The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  Isobel took the stairs two at a time, skidding into the courtyard and hollering for Randolph to saddle Hellion. The poor mare must be confused by all the times she’d been saddled and unsaddled, but it couldn’t be helped. For a moment, Isobel debated on taking another horse, but she knew she could depend on the mare. If things went south and she needed a fast mount, Hellion was the only steed she trusted to carry her safely.

  “My lady,” Randolph rebuked gently upon seeing her unladylike attire. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue to—”

  Isobel held up a palm and took hold of the bridle.

  “No, Randolph,” she said. “I will stop you there. While I understand your concerns, I am mistress here, and you cannot presume to allow me anything. Understood?” He ducked his head but nodded. “Now switch the saddle and please be quick about it. No need for a sidesaddle. I’ll ride astride.”

  Randolph did as commanded, though his face remained tight with disapproval. As she climbed into the saddle, Isobel recognized it as worry for her safety and she relented. “Tell Lord Oliver and His Grace that I’ve gone to look for the marquess.”

  “My lady—”

  Without waiting to hear what he had to say, Isobel took to the streets of London as fast as she dared, body braced over her muscled mare.

  She wasn’t as familiar with the roads once she got to Covent Garden, but she tried to recall the path she’d traveled when she’d followed Winter. Her eyes latched onto Drury Lane, the main street that was etched into the stone of one building. If she followed that, she should come to Russell Street.

  She blinked as her momentary hesitation and Hellion’s irritated posturing caught the attention of several men stumbling out of a pub. Damn and blast. She hadn’t meant to draw notice, but they were staring at the mare, their eyes going wide with appreciation. No amount of dust could disguise the horse’s pedigree and champion bloodlines. And the tack on the horse would cost more than what many of these men would see in a year.

  “Oy, lad, where’d ya get that ’orse? He’s a fine piece, innit.”

  Isobel held her ground as they wobbled closer on unsteady feet. “Stole it from a toff,” she said, making her voice sound as gravelly as she could.

  The second man cackled. “A wee lad like you?”

  “Aye,” she asked. “Where’s Russell Street?”

  “Come closer, and we’ll tell it ta ya,” one man slurred, his gaze fastening to her stockinged leg hooked into the stirrup strap with an intensity she didn’t like. These toads wouldn’t help her. Recalling Clarissa’s warnings, she swallowed hard and urged the horse into a gallop with the barest press of her thighs. Luckily, Hellion was well trained and took off.

  “Wait, boy! Come back.”

  But there was no chance of that. Those men did not have any good intentions, she could sense it on them. Guiding the mare down Drury Lane, once she’d put some distance between her and the pub, she searched for any sign of Winter’s horse, but instead, had the distinct feeling she’d just gone in circle. God, this was impossible. It was like an untidy warren of streets, set up like a spinning wheel, with each spoke leading somewhere else.

  No wonder any wayfarers who got lost in the maze of any of these slums were never to be found…because by the time they would have gotten their bearings, they would have been robbed, stripped of all belongings, beaten to within an inch of their lives, and if they were lucky, killed. If they weren’t lucky, well, those were the ones sold into slavery and prostitution. And that was a grim outcome at best.

  Suddenly, she heard a man’s bellow and what sounded like a scuffle. It wasn’t much to go on, but she didn’t have much choice. She moved Hellion in the direction of another loud grunt followed by a crashing noise. Her heart climbed into her throat when she rounded the corner, only to see her husband fighting like a devil at the center of a pack of grimy men.

  Blood ran freely from a cut on his brow and he was covered in filth, but his sheer strength and viciousness took her breath away. One man flew into a nearby wall, crumpling to a heap at its base. He wrapped one thick arm around another’s neck while fending off a third.

  A fourth crept closer, a knife in hand, and Isobel cried out.

  “Roth! Behind you!”

