Page 84 of The Rakehell of Roth
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Winter saw a hulking shadow creeping against one of the walls.Creighton, his man from the shelter! He had no idea how the porter had heard the ruckus or that he was involved, but word traveled fast in these areas. Regardless, he was grateful. When Creighton was in line with the coach, he gave an imperceptible nod and then it was on.
With unnatural stealth for a man of his size, he took out the coachman, before leaping at the liveried tiger standing at the back. The moment of distraction was all Winter needed. He charged Cain, crashing into him and knocking the gun from his hand, and then turned his sights to Vittorina, but she had already raised her pistol and had it aimed at Winter’s heart.
“Pull that trigger, and it will be the last thing you do, I promise you.” They both turned toward the voice, only to see Iz with Winter’s pistol from his saddle in hand. “I’m a much better shot than I am a groom.”
But Winter’s relief was marred by the sight of the footpad who had attacked him before, about to strike. “Iz, behind you!”
…
Isobel turned at the same moment that Winter lunged for Vittorina’s arm that was holding her gun, only to come face-to-face with one of the men from earlier. The one that Winter had thrown into the wall held a sword. But worse, she recognized him as the man who had cut Clarissa at the exhibition, the one who had told her she would pay. Beaumont—no, Edmund Cain—had sent him.
“You!”
Without hesitation, she discharged the pistol, the noise explosive and making her ears ring. But her aim was true and the man dropped, screaming and clutching his arm. She hadn’t been boasting out of turn when she’d said she was a better shot than groom. Kendrick had taught her and she had honed her skill in the many hours she’d spent alone at Kendrick Abbey.
But as deserving as these men were, she wasn’t a killer. She’d been careful to shoot all three in areas where a bullet would incapacitate but do the least amount of damage. In other words, they should all live.
Whirling back to where Winter had already disarmed Vittorina, Isobel huffed a breath as Cain unsheathed a rapier and made to slice at the marquess’s back.
“Winter!” she shouted, forgetting in her haste to address him as Roth. “Look out!”
The marquess dodged Cain’s blade, but his attention was split by the tiger who, unlike the coachman lying in a heap, had evaded Creighton’s fists. Cursing under her breath, she flung the spent gun with all her might at Cain, trying to distract him.
Isobel couldn’t help noticing that Vittorina had scrambled back toward the coach—perhaps in search of more weapons—but Creighton managed to restrain her. Now that she was without a weapon and in the clutches of one of Winter’s men, there was real alarm on her face. But Isobel couldn’t worry about her. Cain was rushing toward her with his rapier held high.
She reached for the footpad’s discarded sword and held it aloft. While her shooting skills were sound, her fencing skills were adequate at best. But she had no time to dwell on form, using all her strength to counter Cain’s down swing. The blow made her bones rattle, but she fended it off and then parried with a strike of her own. Fencing was like a dance, her instructor had once told her—all fleet footwork and lightness of feet. Despite Cain’s larger size and strength, she had the advantage of speed. She just had to figure out how to use it.
The strikes came hard and fast, and it was all she could do to keep up her defense. Sweat poured into her eyes and her legs felt like jelly. Isobel heard the sounds of the scuffle behind her and knew that it’d only been a few furious minutes at most, though it felt like she’d been fighting for hours. Her arms shook with the strain of holding the sword up—she was accustomed to wielding a much lighter rapier. This match would not be won by strength, she knew. She had to use her brain, catch him off guard.
“What makes you think Lady Roth will ever want you?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “You’re a disgrace.”
His face darkened with rage. “Who do you think you are, boy?”
“I know who I am,” she said with a short lunge and then danced out of the way of his return strike. “But you apparently don’t know who you are. A disgraced, discredited peer. No more of a noble than me.”
“Watch your tongue!”
Anger made him clumsy, and as he dove at her, she ducked and spun as fast as she could to shoot her blade out so it caught him on the torso. He staggered back, clutching at his wound and staring at the blood on his fingers in disbelief. “You little brat, I’ll slit your throat for that.”
“Promises, promises, Earl of Codswallop,” she taunted. “That has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? How about Earl of Twaddle? Earl of Almost-Had-It-All?”
Edmund Cain used to be handsome, but the past three years had taken a toll on him. Where there had once been muscle, there was now a layer of dissipation that was easily evident around his middle. His face now sported the first sprouting of a pair of pasty jowls.
“I’m going to take great pleasure in killing you.”
“You always seem to count your chickens before they’re hatched, don’t you?”
His eyes narrowed as they circled each other. “Have we met?”
“Sadly, I don’t run in the same circles as cowardly criminals.” She channeled Clarissa as she let her insolent stare rake down his body, stopping at his hips. “On second thought, maybe Earl of Insignificant Things might suit better.” Isobel laughed. “I’ve heard about you, you know. You’re that earl who likes little girls. One wonders why…”
Though they sparked with rage, his eyes fastened on her. “Do I know you?”
“Me? A lowly groom? I think not.”
“Take off that mask.”
She shook her head, quickening her steps. “But I’m badly disfigured, Lord Little. My face is enough to inspire terror in the most stalwart of men.”
