Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
THE LION’S DEN
The urge to rush into the building with a roar was overwhelming, but Richard held himself back.
Dealing with Weekes could wait; rescuing Emily was paramount.
That latter aim could likely be best accomplished with calm reason and stealth.
He took a deep breath, and when that did not entirely quell his bloodlust, another. Then he gently tried the door.
To no surprise, it was locked, but the thin blade he kept in his pocket remedied that problem in moments.
Like the building itself, the lock was a cheap shamble, and it opened readily under his ministrations.
With one last deep, mind-clearing breath, he wrestled his fury into control and stepped inside.
Despite the bright day outside, the space was dark and dingy.
There was no window in this small vestibule; the only natural light came from a room beyond an open doorway.
On closer examination, there was no door here at all, just the space to pass through into what looked like a small sitting room.
A flight of stairs that looked none too safe canted upwards and to the side of the vestibule, and a sconce on the wall offered the possibility of light when the sun set.
There was no other furniture in this hall, but Richard saw part of a table in the room beyond.
He slid forward, trying to avoid making a noise, to see the space better.
Could Emily be in here at all? Carefully, inch by inch, he edged forward until he reached the portal and stopped to assess what lay before him.
The room was not of great size, but it was large enough to host a reasonable gathering.
A threadbare sofa held up one peeling wall, and a handful of chairs surrounded the large table that stood in the centre of the space.
From where he stood, Richard could see a cold fireplace, still full of last night’s ashes, and a small side table that seemed to have a messy pile of objects atop it, the details of which were hidden from his view.
The room appeared empty of occupants.
Still, it was with all due caution that he advanced one careful foot into the room.
From nowhere, his soldier’s instincts burst into life.
Had an all-but-inaudible sound alerted him?
Some hint of motion from the corner of his eye?
A movement of air, a scent, even? Regardless of the cause, he leapt aside just as a heavy object descended upon him from behind.
It glanced off the edge of his shoulder, but the padding in his uniform coat protected him from the blow.
Spinning around, he let his honed instincts take over, and he ducked and lunged until he had pinned his assailant against the wall, pressing the hard length of his forearm against the miscreant’s throat.
His attacker let out a squeak and he—
Only… it wasn’t a ‘he’.
It was a ‘she’.
“Emily!”
He whispered the name, half in relief and half in anger after the foiled attack. He loosened his grip at once.
“Richard? Is it you? Oh, thank God, it’s you!” She almost sobbed his name and fell into his safe arms. “I thought it was Weekes, coming again, or that man, escaped from the cellar.”
She glanced at a doorway that stood against the wall to his back; there must be a stairwell there, beneath the one leading upwards, that descended to a lower storey.
“That man? What has happened? How came you to be here?”
“I do not know his name, but he is the largest man I have ever seen. I locked him in the cellar.”
This was his Emily! She was not a large woman, but she had somehow overcome a man the size of a giant. “I must know how!”
“It was simple.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, but steady.
“There is little light in there. I rolled up the blankets to look like I was asleep in the corner. When he entered, I hit him over the head with the chamber pot with all my strength. Then I took his key and locked the door with him inside.”
“You amaze me. But let us be gone now, and you can explain all later.” This was no time or place for a prolonged reunion, no matter how much Richard yearned to tighten his embrace and never let her go.
He felt her nod and pressed his lips to the top of her head. Perhaps, if she permitted it, he would kiss her properly later, but this was not the time.
“Quietly, in case he —”
They both stopped still.
“Shhh… is that him?” Emily stepped back. Her face was white. “No, it did not come from the cellar.” She indicated the door at his back. “It comes from the stairs leading up to where the girls… entertain.” She spoke so quietly, he had to put his ear to her mouth to hear her.
“Stay here. Do not move!” Thank heavens he had dressed in his full uniform before the express rider arrived this morning, for he had his sword still strapped to his side.
He drew it now, the sound of metal against leather ringing through the small room.
