Page 4 of Noble Scoundrel

But first, he needed to see Freddie settled back in his proper life.

As he reached the top of the stairs and the door that led into the upper room, he paused.

The hairs on his arms stood up and his stomach muscles tightened with awareness.

Someone was there. Behind the partially opened door, waiting to attack as soon as Mason entered. Dusk had fallen outside, and without any lamps lit, the building was filled with a dim grey light, but the shadow beneath the door was a dead giveaway to a man who’d learned far too young to be wary of blind corners.

Though it had been a long time since anyone had dared to attack him unprovoked, in his gritty youth, it had happened often. He’d been a scrawny lad up until the age of thirteen or so, when several growth spurts added inches in height and bulk within a painfully short time. The dramatic transformation represented a challenge to the other boys in the rookery, where might equaled right.

Mason had been jumped so many times in those years, he’d had constant bruises and lumps on his face and body. But he’d been raised in a nest of violence and knew how to take a hit and keep going. Eventually, word got out he couldn’t be defeated and the attacks grew less frequent.

Mason rolled his shoulders in anticipation of the confrontation awaiting him behind the door. He probably should have anticipated the efficiency of Nightshade’s people to get word to Boothe.

Good. The issue would be settled all the quicker.

After quietly removing his great coat to leave it in a heap on the stairs, he flattened his palm on the door. Pushing it open, he stepped through.

Something didn’t smell right. In a place most often scented with the dust of charcoal, sweat, and whiskey, the new smell was starkly out of place. Fresh and quietly rich with the fragrance of some exotic flower, it momentarily distracted him from the immediate threat, giving the intruder a chance to take the first swing.

Something the man was destined to regret.

A fist connected with Mason’s jaw and he smiled. It seemed he’d been right not to expect much of a challenge in this confrontation. The punch was ill-timed and carried only a fraction of the force it could have if it had been properly executed. Boothe had obviously been in a rush to claim his advantage...possibly because he knew he wouldn’t get another.

Mason kicked the door shut behind him, closing off an avenue for the man to escape before Mason had a chance to question him about the woman who’d hired him.

“You’re gonna have to do a helluva lot better than that,” he noted with a smirk as the Runner squared off in front of him with fists raised.

Mason rolled his shoulders and shook out his fingers before curling them into his palm.

Though the lighting was dim, it was enough to determine his adversary was a big man, broad and barrel-chested. His expression was stern and ready for a fight; his gaze was focused. At one time, the former Runner might have been an imposing figure. Now, however, he was a man significantly past his physical prime and way out of his league.

But that didn’t stop him from lunging forward to swing a hard right.

Mason easily ducked out of the way and sent a swift jab to his opponent’s ribs. The man stumbled and coughed but recovered quickly enough to come at Mason again.

Deflecting the next blow with an easy block, Mason decided to bring an end to the pointless tussle.

After allowing Boothe to get close enough to manage a quick cross to Mason’s jaw, Mason responded with a blurred left jab that had the other man dropping to the floor—out cold.

Mason huffed an irritated breath.

He’d wanted to end the fight, not knock the man out. Now he’d have to wait for him to wake up before he could get the answers he wanted. As he took a step toward the fallen Runner, intending to search the man’s pockets for anything useful, the distinctive click of a pistol hammer being pulled back echoed through the room like a cannon blast.

Mason froze.

Boothe hadn’t come alone.

Holding his splayed hands out from his body, he slowly turned toward the sound to discover a figure standing in the deep shadows behind his desk.

“Do not move.” The woman’s voice was an intriguing combination of elegance and arrogance. Smooth and strong. The texture of it slid warmly down Mason’s spine.

She was shrouded in a thick cloak of midnight-blue velvet. With the oversized hood drawn over her head, he could see nothing of her face. But considering her cultured accent, he suspected Freddie’s sister had opted not to sit quietly at home while her man followed Turner’s effectively dropped clue.

Mason would have his answers sooner than later after all.

Keeping his gaze trained on the lady and the glint of dark metal she extended from the folds of her cloak, Mason lifted his hands to release the tie of his queue that had come loose during the brief scuffle with Boothe. In slow, deliberate movements, he shook his head—never once taking his eyes off the woman—before combing his fingers back through his hair to secure it again at his nape.

Then he lowered his hands back to his sides and smiled. “’Ello, dove.”

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