Page 67 of The Scoundrel of Drury Lane
“Hold on, Your Grace.” Jude examined the blade’s location and noticed the tight weave of Tiverton’s silk waistcoat, which seemed to wrap around most of the blade. Silk was strong, and even the sharpest blades could only lightly pierce the material unless thrown with great force and great speed. After this careful examination, Jude felt it was safe to remove the blade. To his relief, his hopes were confirmed. The blade had barely sunk into Tiverton’s flesh. He lifted Tiverton up onto his shoulders, carrying him toward the coach that had been abandoned. The driver was dead, but Jude knew how to handle a team of horses.
He placed the duke into the coach, made a makeshift bandage for his shoulder, and climbed into the driver’s seat. He lashed the horses’ flanks with the leather ribbons and clicked his teeth. The horses bolted into motion. Jude knew where to go. He only prayed the man did not die before he reached his destination.
* * *
Kit staredat the clock on the mantel in the drawing room. Suzannah and Darius should have been home by now.
“Something’s wrong,” he muttered to Vincent.
His friend took a sip of scotch and then stood, collecting his pistol from a nearby table. “I agree. Darius isneverlate.”
“We must go to the theater. Find out when they left and whether anyone was asking after them.” They moved quickly, meeting Palmer in the corridor. Kit was about to tell him they were leaving when a footman approached.
“My lord... Lord Tiverton’s coach just arrived.”
Kit raced toward the front door, but his relief plummeted into despair as a dark-skinned man leapt down from the coach, calling for help.
“What’s happened?” Kit asked as he reached the man and grabbed his arm.
“Lord Tiverton is gravely injured. Some men took Miss Townsend. His Grace tried to fight them off, but there were too many. They took her.”
The man flung the carriage door open. Darius’s limp body lay across the coach seat, blood dripping down his fingertips from a shoulder wound. His face was pale, lifeless.
Kit leaned against the side of the coach, fighting to breathe. Suddenly he was back on the transport ship, trapped between the bodies and the deep blue sea. Helpless. Broken.Dyingon the inside.
“Oh God!” Vincent shouted as he jumped into the coach, grasping his friend by the shoulder. “Come on, old man, you can’t do this. You hear me?”
“Not... dead...” Darius’s voice broke through the agony that was squeezing Kit’s heart like a vise. “Stop...shouting.”
“Bloody hell, Kit, we need a doctor!” Vincent’s words snapped Kit out of a spiraling panic.
“You, what’s your name?” he demanded of the dark-skinned man.
“Jude.”
“Go to Wemple Street, house number seventeen, and fetch Dr. Jordan.”
Jude nodded and then glanced at the coach. “Shouldn’t I take Tiverton to him? I can drive the team.”
In his panic, Kit had missed the obvious. “Yes, of course. Vincent, you must go with them. I must go after Suzannah.” Kit turned back toward the house. Vincent called to him, and Kit turned back.
“Kill them, Kit,” Vincent said. “Shownomercy.” He tossed Kit his pistol.
“I have none to give.” Walsh and Balfour would die for this, and if Suzannah was hurt, Kit would tear them to pieces with his bare hands. He’d tried not to be a monster, but now they’d created one by taking his wife and gravely wounding his dearest friend.
The next few minutes were a blur as Kit donned dark clothing and had a footman fetch every weapon in the house. Soon he had two pistols and two short daggers tucked away in his coat and boots. As he came down the stairs he found Warren, Felix, and Lionel all in the entryway arguing over what had happened.
“Kit, is it true? Darius is...?” Felix began, but he didn’t finish.
“He’s wounded. Vincent is taking him to a doctor,” Kit said. He didn’t dare say more—they couldn’t afford the distraction that Darius may at that moment be dying. Darius would want them to rescue Suzannah and deal with the bastards who’d caused all of this pain.
Lionel spoke up next. “Palmer said Suzannah has been kidnapped.”
Kit only nodded. He couldn’t bear to say the words aloud. It would make this nightmare too real.
Warren checked the pistol he held and frowned. “What’s our plan?”
“We find the men who took my wife andendtheir lives. If we’re found out, there is no guarantee the courts would look kindly on our actions. We may all be convicted of murder. If you aren’t able to take that risk, I understand.”
