Michael straightened and slowly turned. Nick scrambled to his feet beside him, rubbing at his recently bound wrists. Without tearing his eyes away from the pistol, Michael placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder and pushed the boy behind him.
“To answer your question, Morsley, the reason I haven’t killed Nick is because he’s worth nothing to me dead. Alive, on the other hand, I can sell him to a ship captain I know who makes sail four days hence. I’ll be eight pounds richer, and he’ll be far enough away that he can’t go squealing to Bow Street. Considering my friend runs the West India route, he’ll probably be dead soon enough from some hideous tropical disease. It’s the ideal solution.”
Michael glowered at Scudamore. “The West India route—do you mean a slave ship? You disgust me, that you would count such a man as your friend.”
Scudamore sneered. “Ah, yes—there’s the sanctimonious prig I remember from school. Always sticking up for some sniveling first-year and ruining my bit of sport.”
“If that’s how you remember me, then I’m glad not to have changed.”
“Oh, but you’re about to.” Scudamore grinned. “You’re about to be transformed. Into a corpse.”
Michael’s mind raced, trying to come up with any sort of strategy. “You’re not going to kill me,” he said, even though he was fairly certain that was wrong. The only thing he could think of was to keep Scudamore talking.
“Dim, as always, Morsley. Of course I’m going to kill you. You know that I’m the one who had Smithers killed. You therefore have to die.” He waved to his henchmen, who began fanning out into the room. “Besides, I need you out of the way so I can marry Lady Wynters.”
“You will never marry Anne,” Michael growled.
“She’ll need someone to console her after the tragic death of her childhood sweetheart. As the only one who can describe your final moments, I’ll be well positioned. Then I’ll get her thirty-five thousand pounds and access to that lucrative charity of hers.” He grinned even bigger, clearly enjoying himself. “To say nothing of getting her flat on her back for me every night.”
Michael started forward with no thought in his mind but ripping Scudamore’s head from his worthless body. Nick grabbed his arm. “Don’t listen to him, m’lord,” he murmured.
Michael drew in a breath. Nick was right. The situation was bad enough without him going off half-cocked.
He turned to the man from Bow Street who’d accompanied them. “Hewitt, listen to me. You work for Bow Street. You swore an oath to uphold the law.” Hewitt looked away and shifted his weight uneasily but said nothing. Michael tried again. “You’re better than this. It’s not too late—”
“Of course it’s too late,” Scudamore said. “Who do you think quashed the investigation before you went and appealed to Lord Hobart? He took his thirty pieces of silver, now he has to see this through.”
The man with the black eye stepped forward. “Can we have some fun with him before you shoot him? I owe his lordship here a facer.”
“You know, I would quite enjoy seeing that.” Scudamore took a step back but didn’t lower Anne’s pistol. “Enjoy yourselves.”
The last thing Michael did before two of the thugs seized his arms was to shove Nick back toward the corner. He scarcely had time to brace himself before the man with the black eye punched him in the gut.
Getting punched wasn’t particularly comfortable, but after four years on the Canadian frontier, he was used to uncomfortable.
He ignored the pain, ran through his options, and made a decision.
Giving a great roar, he surged forward, trying to headbutt the man who’d punched him.
It didn’t work, but that was all right.
He hadn’t intended for it to.
It did cause the two thugs holding his arms to pull as hard as they could, struggling to restrain him.
That was what Michael had wanted.
He abruptly relaxed his right arm. This had the effect of sending the man to his right, who’d been expecting his resistance, stumbling off-balance. Michael followed this up by reversing course and pulling in the same direction as the man on his left, which sent him careening into the wall.
They wound up in a tangle, causing just enough confusion for Michael to wrench his arms free.
Now that he was loose, he figured Scudamore would try to shoot him, so Michael dove for the wall. Surely enough, the report of a pistol filled the room, accompanied by the sound of a shattering windowpane.
He caught a glimpse of Scudamore scowling at him through a haze of smoke, but he didn’t have time to gloat, because there were four men closing in on him.
There was a ladderback chair by the wall. Michael snatched it up and wheeled to face his opponents.
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.”