“He did follow you, I confess, and then returned to fetch me. I thought it only prudent to summon Mr. Burton-Smythe.” Lionel gave St. Clare a lazy smile. “Apologies, Cousin, if I’ve interrupted your pleasure.”
“My pleasure has just begun,” St. Clare said. And reaching into the inner pocket of his greatcoat, he smoothly withdrew his own pistol—a nasty-looking double-barreled flintlock.
Lionel took an involuntary step back.
The table of old men in the corner laughed heartily. “Where’s your magistrate now, guv?” one of them cackled.
Fred’s hand trembled, but he didn’t waver. “Come, Margaret. At once. I’m taking you home.”
“Oh, do put that thing down, Fred,” Maggie said in exasperation. “You’ll never best him with pistols, and well you know it.”
There was more laughter from the old men in the pub. “You tell him, missus!” one of them said. “He won’t get the better of our lad.”
“That’s right,” another cried. “You show our lad some respect.”
Our lad.
St. Clare vaguely registered the words. Just as he’d registered the old men’s stares and whispers when first he’d entered the Crossed Daggers. He knew what it all meant, but there was no time to dwell on it. He had his old rival to contend with.
The two of them faced each other at the edge of the shadowed taproom.
“Come here,” Fred commanded Maggie. “Now.”
“She’s not going anywhere with you,” St. Clare said. “Not tonight—not ever. She belongs to me.”
“You!” Fred glared at him with something very like hatred. The same unbridled hatred with which he’d once regarded St. Clare so long ago. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”
One of the grizzled old men stood up from his seat at the corner table. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to, boy? Why, that’s Gentleman Jim.”
Another of the men laughed. “He’s not Jim, you silly sod. He’s too young.”
“He looks like him right enough,” the first man replied. “A damned mirror image. Must be his son.”
Fred stared at St. Clare in dawning realization. His mouth opened and closed. His chest heaved. He shook his head, as if in denial of what was right in front of his eyes.
“I am his son,” St. Clare said. His mouth curved in an arctic smile. But his blood wasn’t cold. It was swiftly simmering to a raging boil.
This was the man who’d driven him from Beasley Park. Who’d beaten him and scarred him and separated him from the love of his life. This was the man who would have let him hang for a crime he hadn’t committed.
And here St. Clare was at last, facing him, not as a cold-blooded viscount but as himself—as the hot-tempered lad who had fled Somerset ten years ago.
“Don’t you know me, Fred?” he asked.
“Nicholas Seaton,” Fred uttered in tones of disbelief. “It’s not possible.”
“Oh, it’s quite possible, I assure you,” St. Clare said. And he cocked his pistol.
Maggie’s heart jumped in her throat. Until a few minutes ago, St. Clare had been in complete control of the situation. She’d been content to follow his lead. But somewhere between the last two steps on the staircase and the taut moment in which they were now embroiled, he’d let his emotions get the better of him.
She felt as though she was standing atop a tinderbox. Not only were Fred and St. Clare pointing their pistols at each other, the rest of the men in the tavern had risen to their feet. Some of them appeared to be in possession of weapons of their own. Even the barman was armed. He’d withdrawn a heavy wooden club from behind the counter, as if in eminent expectation of an all-out brawl.
“Jim’s son!” one of the old men said. “Knew it as soon as I saw him, I did. Didn’t I tell you, Bill?”
“A family matter, he said,” another replied. “Did you ken?”
Ignoring the upraised voices, Maggie set a hand very gently on St. Clare’s arm, careful not to startle him. He was entirely focused on Fred. “This isn’t going to solve anything.”
“Probably not,” St. Clare said without looking at her. “But it will make me feel better.”
Fred had cocked his pistol as well. It shook a little in his hand. Not the most heartening sight. Indeed, Maggie had more fear that Fred would fire upon St. Clare accidentally than that St. Clare would shoot Fred on purpose.
“Put it down, Fred,” she said, “before you hurt someone!”
