Page 81 of The Rakehell of Roth
“It’s only as a precaution, don’t fret.”
But she could see that Clarissa and the twins were truly frightened. Their faces were ashen. “This isn’t Chelmsford, Izzy,” Violet whispered.
“I know and I’ll be careful, I promise.”
Isobel took the stairs two at a time, skidding into the courtyard and hollering for Randolph to saddle Hellion. The poor mare must be confused by all the times she’d been saddled and unsaddled, but it couldn’t be helped. For a moment, Isobel debated on taking another horse, but she knew she could depend on the mare. If things went south and she needed a fast mount, Hellion was the only steed she trusted to carry her safely.
“My lady,” Randolph rebuked gently upon seeing her unladylike attire. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue to—”
Isobel held up a palm and took hold of the bridle.
“No, Randolph,” she said. “I will stop you there. While I understand your concerns, I am mistress here, and you cannot presume to allow me anything. Understood?” He ducked his head but nodded. “Now switch the saddle and please be quick about it. No need for a sidesaddle. I’ll ride astride.”
Randolph did as commanded, though his face remained tight with disapproval. As she climbed into the saddle, Isobel recognized it as worry for her safety and she relented. “Tell Lord Oliver and His Grace that I’ve gone to look for the marquess.”
“My lady—”
Without waiting to hear what he had to say, Isobel took to the streets of London as fast as she dared, body braced over her muscled mare.
She wasn’t as familiar with the roads once she got to Covent Garden, but she tried to recall the path she’d traveled when she’d followed Winter. Her eyes latched onto Drury Lane, the main street that was etched into the stone of one building. If she followed that, she should come to Russell Street.
She blinked as her momentary hesitation and Hellion’s irritated posturing caught the attention of several men stumbling out of a pub. Damn and blast. She hadn’t meant to draw notice, but they were staring at the mare, their eyes going wide with appreciation. No amount of dust could disguise the horse’s pedigree and champion bloodlines. And the tack on the horse would cost more than what many of these men would see in a year.
“Oy, lad, where’d ya get that ’orse? He’s a fine piece, innit.”
Isobel held her ground as they wobbled closer on unsteady feet. “Stole it from a toff,” she said, making her voice sound as gravelly as she could.
The second man cackled. “A wee lad like you?”
“Aye,” she asked. “Where’s Russell Street?”
“Come closer, and we’ll tell it ta ya,” one man slurred, his gaze fastening to her stockinged leg hooked into the stirrup strap with an intensity she didn’t like. These toads wouldn’t help her. Recalling Clarissa’s warnings, she swallowed hard and urged the horse into a gallop with the barest press of her thighs. Luckily, Hellion was well trained and took off.
“Wait, boy! Come back.”
But there was no chance of that. Those men did not have any good intentions, she could sense it on them. Guiding the mare down Drury Lane, once she’d put some distance between her and the pub, she searched for any sign of Winter’s horse, but instead, had the distinct feeling she’d just gone in circle. God, this was impossible. It was like an untidy warren of streets, set up like a spinning wheel, with each spoke leading somewhere else.
No wonder any wayfarers who got lost in the maze of any of these slums were never to be found…because by the time they would have gotten their bearings, they would have been robbed, stripped of all belongings, beaten to within an inch of their lives, and if they were lucky, killed. If they weren’t lucky, well, those were the ones sold into slavery and prostitution. And that was a grim outcome at best.
Suddenly, she heard a man’s bellow and what sounded like a scuffle. It wasn’t much to go on, but she didn’t have much choice. She moved Hellion in the direction of another loud grunt followed by a crashing noise. Her heart climbed into her throat when she rounded the corner, only to see her husband fighting like a devil at the center of a pack of grimy men.
Blood ran freely from a cut on his brow and he was covered in filth, but his sheer strength and viciousness took her breath away. One man flew into a nearby wall, crumpling to a heap at its base. He wrapped one thick arm around another’s neck while fending off a third.
A fourth crept closer, a knife in hand, and Isobel cried out.
“Roth! Behind you!”
He whirled, just in time to deflect the strike with his arm. Blood seeped through the light-colored fabric of his coat. Isobel didn’t think—she reached for one of her pistols, took aim, and fired. The lead ball caught the man in the leg, sending him howling in pain to the ground. The others turned at the sight of her on the horse, but she didn’t waste a second in cocking her second pistol and sliding from Hellion to fire it at the man fighting to take Winter down. The bullet caught him in the side. Her eyes darted to the man who Winter had catapulted into the wall earlier, but he wasn’t moving.
One to go.
She started forward and then stopped mid-step. In her haste, she was forgetting something…something important. Oh yes, her mask! She’d stuffed it into her pocket at the house, knowing it would have drawn more eyes riding through London than not. She cursed the few seconds it cost her to tie the scrap in place, but she couldn’t expose her secret to Winter, not yet and especially not here.
And then she was off and running toward him, holding pistols high. They were both empty, but maybe Winter’s assailants wouldn’t know that. Just as she reached them, Winter crumpled to the ground with an unconscious man splayed on top of him.
“Roth? Are you hurt? Can you get to your horse?”
Winter blinked, blood seeping into his eye. “Iz? Is that you? What the devil are you doing here?” He swiped at his bloody face. “Where’s your mistress? Is she safe?”