  He whirled, just in time to deflect the strike with his arm. Blood seeped through the light-colored fabric of his coat. Isobel didn’t think—she reached for one of her pistols, took aim, and fired. The lead ball caught the man in the leg, sending him howling in pain to the ground. The others turned at the sight of her on the horse, but she didn’t waste a second in cocking her second pistol and sliding from Hellion to fire it at the man fighting to take Winter down. The bullet caught him in the side. Her eyes darted to the man who Winter had catapulted into the wall earlier, but he wasn’t moving.

  One to go.

  She started forward and then stopped mid-step. In her haste, she was forgetting something…something important. Oh yes, her mask! She’d stuffed it into her pocket at the house, knowing it would have drawn more eyes riding through London than not. She cursed the few seconds it cost her to tie the scrap in place, but she couldn’t expose her secret to Winter, not yet and especially not here.

  And then she was off and running toward him, holding pistols high. They were both empty, but maybe Winter’s assailants wouldn’t know that. Just as she reached them, Winter crumpled to the ground with an unconscious man splayed on top of him.

  “Roth? Are you hurt? Can you get to your horse?”

  Winter blinked, blood seeping into his eye. “Iz? Is that you? What the devil are you doing here?” He swiped at his bloody face. “Where’s your mistress? Is she safe?”

  “Yes,” Isobel said, shoving the man off of him and half dragging him up by one arm. “Don’t talk. We need to get out of here. More will come when they smell opportunity.”

  Places like these were filled with parasites. Locals protected their own, but God help any nob who wandered into their midst. Isobel could feel the stares of the hidden eyes watching her from the densely packed houses. They would wait until there was no danger to them and then run out to collect the spoils from whatever was left—clothing, coin, weapons, anything that could be reused or sold.

  “What are you doing here?” her husband repeated on a slur as they stumbled toward Hellion where she pawed the ground beside Winter’s horse.

  “Rescuing you,” she said.

  Isobel glanced over her shoulder, feeling a prickle on the back of her neck, but there was no one there except for the four bodies…two insensible and two groaning from their wounds. She had to get them out of here before a mob ensued. “Do you have any shot or pistols?”

  “One,” he rasped. “In saddle.”

  Good, that was good. It meant they weren’t totally defenseless. Propping Winter against his horse, she debated how to get him into the saddle. He was a large man, and built of pure muscle. Even bolstered between her and the horse as he was, he was heavy.

  “We need to go,” she urged. “Can you get up on your horse?”

  Bloodshot gray eyes met hers as he blinked rapidly. “Where’s my wife? Need to tell her sorry.”

  “You will, Roth, but for God’s sake, you need to mount that horse now.”

  She frowned, watching his uncoordinated motions with some trepidation. Why was he so sluggish? Had he gotten hit in the head? Stabbed?

  “Roth, please,” she begged, forgetting to lower her voice and drawing his stare. His brow dropped in confusion, and Isobel knew what he had heard—her true voice pleading with him. Not Iz’s. Perhaps he wouldn’t remember. He gave a weak nod and pulled himself up.

  Once he was in place, she turned to mount her own horse, only to freeze at the well-dressed gentleman who stood a short distance away in front of a plain black coach, watching her efforts with amusement, a gun held carelessly in each hand. She blinked in disbelief
, wanting to shove her cap and mask out of the way. Surely, her eyes were playing tricks on her.

  It couldn’t be…

  “Not one move, boy,” he drawled.

  That voice. That leer. Bile crawled into her throat as she lunged for Winter’s pistol, only to freeze in place at the sound of cocking hammers.

  “Not so fast, lad.” His gaze flicked up. “Or you, Roth. Unless either of you wants to tempt your odds with a bullet each. On the ground. Now.”

  Isobel didn’t dare glance at Winter, whose body had gone rigid, but he complied, sliding from the stallion with a grunt. She took comfort in the fact that he didn’t seem as muddled as he’d been a few minutes ago.

  “Don’t try anything, Iz,” he said, his voice still choppy, but his words less erratic. “Do as he says and you won’t get hurt. All will be well, I promise.”

  But she wanted to scream that it wouldn’t be well because she knew the man holding the guns pointed at them. She knew exactly what he was and every cell inside of her quaked with fear and loathing. That man had ruined her sister’s life, nearly ruined hers, and did not have one drop of integrity in his miserable body.

