Chapter Twenty-One
Sebastian struck the door with his fist. Nothing happened.
For a brief moment, he wondered if he had chosen the wrong approach—perhaps slipping in through the back would have been wiser.
He raised his hand to knock again, but the door flew open so abruptly he might have pitched forward had he been leaning any of his weight upon it.
As it was, he lashed out at the hands that lunged to seize him.
“Get off me,” he snarled.
“Bring him in,” an authoritative voice ordered.
Two men grabbed at him, but Sebastian kicked out at them, all of his training in pugilism rising sharply to the fore.
His fist connected with someone’s ribs; the fellow doubled over, wheezing.
Another staggered after a vicious kick to the knee.
But even as Sebastian seized the leader by the collar, blows rained upon him from all sides.
Behind him, he heard Lord Calperton grappling with yet another attacker. Despite his slighter frame, James must have held his own, for one of the assailants suddenly yelped—and the leader barked a command.
“Stop!”
At once, the men backed off, panting. One clutched his jaw—James had apparently struck true.
Another guarded his ribs, glaring at Sebastian with murderous resentment.
None came forward again, however, and Sebastian took the moment to straighten, a thin trickle of blood slipping from his nose onto the stone.
“Which one of you is Calperton?” the leader demanded.
Sebastian met James’s eye. Their captors clearly did not know whom they sought—a small miracle, and one that could yet serve them.
“If you cannot tell,” Sebastian said mildly, “we shall not enlighten you.”
The blow came fast, as expected. Sebastian caught the man’s wrist and forced it back with a growl, but at once the other two surged toward him. For the first time, he recognised he might not withstand them all.
He willed for time. Time for Nicholas. Time for the Watch.
Before the men could descend on him, another voice cut through the space.
“What in blazes is happening out here?” it snapped.
All three froze.
“Two toffs pushed their way in,” one of the injured men muttered.
“We reckoned one must be Calperton,” added the leader.
“Do you know what he looks like?” another one of the men asked.
“That’s Calperton,” the man who had ordered them to stop said, nodding at Lord Calperton.
Sebastian swore inwardly. He had hoped they would mistake him for James—he could better withstand whatever came next, and if they took James inside, he might at least reach Evelyn.
He cast a quick look around. They stood in a gated anteroom—stone-flagged, walled on three sides, the outer gate behind them and the inner door to the club before them. Smoke-stained, close, foul. A cage.
“Bring him in,” the newcomer ordered, indicating James.
“And the other?” one of the bruised men asked, nodding at Sebastian.
“No notion,” the newcomer said irritably.
Sebastian drew a breath. The wounded men stared at him with that particular look that precedes violence—he had mere seconds.
“Go with them,” he told James quietly, firmly.
James gazed at him with a worried expression but turned away.
“Go,” Sebastian insisted. “Say whatever you must to save her.”
James swallowed hard and turned to follow the man who had commanded the other three.
Sebastian braced himself. The room seemed to hold its breath. He glanced upward in a fierce plea for courage; for strength; for anything to keep him standing long enough to reach Evelyn.
The man escorting James barked at him to hurry. As James turned, he suddenly bolted for the outer gate. Shouts erupted. The three men lunged after him.
It was all the opening Sebastian needed.
He drove into them from behind, seizing the nearest man and slamming his head into the wall. The man crumpled instantly. Sebastian whirled, catching another by the arm and kicking his legs out from under him. The fellow collapsed with a howl, curling around his ribs.
The third came at him, and Sebastian met him with a brutal kick. Meanwhile, James struck the fourth man—a sharp blow to the groin that sent him staggering.
Then the inner door burst open.
“What in perdition’s name are you lot doing?” a harsh voice demanded.
James froze. His expression drained of colour.
“Stannard,” he whispered.
The wounded brute pointed weakly. “They were—escaping.”
Stannard shoved him aside with contempt. He was tall—almost Sebastian’s height—gaunt as a corpse, with a face carved of malice. His gaze snapped between Sebastian and James.