“I mean to hurt someone,” Fred replied. “Him.”
Mr. Beresford backed against the counter, half shielding himself behind his valet. “Pray tell, Cousin, just who is Nicholas Seaton?”
“I’m Nicholas Seaton,” St. Clare said, without batting an eye.
Maggie winced. Good lord. This was all her fault. She’d known full well that St. Clare had wanted to leave his old identity behind. Dead and buried, he’d said. And now, because of her, he was forced to confront it again, and in the most public way possible.
“The bastard son of a whore and a highwayman,” Fred said. “Born at Beasley Park, wasn’t he, Margaret? He used to muck out Squire Honeywell’s stables.”
Maggie’s fists clenched. “Shut up, Fred.”
“He was a thief, too,” Fred went on. “A dirty, no-good grubby little thief. He was going to be hanged for his crimes. And would have been if someone hadn’t set him free.” He flashed a scathing look at Maggie. “Were you letting him bed you even then?”
After that, things happened rather quickly.
Thrusting his flintlock at Maggie, St. Clare closed the distance between him and Fred in a few swift strides. He knocked the pistol from Fred’s hand. And drawing back, punched him full in the face.
There was a deafening roar of approval from the men in the tavern, and a great rush forward as they all closed in to watch what looked to be the beginning of a mill.
Fred flew backward from the strength of the blow, landing against a table. He rallied immediately. One minute he was shaking his head, as though stunned, and the next he was charging St. Clare like a bull. He caught him in the midsection, nearly bowling him off of his feet.
But St. Clare was no lad anymore. Not a lanky servant boy who Fred could beat without fear of reprisal. He returned Fred’s blows with powerful blows of his own, another to the face, and several to Fred’s sides, making his opponent grunt and grimace.
St. Clare’s flintlock still in her hand, Maggie shoved through the crowd to grab Fred’s fallen pistol from the floor. She reached out for it, but Mr. Beresford’s odious valet beat her to it. He swept it up in his hand, and with a triumphant sneer, withdrew back to his master, who was by this point hunkering behind the bar.
Meanwhile, St. Clare and Fred fought on, across the taproom and toward the door. Glasses shattered as they threw each other against tables, and wood splintered as chairs broke and upended onto the floor.
St. Clare’s golden hair was wildly disheveled, his greatcoat torn off, and his neckcloth ripped loose. Blood stained his brow and dripped from his mouth.
Fred was in even worse condition. His hat and coat were gone, his waistcoat had lost all but two of its buttons, and his copper hair stood straight up on his head. One of his eyes was half shut, and he was bleeding copiously from his nose.
Neither of which deterred him.
He grabbed St. Clare by his shirt, and spinning him around, smashed his fist into St. Clare’s jaw.
Maggie covered her mouth to stifle a cry. But St. Clare didn’t appear to be hurt—not grievously.
Retaliating instantly, he struck Fred once, twice, and then—by the simple expedience of one well-delivered boot to the chest—quite literally kicked Fred out the door of the tavern.
The crowd went mad. “Hell’s teeth!” one of the men exclaimed. “Did you see that?”
“He’s Jim’s lad, all
right!” another cried.
But the fight wasn’t over.
St. Clare followed Fred into the yard, and the two of them picked up straight where they’d left off.
Maggie ran after them, along with the rest of the rabble. “Stop!” she cried. “That’s enough!”
St. Clare and Fred circled each other, both of them panting, deaf to her pleas. And then, Fred lunged at St. Clare again—a staggering, unsteady assault. The two of them grappled with each other, exchanging imprecise blows.
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Maggie wished she had a bucket of water to throw over them. She looked desperately around the yard. Her eyes lit on their hired carriage. It stood in the same place they’d left it. Except now…
It was completely unattended.
Worse than that. It no longer appeared to be attached to the horses.
A jolt of alarm went through her. Abandoning her place at the front of the crowd, she ran to the carriage only to discover that the traces had been cut. Panic rose in her breast. “Enzo?” she called. “Enzo, where are you?”