  The Earl of Beaumont had returned to London.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dearest Friend, a swift, hard knee to the ballocks will drop any man, no matter how large.

  – Lady Darcy

  Winter cleared the remaining cobwebs from his brain.

  Christ, where was Isobel? Where was his wife? The groom had said she was safe, but maybe he had imagined that, too. His head was ringing. His skull felt as though it’d been caved in. He had to get to her…had to figure out where she was…tell her how sorry he was. The notion that the last words she’d heard from him were such untruths tore at him. Ripped his insides to shreds. Fuck, he truly was a cad. The worst kind of cad.

  Winter blinked, forcing his fuzzy thoughts into focus. He’d taken a blow to the temple from a bludgeon. If he hadn’t dodged, it would have broken his jaw, but as it was, the makeshift club had glanced off the side of his head, making him lose vision for a moment.

  He’d been lucky that he hadn’t been knocked out. And then Iz, of all people, had come to save his sorry hide. Winter couldn’t fathom that kind of courage, though now, he could feel the boy trembling at his side with fear. Who wouldn’t, staring down the business end of two pistols?

  He focused his attention to the man holding said pistols and forced his mouth to curl into an unconcerned smirk despite his surprise. The former Earl of Beaumont was a gutter rat. But Winter didn’t doubt for one second that the man couldn’t—or wouldn’t—use those deadly weapons pointed at him and the boy. Had the earl set the ruffians upon him?

  Why was he here?

  Cain had been a part of the Duke of Beswick’s war unit in Spain and had defected, causing the deaths of half his regiment. That had been the reason he’d lost his title and estate. Beswick was not a forgiving man.

  And neither was Winter.

  “You’re aware that assaulting a peer is a criminal offense, Cain.”

  The man’s eyes snapped with anger at the use of his surname instead of his title, a deliberate slight on Winter’s part. He didn’t miss how the man’s eyes flashed briefly to the coach behind him. Was there someone else in there? Someone who still held him in esteem as an earl?

  He let out a growl. “I am a peer.”

  “You were stripped of your title by the Prince Regent, if I recall.” Winter canted his head. “And commanded never to set foot in England again. And yet, here you are, with a gun pointed at a future duke.”

  “You stole everything from me,” he snarled. “You and that bitch of yours.”

  The boy at his side flinched, a frightened sound escaping from under his mask, likely out of concern for his mistress. Winter wanted to reassure Iz, but displaying any care for the lad would only put him in more danger. As it was, he needed to pretend that the boy was nothing more than a mere servant.

  “I didn’t take a thing from you, Cain. You did that all by yourself. What are you doing in Seven Dials?” Winter cocked a brow. “Out for a nighttime stroll, taking in the scents of rot and rubbish? Tell me, who’s in the coach?”

  The door to the coach behind them opened, and amidst a flurry of a gown better suited to a ballroom than the filthy streets of the slums, a woman stepped down. “My, my, so clever, Winter,” Vittorina crowed, eyes glittering in triumph.

  Winter’s gaze swung between her and Cain. It was obvious they were in league with each other. But what was their connection? Had they become acquainted in Italy? The Duke of Beswick had said that the man had been last seen in Rome once Prinny had banished him, but without a name or fortune, he was of little threat. Though that didn’t seem to be the case now. And a man with nothing to lose was the most dangerous.

  “How do you two know each other?” he asked.

  Vittorina gave a venomous smile. “But of course, how remiss of me. You must know my intended, the Earl of Beaumont?”

  Winter blinked. Intended? Surely, she was jesting. Was this the man she’d become betrothed to? “You do know that he’s no longer an earl, so I fear your quest to avail yourself of a British title and calling yourself Countess is moot.”

  Dark eyes panned up to the man at her side. “Naughty Beaumont, keeping such a monumental secret from me. But it’s of little import because plans change, you see. Edmund has always carried a torch for your little wife, and I want you back.” She grinned, taking one of the pistols from Cain. “Two birds, two stones.”