“Calperton?” he snarled at James. “Where’s the money?”
“I—” James faltered, then steadied himself. “How do I know you’ll return my sister once you have it?” he countered. “For all I know, this is a lie. You may not have her here at all.”
Stannard snorted. “Come and see for yourself.”
His gaze slid to Sebastian.
“And you.” He looked him over with cold disdain. “I do not know who you are, but you have damaged my men. I do not approve.”
Sebastian met that deadened hazel stare without flinching. “You have harmed someone I care for,” he said, voice low. “And for that, I will see you answer.”
Stannard barked a laugh. “Here? In my house? With half my men in the next room? You’ve a bold tongue for a toff.”
Sebastian said nothing. Their gazes held, and for a moment Stannard seemed tempted—almost eager—to test himself against him.
Up close, he was far more dangerous than his men: thin, yes, but coiled with wiry strength.
His gait was fluid, his hands scarred and knuckles long since broken.
Sebastian, who had fought many a bout in friendlier circumstances, recognised a man who was well accustomed to violence.
Then Stannard spat on the stones, turned his back, and strode toward the inner door.
“Come in,” he tossed over his shoulder.
Sebastian took the invitation for what it was. No one barred his way as he followed James and Stannard’s second-in-command deeper into the building.
The gaming hall was dark and idle—no players, no cards on tables, no smoke wreathing the ceiling. Sebastian was grateful for that. They crossed the stone floor, passed leather chairs and empty hazard tables, and Stannard shoved open another door.
His office.
Sebastian barely registered the desk, the papers strewn across it, the cupboard against the wall—because on the far side of the desk sat Evelyn.
She wore a blue muslin gown. Her dark hair tumbled loose around her shoulders. Her face was pale with fear, her eyes too large in the dimness. But when her gaze locked with his, her whole face lit—briefly, brilliantly.
“Shut the door,” Stannard ordered. His man obeyed.
Sebastian could not look away from her. His chest tightened painfully. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and take her far from this foul place.
Stannard was speaking, but Sebastian heard nothing until Evelyn’s voice cut through.
“You need not demand the money from James,” she said sharply. “He has lost it. All of it.”
Her chin lifted. Her eyes—no longer frightened—flashed with fierce protectiveness.
Sebastian almost smiled. Even here, terrified and captive, she defended her brother with a courage that humbled him.
“Shut up, you—” Stannard snapped, lifting his hand in a casual, sweeping threat.
Sebastian moved before he even knew he had moved.
He hit Stannard with full force, sending the man crashing back against the far wall.
Stannard staggered, but he recovered with the speed of a striking snake.
His fist slammed into Sebastian’s chest, knocking the breath clean from him.
A second blow cracked against Sebastian’s temple, sending white light flaring through his vision.
Sebastian kicked blindly, felt his boot strike a leg. Pain exploded in his skull as another punch found its mark.
“Sebastian!” Evelyn’s scream cut through the haze.
Her voice—raw with terror, with feeling—pierced something in him. Joy, wild and untamed, surged through his battered body. She cared. She truly cared.
Stannard drove a fist into his side; Sebastian reeled, gasping. He lashed out, aiming for what he had noticed—a slight weakness in the man’s knee. His kick landed. Stannard shouted and staggered—
—and then the door burst open.
“City Watch!” a commanding voice thundered. “Stand fast! Drop your weapons, or we shoot.”
Sebastian sagged forward over the desk. The need to fight left him in an instant, replaced by utter, bone-deep exhaustion. His legs failed him; he clung to consciousness by sheer instinct.
Booted feet thundered into the room. Shouts followed. Sebastian could not lift his head, but he sensed Stannard retreating, sensed the men surrendering without a struggle. The promise of gunfire was enough; none of Stannard’s brutes carried firearms.
“You are all under arrest,” the watchman declared.
More footsteps. More voices. The room emptied.
