Page 18 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
Something rapped the side of the moving hackney, startling him from his thoughts. A tree branch, perhaps? He would have dismissed the sound if he hadn’t heard the odd rap again, this time followed by a frightened yelp. Rayne stuck his head out the window only to see his coachman’s body tumbling, flailing wildly on the ground as the coach blurred past him, a pole with a hook still speared through his clothing.
Rayne heard a shout and saw a flash of light. Reacting solely on instinct, he ducked his head back inside before the pistol ball smashed into the window frame. The coach rocked perilously as the spooked horses picked up speed. Rayne rapidly assessed his circumstances. His coachman was gone, the horses out of control, and someone was doing his damnedest to make certain Rayne remained right where he was. The coach pulled to the right, throwing him across the compartment. He crawled his way to the front and knocked open the small opening that was used to direct the coachman. If this was a robbery, Rayne would have thought the thieves would have taken over the reins by now. The seat outside was empty.
To remain inside was certain death. He had seen more than his share of broken bodies from such accidents. Coldness rushed through him. Whatever this was, this was no accident. Still, someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make it look so.
Rayne kicked open the door with his foot. Another ball struck the door before it snapped back into place. Considering the time it took to load a pistol, against one, even two pistols he stood a chance. He heard shouts as the runaway coach roared its way down the street. The thunder and rattle of the coach’s wheels pounded violently, matching the cadence of his heart’s beat.
Rayne kicked the door again, this time springing out to grab an outer ring, and used his foot to hold the door open. Although flimsy, it provided some cover. The coach was going too fast for him to hear the discharge, but he felt one thud, then another against the door.
Deciding the odds weren’t going to get better than they were at that moment, he straightened his crouched position and reached high for a leather strap near the coachman’s perch. Airborne dirt and gravel stung his face, and the wind pulled at his clothes while he worked his way to the front perch. Rayne moved like a blind man slowly feeling his way to the higher purchase, not knowing if the reins were secured to the coach or if they danced beneath the deadly hooves of the horses.
He would never know.
The coach bucked, its joints screaming at the torture. Losing his hold, he fell backward into the ink blackness of the unknown. His senses were fully alert, focused for some sort of stimulus. The impact gave it to him. The air punched out of his lungs when he took the brunt of the fall on his back. He slid across the abrasive surface, dirt, fabric, and skin fusing hot.
Then he was still. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t move, but his hearing was keen. He listened to the thunder and the terrified sounds of the horses as they rumbled past. A few heartbeats later he heard the sounds of several riders in pursuit. It mattered little now whether they were friend or foe. Rayne forced some air into his lungs and was grateful his body was beginning to cooperate again. His back was starting to sting. Soon it would give way to an awesome pain, which would remind him that he had survived. Scraped and bloody, he dragged himself to his feet. The sounds of his ordeal had long since faded, yet the question remained. Who the hell was trying to kill him?
***
At the Black Galleon, a small drinking tavern off the Thames, no one paid much attention to the four men huddled together. Drinks were in their hands, although they seemed to be forgotten. The furious man, sometimes friend and benefactor, more lately the promising fist to their painful demise, was not pleased with their failure.
“He was trapped in the box.” The angry man’s voice was clipped and tight. “How did you let him get away?”
The man who dared to defend them was at least three stones heavier and had seen his share of danger. He also was smart enough to recognize that the man before him could be quite deadly. “You told us yourself the man was wily. He has a certain reputation and he lived up to it.” He shrugged. “Next time he won’t.”
“Some say he has the gift of sorcery since he once mingled with the dead. Can call them up at will. Maybe they spirited him away,” another man suggested.
The leader tilted his head, a gesture to suggest he’d consider the thought. Without warning, his foot lashed out from underneath the table and connected with the man’s groin. The sound out of his mouth was barely a belch. He slid boneless out of his chair and out of sight.
“No wonder you can’t kill one man. You have frightened children doing your bidding.” He leaned forward, his menacing stare holding them in their seats. “Perhaps my faith in you is misguided.”
The larger man bristled. “It’s the manner you’ve chosen that’s chancy. You never know if you are going to maim or kill with a coach. I think we should try a more direct approach to your problem.”
“Fine. Do it. No mistakes this time.”
The promise of death lingered like a bad odor between them. “What of the lass?”
The man frowned. The image of Miss Bedegrayne flickered in his mind. It laughed and taunted him, then twisted into something hideous. She had linked herself with Tipton. He’d wager the man had done more than touch her with his eyes. Damn him! There had been other plans made on her behalf. Now they would not do. All these years she had held herself aloof and pure, only to succumb to that monster’s touch. The thought could not be endured! Mayhap there was some truth to him consorting in the dark magic. It was an acceptable excuse for Miss Bedgrayne’s disappointing weakness for Tipton. His companions eyed him warily, knowing he was a thread away from losing his control. His face hardened, reinforcing his resolve in a mask of hatred.
“She has allowed herself to be tainted. She must be punished.”
***
“His Lordship ain’t receiving visitors, Miss Bedegrayne.”
“See here, Speck, I am not a visitor. I am”—His betrothed? No, she could not quite say the words, since she could hardly believe them. It was one of the reasons why it was so important to see him today. “I am his friend. If he knew I was here, he would want to see me.”
The gargoyle was in fine intimidating form this afternoon. His pointed teeth gleamed with threatening intent. “I doubt it. Since he can probably hear you squawking from his bed.”
Devona straightened, preparing for the interesting verbal battle ahead of her when Speck’s words sank in past her pride. “Bed. What is the man doing in bed this time of day? Is he ill?” She did not hesitate or wait for Gar to smooth her way. She just slipped under Speck’s barring arm and went inside.
“See here, Miss Bedegrayne!”
Gar moved silently behind him. “Not a hand on her, Speck, or you will be dealing with me. There is little we can do, now. If your lord wants her out, he can manage the task himself.”
Mortification and duty dueled in the older servant’s eyes. “That woman. Your mistress—”
“Aye, she is.” Admiration and respect glowed on his face while they watched her grip her skirts and rush up the stairs.