  “That’s not how the saying goes, Vitta.”

  A startled sound left her lips at the old nickname, but he needed to throw her off-balance, and playing to whatever misplaced feelings she still harbored for him seemed to be the best angle. If he could distract her enough, he might be able to get to the unspent gun on his saddle or the knife in his boot. Either way, it would take a miracle.

  “And I’m married,” he added.

  She waved a careless arm. “Once we are back in Italy, none of that will matter. You will be mine, and your wife will be his. Everyone gets what they want.”

  “Bigamy is illegal there, too.”

  “You worry too much. Italy is not the same as stuffy old England. You’ll have new identities. No one will be the wiser.” Vittorina nuzzled the former earl’s arm. “Edmund has grand plans for his little runaway dove, don’t you, amore?”

  “You will not touch her!” Winter growled. He felt more than saw the boy’s stunned stare from beside him at the unguarded possessiveness in his tone. Another instinctive reaction to anything to do with his mistress? The lad was loyal, he’d give him that. “Or the boy.”

  “Or what?” Vittorina said, her cold laughter echoing in the empty streets. “Nothing, you’re going to do nothing. That boy is a loose end to me, but I can see that he means something to you. So, I’ll tell you what we are going to do. We’re going to collect your wife, who my little birds report is currently ensconced at Vance House like an obedient, spineless, dutiful twit, and then we’re all going to board a ship and disappear.”

  Did the groom at his side just growl?

  “My father—”

  Vittorina chortled. “Your father will receive a note that his son is sick of the stuffiness of London and is going on yet another grand tour of the continent. And then Lady Roth, bless her sweet, demure soul, will run back to Chelmsford, whereupon her carriage will be attacked by highwaymen and she will sadly, lose her life. See? Your worry about bigamy will be solved as the poor dear will be no more in the eyes of English law. Once enough time has passed, the duke will receive a letter of your sudden, tragic death. Lord Oliver will become his heir, and everyone will be happy.”

  Winter’s stomach dropped at the mention of Oliver. Had his brother been involved all along—a way for him to finally inherit the dukedom? “What does Vance have to do
with this?”

  She rolled her eyes. “That gullible fool. Edmund befriended him, and the sad, jealous sod couldn’t stop talking about his dreadful big brother.”

  The anger that had spiked within him receded on a tide of relief that Oliver hadn’t betrayed him after all. “You have it all worked out, don’t you?”

  She gave a theatrical sigh. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Winter saw a hulking shadow creeping against one of the walls. Creighton, his man from the shelter! He had no idea how the porter had heard the ruckus or that he was involved, but word traveled fast in these areas. Regardless, he was grateful. When Creighton was in line with the coach, he gave an imperceptible nod and then it was on.

  With unnatural stealth for a man of his size, he took out the coachman, before leaping at the liveried tiger standing at the back. The moment of distraction was all Winter needed. He charged Cain, crashing into him and knocking the gun from his hand, and then turned his sights to Vittorina, but she had already raised her pistol and had it aimed at Winter’s heart.

  “Pull that trigger, and it will be the last thing you do, I promise you.” They both turned toward the voice, only to see Iz with Winter’s pistol from his saddle in hand. “I’m a much better shot than I am a groom.”

  But Winter’s relief was marred by the sight of the footpad who had attacked him before, about to strike. “Iz, behind you!”

  …

  Isobel turned at the same moment that Winter lunged for Vittorina’s arm that was holding her gun, only to come face-to-face with one of the men from earlier. The one that Winter had thrown into the wall held a sword. But worse, she recognized him as the man who had cut Clarissa at the exhibition, the one who had told her she would pay. Beaumont—no, Edmund Cain—had sent him.

  “You!”

  Without hesitation, she discharged the pistol, the noise explosive and making her ears ring. But her aim was true and the man dropped, screaming and clutching his arm. She hadn’t been boasting out of turn when she’d said she was a better shot than groom. Kendrick had taught her and she had honed her skill in the many hours she’d spent alone at Kendrick Abbey.