“Here!” a faint voice answered.
She almost didn’t hear it over the roar of the crowd. It was a tiny sliver of sound, emanating from the only other carriage in the yard.
Fred’s carriage.
Mr. Beresford, his valet, and the coachman stood alongside it, well out of the way of the fight and ready to make their escape. The valet was holding Fred’s pistol.
Maggie fixed the trio with a glare. “I beg your pardon, is that my servant I hear inside your cab?”
Mr. Beresford smiled. “Just obeying orders, Miss Honeywell.”
“Whose orders?”
“Mr. Burton-Smythe’s, naturally.”
“He has no authority over my tiger,” she said. “Let the boy out at once.”
“Can’t do,” Mr. Beresford said.
“Oh you can’t, can you?” Her temper flared.
“Not unless it’s on Mr. Burton-Smythe’s say-so. And, as you can see, he’s a trifle busy with my cousin at the moment.”
She moved to the door to try the handle, but the valet blocked her path. “Get out of my way!”
“This lad’s for the magistrate, ma’am,” Mr. Beresford said.
“Rubbish. He’s committed no crime. It’s you who I’ll have up before the magistrate if you don’t release him.”
He chuckled. “On what charge?”
“Kidnapping. And I’ll report you for damaging my hired carriage. Just what do you mean by cutting the traces? And if you say you were merely obeying Mr. Burton-Smythe’s orders, I shall not be responsible for my actions. Now, out of my way,” she said again. Only this time, she raised St. Clare’s flintlock.
It didn’t provoke quite the response she’d anticipated.
The two servants laughed uproariously. Even Lionel Beresford tittered with amusement. As if she were a simpleton who didn’t know one end of a weapon from the other.
“You be careful with that, little lady,” the valet said. “You might harm yourself.”
Maggie leveled the flintlock. “Let him out, or I shall shoot that dratted pistol straight out of your hand.”
“Have a care, ma’am.” Mr. Beresford moved as if to take the weapon from her. “If you do yourself an injury, how will we—”
Maggie pulled the trigger.
A pistol shot broke through the noise of the crowd—exploding in the night like a firework.
The sound wrenched St. Clare back to his senses. Tearing his attention from Fred, he looked for Maggie at the edge of the crowd. She’d been there but a minute ago, begging him to stop fighting. But now she was gone.
She was gone.
Shoving Fred away from him, St. Clare shouldered his way through the onlookers. Someone was screaming. A sound to make his blood curdle. But it wasn’t a woman, thank God. It was a man. Lionel’s valet, in fact.
He was doubled over next to the door of Fred’s elegant carriage, clutching himself. A pistol lay on the ground at his feet. Fred’s coachman lunged for it, but Maggie kicked it away before he could reach it.
She was facing them alone, still holding St. Clare’s flintlock.
“Me hand!” the valet wailed. “She’s blown off me hand!”
“Nonsense,” Maggie said. “My aim was perfect.”
St. Clare was at her side in an instant, still breathing heavily from his fight with Fred. “Are you all right?”
She looked up at him. Her brows knit as she scanned his face, a frown forming on her lips. “Are you?”
He ran a hand over his hair. He knew he must look a fright. There was blood all over him, drying on his face and fists, and staining the linen of his torn shirt. Only a fraction of that blood was his own. “I’m fine,” he said. “In spite of appearances.”
“Good.” She pushed past the still-screaming valet and opened the carriage door. Enzo was inside, his hands bound together. He gave them a look of profound relief.
“What in blazes?” St. Clare stepped forward to untie him.
“They snatched him,” Maggie said. “And they’ve cut the traces of our carriage.”
St. Clare helped Enzo out of the cab. “How did they get the better of you?” he asked in a low voice. “You were armed to the teeth.”
Enzo answered him in Italian, his words accompanied by an apologetic shrug.
St. Clare turned on his cousin. “What did you hope to achieve by this pitiful jest?”
