Page 70 of Rules for Heiresses
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“This restriction is only temporary. I don’t want you to get hurt, and I can’t keep an eye on you every moment of the day. You’re safer here, at home.”
Her playing halted with an abrupt, harsh discordant note. “Will you keep me locked behind closed doors for the ball tonight, then?” Eyes the color of warm brandy lifted to his. “Or will you keep me glued to your side like some missish, helpless twit who hasn’t lifted a finger in all her life? I’m not made of glass, Courtland.”
“Still flesh and bone.”
She scowled up at him. “Before you came along, I was managing just fine, remember? And besides, if it’s Sommers you’re worried about, he wasn’t invited this evening.”
Courtland’s eyes narrowed as something flashed in her gaze that looked disturbingly like guilt before she tried to hide it. What was she up to now?
“I’m going out,” he said. “Stay put. Rawley will be here.”
“Wonderful,” she said, her fingers crashing down into an ominous sequence that sounded too much like an incensed Beethoven. “My favorite warden. I’m even starting to prefer your cousin’s company to yours.”
“It won’t be for much longer.”
But she didn’t respond, her talented fingers flying over the notes with a skill he hadn’t realized she possessed. Once more, his young wife astounded him. Then again, Courtland didn’t know why he should be so surprised. The woman was an enigma, full of secrets.
Outside, he met Waterstone, who was waiting atop a plain black coach, one that Courtland preferred to use whenever he was going incognito. Since the instructions had said for him to come alone, the earl was acting the double duty of coachman. Courtland gave him the address and climbed into the carriage. As they rolled away, he caught sight of Ravenna’s face peering down from the front window. Thankfully, he’d left Rawley behind. The man had strict instructions not to let her out of his sight.
No doubt she’d try to escape. Possibly follow him.
Because she was a menace to herself.
Courtland let out a breath, easing the growing tension in his lungs. Hell, he couldn’t understand how easily she threw herself into danger. Even as Mr. Hunt, she trod a perilous path. And it wasn’t that he didn’t think she could defend herself, if push came to shove. He knew she was capable. He just didn’t like what knowing she could be in danger did tohim. His very being was consumed with her, and that wasn’t sound.
Courtland scrubbed his palm over his face. He needed to get this business with Sommers done so that he could return to Antigua and put this all behind him. For an instant, he felt a fleeting ache in the vicinity of his heart at the thought of leaving Ravenna behind, but he ignored it.
Waterstone’s hard tap on the roof reached him, letting him know they were nearing their destination in Covent Garden. He peered out the window. It was a seedy, narrow street that allowed little light from the crowded buildings, but he could see the crooked sign over the tavern indicated on the note—The Spotted Hog.
Courtland checked on his brace of loaded pistols and swung his greatcoat over his shoulders. He also had a pair of knives tucked into his boot, and if all else failed, his fists would be just fine. Hopping out of the carriage, he exchanged a silent look with the earl, who patted his own brace of pistols. The man gave a slight nod. If Courtland wasn’t out of the tavern in five minutes, he was to follow.
But he’d barely gotten to the entrance before there was a shout and he was rushed by half a dozen men. “Footpads!” Waterstone shouted, leaping down into the fray.
Courtland took a fist to the gut and another to the jaw. He couldn’t get a hand to his pistols, so he struck out, letting his training take over. Punch, jab, hook. Weave. And repeat. After a moment, he managed to clear space enough to take account of his assailants. There were more than six, he realized. Three of them lay groaning on the ground around him, one out cold. Waterstone had thrown another into the wall, while pummeling a fifth and sixth bloody.
Two others faced him, knives in hand. Courtland reached for his own knives and wiped the back of his mouth with one hand. They rushed him as one, but he ducked and lashed out, catching one of them across the ribs. The man’s howl was loud, drawing more men from the shack of a tavern.
“Fight!” one of them shouted.
Fuck.He had to end this and get out of here before it turned into a free-for-all. He jammed the hilt of the knife into the last man’s chin and swung around to shout for Waterstone. The man was already running for the coach and climbing up.
“Get in!” the earl growled.
Courtland reached for his pistol and shot it into the air, the sound crashing through the filthy alleyway. Screams abounded, but he didn’t wait to see whether they would recover and rush him. He ran, jumping for the rail of the coach as Waterstone drove by. They made it out by the skin of their teeth, gaining speed as the crowd faded behind them. Only when they were nearing a safer part of town, did the earl stop, jump down, and slam open the door.
“Did you get hurt?” he demanded.
Courtland shook his head, patting himself down for injury. “Nothing lethal.”
“That was an ambush,” a grim-faced Waterstone said. “But by who? Sommers?”
“Not likely. He needs my connections. Could have been a coincidence. It was a dodgy part of town.”
But he knew it’d been no coincidence. Courtland had an inkling that it might be his brother—he’d solicited bully ruffians at Harrow—but this felt different. These men had been paid to maim or even kill. Besides Stinson and Sommers, who else was he missing? He had many other enemies across the sea, but not here in London.
He stepped from the coach with a wince. His ribs ached and he’d taken a full fist to the jaw. His lip felt as though it was swelling to twice its size. That would go over well with his mother-in-law—getting into fisticuffs the day of his wedding ball. Perhaps he could come up with some excuse. Maybe he could blame his duchess. Courtland grinned. She had a mean right hook.
