Chapter Sixteen #2
Screams and shouts followed, as well as the din of alarm as chaos promptly ensued.
“Damn it.” By the time he swung his attention back to Echerson, the viscount had vanished and he’d taken Evangeline with him.
“Michael!” Terror propelled that cry from his wife, and it chilled his blood.
Patting the front of his tailcoat, it gave him small comfort to feel the weight of his pistol in the interior pocket he’d had his tailor put into the garment.
When he turned to face his friends, he was met with anger matching his along with concern.
“I must go after her. Will you be all right here?”
“Yes.” Steppingford nodded. He slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulders as she came over to him. “Ravenhurst and I will take the ladies to safety. I’m sure he’ll try to manage the horror below. I’ll be right behind you, perhaps by ten minutes.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded. “Thank you.”
“And Darkemore?” When Michael inclined his chin, Steppingford continued. “Think logically, not out of revenge or emotions.”
A snort came from Ravenhurst. “Fuck that.” He barely glanced at his wife, who softly admonished him even though tears wet her cheeks. “Darkemore, go give him hell. In whatever way you see fit. You have that right.”
A tight grin tugged at the corners of Michael’s mouth. “Stay safe. Knowing Echerson, he brought cohorts with him. Did either of you bring a pistol?”
Ravenhurst shook his head. “There was no need, or so I thought, but I wouldn’t mind pounding the stuffing out of him with my fists.”
“Neither would I, but we’ll take care.” Steppingford nodded. “If I can procure a weapon, I will. Quickly, now. Go rescue your wife.”
With nothing but ill thoughts circling his mind like a hungry python, Michael exited the box and joined the manic crowd in the corridor as best he could.
Movement was prohibited by his cane and the crush.
There was no time to behave like a gentleman; he shouldered his way through the throng in order to make headway.
At no point did he see Echerson or Evangeline, but logic dictated that the viscount would have taken her out of the opera house. Or so he hoped. Otherwise, it would prove impossible to search the whole of the building by himself. On the other hand, the panicked crowd would provide excellent cover…
No! I must think like a spy, think like the traitor, and that means he’ll want freedom over being confined.
The very fact that he dared to touch Evvie had signed his death sentence.
This should have ended three years ago, and if Michael hadn’t nearly bled to death in Paris, it would have.
Ever since the day he’d stepped foot in Cornwall, he’d cleaned and polished his pistol while thinking about the day when he finally cornered his prey.
Today was that time.
In short order, he made his way outside the theater. Streams of patrons spilled out of the building, which gave Echerson far too many places to hide. The dark didn’t help either, but lanterns in the trees that lined the main walking path offered a bit of illumination despite the spitting rain.
Where would he go?
Of course, Echerson would wish for the darkest part of the gardens, so Michael headed in that direction. He passed a constable along the way. No doubt the man’s patience would be tried with calming the crowd.
The hint of a cry in Evvie’s voice became his guide. Hoping to God that she fought like a cornered tigress, he pushed his body to the edge of its limits. Not for the first time did he curse his injuries, his muscles that hadn’t healed properly, and the cane on which he relied too heavily.
There was nothing for it except to keep going. Outside of putting an end to the viscount’s miserable existence, the only thing he cared about was rescuing his wife and making certain she was safe and unharmed.
Another scream alerted him to furtive movement in the shadows behind one of the food stalls that was utilized in the daylight hours. Tracking in that direction, he passed a harried-looking older man.
“There’s a madman with a knife! Beware!” Then he continued to run toward the bulk of the crowds coming away from the theater.
Clearly, Echerson was an idiot who didn’t wish to slow down by reloading his pistol. But that was to Michael’s advantage; he was a good shot and his aim was flawless. It was something else he’d practiced over the years when he’d consigned himself to Cornwall.
In the clinging darkness of the empty food stall, Michael stealthily moved around the structure.
As quietly as he could, he drew the pistol from the pocket in his tailcoat, and seconds later, he cocked the weapon.
That sound was overly loud in the quiet hush of the night.
Directly ahead was the viscount. Unfortunately, the other man faced him, used Evangeline as a human shield as he held the tip of a dagger to her throat.
Of course it was the same blade he’d used in Paris.
Poetic, that, but only just.
“That’s far enough, Darkemore.” Warning growled through Echerson’s voice as he held her tight to him. “Any closer and I’ll slit her throat.”
Both of her hands scrabbled at the man’s arm that was wrapped over her upper chest. The red gown was a stark contrast to her pale skin and the white folds of the viscount’s cravat.
Silvery tears wet her cheeks. Having this happen to her after what she’d suffered at Marklesfield’s hands would probably deeply affect her for years, and his heart ached for her.
This is my fault.
“Go away, Michael. Let me talk to him without you here to complicate things.” Fear wove through her request.
“Absolutely not. His quarrel is with me, not you.” As he spoke, Michael raised his pistol and trained the nose on Echerson’s head. “You know how this will end, Jackal.”
The man was too clever, for he continued to move back and forth, dragging or pushing Evangeline in front of him, keeping her positioned so that Michael couldn’t get off a clean shot.
“It will end as it was supposed to three years ago, with you taking your last breath in a pool of your own blood.” He dared to lick the side of Evvie’s face.
“And when that happens, I’ll take your wife.
While you’re in hell, you can think about what I’m doing to her body in all the ways you never could. ”
Another wave of hot rage swept through him. “Not likely. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll put you down. Evangeline is far too good for the likes of you.”
“And you believe you’re good enough for her?”
That cut like a heated blade through his soul. “I do not, and I’ve indicated such over the course of our union.”
She whimpered and shook her head. “That’s not true.”