Miss Atwood came to an abrupt halt. “How did you know someone broke the kitchen window? I never mentioned it.”
Lucius was considering how best to tackle the next revelation when a carriage turned into Half Moon Street. The vehicle slowed as it drew near, which would have been nothing unusual had someone not flung open the door and vaulted to the pavement.
“Grab the woman!” the coachman yelled before yanking a pistol from beneath the folds of his greatcoat and aiming it at Lucius.
Chapter Five
The attack happened quickly.
Fear wrapped its sharp fingers around Sybil’s throat when the burly coachman took aim and fired his pistol at Mr Daventry.
A bright flash, a puff of smoke and a whiff of sulphur permeated the cold night air. Sybil screamed—her protector didn’t deserve to die like this. She screamed again when a pair of sturdy arms grabbed her around the waist and hauled her backwards.
By God’s grace, Mr Daventry anticipated the trajectory of the lead ball. With remarkable agility, the gentleman crouched, rolled and then sprang to his feet, unscathed.
“Hurry up, fools!” The driver tugged on the reins to slow the carriage. “Get her in the damn coach.”
The brute, whose grip was as lethal as his foul breath, squeezed the air from her lungs as he lifted her off the ground. Unable to wriggle, Sybil kicked his shins, though he barely flinched. Then his accomplice jumped out of the trundling conveyance and grabbed hold of her feet.
“Get off me, you ugly brute!”
Mr Daventry drew his pistol and fired.
The coachman’s sharp cry sliced through the chaos as the ball hit his upper arm. The shot spooked the horses. But despite his injury, the coachman captured the reins and brought the carriage to a crashing halt.
Mr Daventry ran, vaulted up onto the box and punched the driver hard in the face. A fight ensued. Vicious grunts and groans echoed along the deserted street.
The glow of candlelight appeared in the upper window of the house opposite. No one raised the sash and called for the watchman. No one came racing downstairs to offer their assistance. Not even when the brutes threw Sybil into the vehicle and clambered inside.
One thug rapped on the roof, but the conveyance failed to jerk forward and pick up speed. While they exchanged nervous glances, Sybil studied their faces, memorised every mark and blemish. Having seen Mr Daventry move with such athletic prowess, she had every confidence he would come to her rescue. And when he did, they would drag these felons before the magistrate.
“Go see what’s ’appened to Fowler,” the blackguard with the flabby chin ordered.
; “I ain’t goin’ out there,” snapped his bearded accomplice.
They continued arguing, but the decision was made for them.
The doors on both sides of the carriage flew open. Before her kidnappers could gather their wits, Mr Daventry thrust his hand inside the vehicle and pressed his blade to the bulbous neck of one fiend. Surprisingly, her butler appeared at the other door, wielding a hunting knife to keep the other devil in his seat.
“Move a muscle and I’ll push this blade so far into your throat I’ll pin you to the squab.” Mr Daventry’s eyes were feral, his tone brutal. He looked every bit as dark and as dangerous as the devil. With his free hand, he reached for her arm and beckoned her to move towards him. “Hold on to me, Miss Atwood, and step down to the pavement. Blake, if your man so much as murmurs, silence him for good.”
When Blake nodded, it occurred to her that he bore a slight resemblance to Bower, Mr Daventry’s butler.
Sybil shuffled backwards on her bottom. She took hold of Mr Daventry’s strong arm and managed to climb out of the vehicle.
“We must discover who sent them,” she panted, straightening her skirts. “These men hold valuable information.”
Her footman appeared.
“Escort your mistress into the house, Harris. I shall follow shortly. Stand guard and don’t open the door to anyone but me. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Since when had Lucius Daventry been on familiar terms with her staff?
And why were they so keen to follow his orders?