Sebastian stayed slumped where he was, a thin thread of blood slipping from his nose, his ribs aflame, a dull hammering in his head. He did not know whether his leg would hold if he tried to stand. His hands throbbed fiercely—at least one knuckle broken, perhaps more.
“Brother? Brother!” A familiar voice, tight with fury and fear.
“Perdition take them—what have they done to you?”
A cool hand touched his shoulder. Sebastian forced his eyes open.
“Nicholas?” he rasped.
His brother’s face came into view, pale with shock.
“Nicholas!” Sebastian managed a weak, breathless grin—dizzy with relief, with gratitude, with everything he had not said before. “You came. You managed to find us.”
Nicholas nodded. “Of course, I did,” he said. “And thank goodness I did.” He studied Sebastian with a look so full of concern that Sebastian sank heavily into the nearest chair, his strength ebbing beneath the pain.
“You arrived at precisely the right moment,” Sebastian said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Sitting upright felt impossible.
“I am glad to hear it,” Nicholas murmured. His voice had thickened. Sebastian glanced up. His brother’s eyes shone—whether from exertion or emotion, he could not tell.
“Nicholas… how bad is it?” Evelyn’s voice asked. She stood beside Sebastian, and when his eyes met hers, he could not look anywhere else. For a moment, his pain seemed to disappear, and he could not think of anything except her and how wondrous it was to be close.
“I reckon he’ll live,” Nicholas drawled, attempting levity. Sebastian shot him a dry look.
“Good news.” His voice was dry. Nicholas chuckled.
“But, in all honesty, brother, you look in dire need of a physician. I should arrange one.”
“We need to take Evelyn home first,” he growled and looked up at her. She was pale, and he noticed that she was shaking, fighting the tremors that slammed into her. She had been so brave and, like himself, now that there was no need to fight, the terror and pain could sap the last of her strength.
Nicholas nodded. “Indeed. After that—a physician. But first, James and I must speak with the Watch.” He turned toward the door, then paused when Sebastian called his name.
“Nicholas.”
“Mm?”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said simply, sincerely.
Nicholas held his gaze. Something bright and warm flickered in his eyes before he masked it with composure.
“Think nothing of it,” he said lightly—but Sebastian could see the truth.
Nicholas slipped out. The door clicked shut.
Sebastian rose—pain lancing through his leg—and crossed the space to Evelyn. He drew her into his arms.
She melted against him with a soft, broken sound, and he held her fiercely, his hand sliding into her hair, his body sheltering hers as though he could shield her from the world.
“Evelyn,” he murmured into her hair.
Her scent—familiar, beloved—sent a shiver of longing through him. Even battered and exhausted, he felt that spark, that desperate need to keep her near, to be hers entirely.
“Sebastian,” she whispered. She leaned back to look up at him. “You need a physician.”
“No,” he said at once—too quickly, perhaps, but true. “I will manage.”
He stroked her hair, cupping her cheek. “And you? Are you hurt?”
“No,” she murmured. “Just tired.” She shivered, and he tightened his hold.
“It is shock,” he said gently. “Come—we must get you home.”
“Tell me…” she began softly as he took her hand and guided her toward the door, “how did you—?”
“There will be time to explain everything later,” he said gently, cutting her off.
He paused, his voice low. “Right now, all that matters is that you are safe.”
She looked up at him then—truly looked—and something in her gaze made his breath hitch. A question, a trembling hope, a disbelief that struck him to the core.
A breath passed.
Another.
The world stilled around them.
“I love you,” he said simply, as though it were the only truth left in him. “I love you, Evelyn,” he repeated, his voice rough with emotion.
“Sebastian...” she breathed in amazement. She gazed up at him, her hand resting lightly on his cheek in a way that made him draw in a breath. “I love you too. I love you so much.”
For a heartbeat, he simply stared—astonished, reverent, undone.
And then he bent to her, pressing his lips to hers.
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him in a way that made fire race through his body even as his soul soared.
He stepped back gently, his arm around her to support her, and they walked out of the room.