Then he stepped into the dingy vestibule to meet his foe.
Richard slid along the far wall, keeping back from where he would be easily seen from the staircase.
If this were a client leaving late, or having taken his pleasure early in the day, it would not do to attack the man.
But a mere glance showed it was no customer descending.
The man reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the short hall.
Richard knew that form, that swagger, all too well.
For somebody who had only last night abducted and imprisoned a lady of quality, he seemed most unconcerned.
Had he not heard the sword being unsheathed?
Was he that confident in his position and in the giant he employed?
It was time to teach the pup a lesson.
“Hands behind your head, Weekes!” Richard stepped out of the shadow and held the point of his sword to the middle of Weekes’ back.
“You!” The word sounded like a vile insult from his lips.
He spun around to face Richard, and Richard nearly gasped in surprise, for that once-handsome visage was now a ruin.
A line of gashes—as if from an angry lion—ran from under one eye and across his unshaven cheek, still red and oozing, and likely infected, and a bulbous, bruise-stained mass replaced what was once that aristocratic nose. It would heal crooked, if at all.
Had Weekes been at odds with Samson, his bruiser?
But no, for the blackguard hissed through split lips, “That she-cat of yours is the very devil!”
Richard grinned in spite of himself, even as he moved his sword to hover at Weekes’ chest. Emily had been abducted and taken captive, to be sure, but she had not gone without causing a great deal of damage.
If possible, his estimation of her grew even stronger.
He had no need to rescue the damsel, for she had rescued herself, and slain the dragon at the same time.
Almost.
“Give up now, Fitzwilliam. You will not kill me. You haven’t the guts.
” That sneering, venom-laced voice was designed to distract, but Richard knew better.
As Weekes reached to his side, whether to pull out a pistol or dagger, Richard was ready and sprang into action.
He might not be the man to run another through in cold blood, but neither would he stand idly by to be killed instead.
He lunged forward, swiping his sword sideways where it connected with Weekes’ hand.
The man yelled and grasped at his wrist. Richard had hit him with the broad side of the sword and not the razor-edge of the blade, but it must smart all the same.
The cur took a step backwards towards the open room. Towards Emily. Richard had to take control of the fight.
He just needed to manoeuvre Weekes into a corner, to give him nowhere to move… He lunged again, forcing his nemesis backwards, again, and once more.
But fate had a nasty surprise in store, for Weekes knew the room and what was in it, and Richard had not had time to take in every detail of the space.
How could he have known that on the small table to the side, half-buried under the pile of objects there, was a long and lethal-looking dagger?
Weekes grabbed it as he passed and now turned back to face Richard with a murderous glint in his eyes.
“Not even a scratch?” Weekes sneered. “Afraid of blood? You are a pathetic attempt at a soldier, Fitzwilliam. Now stay and fight like a man!” He darted forward, brandishing the blade.
It was too short to make it past Richard’s sword, but the room was small.
If Weekes managed to work his way closer, the sword would be useless.
And Emily was there, back in the other corner near the fireplace.
Richard needed to keep Weekes at a good arm’s length, and facing away from Emily.
Richard was an accomplished swordsman, and one who trained daily with his sergeant at arms. He was not an officer to grow fat in his tent but was fit and in the prime of health.
Weekes, on the other hand, was out of practice with his weapon, and he had grown soft during his months away from the regulars.
But he had the advantage of knowing the room, its contents, and dimensions.
Furthermore, he was not afraid to kill. Where Richard fought to protect and subdue, Weekes fought to maim and murder.
His movements were not precise and controlled, but they were fuelled by fury.
This was a case where strategy mattered more than sheer force.
He needed to control the fight, to get that blade out of the other man’s hands.
Weekes feinted to the side in an attempt to get inside the sweep of Richard’s sword.
It was a poor attempt, and Richard stepped to the side easily enough, but now the centre table was between them.
They might dance around it for far too long, tiring each other out before either one had the opportunity to end this fight. And Emily…