I fetched it when I sent for the constable.” Westmore paused. “Don’t do anything that will land you in prison.”
“Wait, Winter, where are you going?” Isobel asked, her fingers reaching up to catch the edge of his jacket. But despite the clench at his name on her lips, Winter couldn’t look down at her. He didn’t want her to see the murder in his eyes or have her think it was directed at her.
No, his fury had its own deserving target.
“Stay with Westmore,” he said, stepping out of her grasp. “You can trust him. He’ll get you to safety after you’ve spoken to the constable and he’ll summon a doctor to see about Clarissa.”
Without looking back, he strode from the exhibition hall. The crowd cleared for him as if the deadly look on his face was enough to make people flee. Within moments, he was in his coach and on his way to Vance House.
He wasted no time storming into the foyer of his father’s residence and throwing his cloak and hat to the butler. For once, it wasn’t the duke who set him on edge. “Oliver, I know you’re here!”
Servants scattered and scurried out of his way, eyes wide as if he were an unwanted intruder. For some reason, it made him angrier. He was a stranger here, yes, but it wasn’t as though they didn’t know he was the duke’s bloody heir. Slamming the door to the study open, he found it empty, and then proceeded to stalk to the library, whereupon he found his prey, waiting as cool as a cucumber with a brandy in hand.
“To what do I owe the honor, dear brother?” Oliver drawled, lounging back in his chair. “I assume it must be quite dire to have dragged you here.”
Winter pounded a fist into the mahogany desk. “Isobel was attacked at the exhibit. The exhibityousent her to.”
The fact that his brother goggled at him did not register until his response emerged. “What? How?”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re saying you don’t know?”
“No, I don’t. What are you talking about?”
“Isobel and Clarissa were attacked at the Royal Academy today by a pickpocketing ruffian, and the attacker told Isobel she would pay.” His anger surged to new levels. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it. Tell me and I won’t beat you to a sodding pulp.”
His brother stood, ashen-faced and mouth thinning. “I did not.”
“Where did you get the invitation?”
