Page 103 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
He began swinging the chair. It was old and rickety, but it made a reasonably good weapon, even if he was still taking blows. That was unavoidable fighting four against one.
He managed to lay a well-placed strike upside Hewitt’s temple. The Bow Street clerk dropped to the floor, unconscious, just as Michael took a fist in his left eye that sent him staggering backwards.
The man he’d punched last night charged, and Michael was able to catch him square in the chest with his boot, launching him into the air and sending him crashing into the wall. There was a squeal and two young boys emerged from the shadows and went scrambling out of the way.
One of them ran straight into one of the assailants. The thug rounded on the boy, raising his fist. “Out of my way, brat!”
The boy froze, his eyes huge, as the man started to swing a backfist toward his head. Michael dove forward, terrified he wouldn’t get there in time.
He barely managed to shove the chair in the way of the thug’s arcing fist. The man gave a howl of pain and sank to the floor, clutching his hand to his chest. “Get back!” Michael called, but the boy stood there, frozen. Suddenly Nick emerged from a corner, grabbed the little one, and hustled him out of the way.
Michael took a hasty step back, assessing the situation. Scudamore, having used up his only shot, was cowering by the stairs like the worthless piece of trash that he was. Two out of the four ruffians were still standing, and they resumed the attack. Fatigue was starting to set in, and what was worse, as Michael parried a blow, he heard the sickening sound of splintering wood. A lower cross slat had broken, and it spelled the beginning of the end for the chair. Michael kept swinging it, but he took a fist to his ribs and another to his right cheek. He raised the chair to block a stinger aimed at his left temple and another slat gave way, then another, until all he was left with was one long stile with a few splintered bits of wood hanging off.
His two remaining attackers were circling him, looking for an opening. Just as he started to raise the chair, someone stole up behind him and grabbed him in a bear hug. It proved to be Scudamore.
Michael lost his grip on the remnants of the chair. He struggled to get an arm free, but exhaustion was starting to set in. Scudamore twisted Michael’s arms up behind his back, locking them in place.
And then Michael felt something cold and thin pressed against his neck.
A knife.
Everyone in the room froze, as they waited to see if Scudamore was going to do it, if he was going to kill Michael in cold blood.
Michael was half-tempted to turn around and throttle him with his bare hands. With the knife at his throat, he knew he would die in the process. But he was about to die either way; maybe he could send Scudamore down to hell before he did.
No. No. He couldn’t think like that.
He had to live. He had to. He was going to spend the rest of his life with Anne. He just needed one idea. Something. Anything.
But… he had nothing.
Michael felt Scudamore tense behind him. The viscount sucked in a tight breath, as if he was steeling himself for the kill. And then—
And then the door swung open with a creak.
Whoever had arrived didn’t enter right away, and it was dark enough that Michael couldn’t make out their face.
What he could make out was the gleaming tip of a pistol.
Michael didn’t have long to wonder who had arrived, or whose side they were on, because at that moment the newcomer spoke. It was a voice Michael would know anywhere, a voice that was dearer to him than any other sound on the face of this earth.
“Let. Him. Go.”
Chapter 39
Anne had felt resolute galloping through the darkened streets of London. But as she guided Lord Gladstone’s horse into the dim alley just past the Coade Stone manufactory, she heard sounds—crashes, thumps, and grunts—coming from one of the houses, and reality snaked its way through her chest like a vein of ice.
Someone was in a fight for his life, and she was fairly certain that someone was Michael.
She swung off the horse and rushed up to the door. She frantically inspected the front windows but could find no chink in their coverings through which she could peek.
Suddenly she heard, distinct amongst the commotion inside, a groan. It wasn’t a loud groan, or a long one, nor was it particularly agonizing.
But it was Michael’s voice. She knew it was. Michael was in there, and he was in danger.
She swallowed. There was nothing for it; she’d have to go straight through the front door, with no idea what she might find on the other side, and hope for the best.
She raised her little pistol with hands that shook and swung the door open. The scene that came into view was worse than anything she could’ve imagined. Michael was horribly battered. His left eye was red and all but swollen shut, and blood was caked around a wound on his forehead. But worst of all, Scudamore had him pinned, his arms twisted behind his back, and a gleaming silver knife pressed against his throat.