“It’s no jest.” Fred limped toward them. He was holding a handkerchief against his mouth. Fury still burned in his face, but it was no longer made manifest. He was too bruised and battered to continue fighting. “I’m going to have both you and your tiger brought up before the magistrate for abducting Miss Honeywell. And your good name won’t make one wit of difference.”
Lionel’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. “But you don’t have a good name, do you? You’re less of a Beresford than Madre and I suspected. Indeed, you aren’t a Beresford at all.”
“Of course he’s a Beresford,” Maggie said sharply. She looked to Fred. “And it’s not abduction if I went willingly. You already admitted as much in front of the entire tavern, accusing me of being a—”
“Stay out of this, Margaret,” Fred told her.
The valet’s screams had been reduced to whimpers. “Me hand!”
“Enough, man,” Lionel hissed. “The bullet only scorched you.”
Fred came forward, reaching for Maggie’s arm. “I’m taking you back to Beasley Park.”
St. Clare barred his way. “Like hell you are.”
“She has no choice.” Fred gave him a look of malicious triumph. “Your carriage isn’t functional. The only way she’s returning home tonight is with me.”
Maggie drew closer to St. Clare. “If that’s the case, I’d rather walk, thank you.”
St. Clare cast a swift glance at his hired cattle. The two bays were nothing very elegant, but they were big and strong. “That won’t be necessary.” And then to Enzo: “Ready the horses.”
Enzo sprang into action. He quickly rid the bays of their harnesses, leaving only their bridles attached. It took but a moment longer to thread the long carriage reins back through the rings of the horses’ bits, fashioning two pairs of makeshift riding reins.
Fred and Lionel might have attempted to stop the industrious tiger if the crowd of customers from the tavern hadn’t gathered around. Old men and young stood watching and cheering, uttering unhelpful commentary and encouragement.
The barman was at the front of the fray, his club in his hand. “You lot better clear out before the constable arrives and reads the Riot Act.”
“No fear of that.” St. Clare met Maggie’s eyes, an unspoken question in his own.
Her mouth tilted up very slightly. “I suppose I must ride pillion.”
“Don’t be absurd, my love.” He tossed her up onto the back of the larger bay, and then, taking the reins from Enzo, vaulted up behind her. His arm came around her waist, holding her fast. “This way is far more efficient.”
She settled back against his chest, his flintlock still clutched in her hand.
“Don’t you dare go with him,” Fred bellowed. “Do you hear me, Margaret? You’ll be ruined!”
Enzo retrieved the shotgun from inside the box of the abandoned carriage before mounting the second horse. He pointed the weapon at Fred and Lionel.
“Where’s my pistol?” Fred asked Lionel.
“Miss Honeywell shot it out of my valet’s hand,” Lionel said. “A fascinating display.”
“She kicked it under the carriage, sir,” the coachman added helpfully. “Shall I fetch it?”
“Of course you should bloody well fetch it,” Fred snarled. And then: “Margaret! There’ll be consequences for this! If you leave with him tonight, you’ll lose everything you love!”
“Not everything,” Maggie said.
St. Clare felt the sudden urge to grin. He spun his horse around, and catching the barman’s eye, flipped the man his promised second sovereign.
The barman caught it easily. “Godspeed, milord.”
“Farewell, young Mullens. You may tell your esteemed father that the son of Gentleman Jim sends his regards.” With that, St. Clare gave his mount a hard kick, and with Maggie clasped tight in front of him, galloped away into the night.
They’d gone little more than two miles before Maggie made St. Clare stop. “I can’t continue sidesaddle,” she said. “Not bareback.”
St. Clare reined his horse off of the darkened road and into a thicket of trees nearby. Insects chirped, and somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. There was no sign yet of Fred’s carriage coming after them. No sign of anyone. Nothing but a wide expanse of endless night, the moon hanging above them, lighting their way in a luminous shimmer of silver.
Enzo stood guard, his back to them as Maggie hoisted her skirts to her thighs and swung her right leg over the horse’s neck.
Gentleman Jim Page 27
