The matron had made the mistake of not approaching her granddaughter years ago. Scarlett had a good, kind heart, and would have embraced the Rathbones had they acted honourably.
“It is never too late.” Lady Rathbone cast a menacing grin. “Pariah! I’ll not be beaten by a filthy mongrel.”
In a sudden and violent attack, the matron raced to the table, grabbed the carving knife from the silver platter and lunged at Damian.
With a need to protect the woman in his arms, Damian swung around and braced himself for a slash across the back.
Alcock charged forward, but Lady Rathbone stabbed at the coachwoman like a possessed banshee. Alcock ducked the first swipe, but in the tight space struggled to maintain a defensive position.
Hell. Damian felt helpless to act.
A scuffle broke out.
Lord Rathbone joined the affray.
Confusion descended.
He protected his grandmother from Alcock’s punch but then tried hard to wrestle the knife from the woman’s grasp.
“Leave this to me!” Lord Rathbone cried, but Lady Rathbone cared nothing for her own kin. A swipe to the handsome lord’s cheek left a trail of blood. “Good God, have you lost your mind?” He clutched his face, seemed somewhat disorientated.
“I have the constable, my—” Osmond almost fainted in shock upon witnessing his mistress wielding the blade like a crazed lunatic.
The constable’s mouth dropped open. “Throw the knife to the floor, my lady.” He hovered on the threshold, reluctant to enter.
Deranged and consumed with madness, the matron ignored the constable’s repeated plea.
“There’s no option left but to disarm her, Alcock,” Damian said. “Imagine you’re back in the fighting pits in Whitechapel.”
Alcock nodded. She firmed her jaw and snarled, shuffled her feet, ducking and dodging each slash and slice. One timely hit to the stomach saw the matron fall forward. Alcock grabbed Lady Rathbone’s wrist and twisted until the woman yelped in pain.
The knife fell to the floor.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
But the chaos did not end there.
The constable spent the next ten minutes calming the matron, although she tried to lunge from the chair numerous times when Damian revealed the facts of the story.
Bedlam ensued when Lord Rathbone summoned his carriage to escort his grandmother and the constable to the magistrate. Reluctantly, the lord agreed that for everyone’s safety, the matron should wear shackles.
Damian would have to wait until morning to explain his version of events to the magistrate. Scarlett was his priority, and he would send for Dr Redman to come to Bruton Street and inspect the patient posthaste.
“Lucky you let me ride atop your coach, sir, else that madwoman might have carved you up like a hock of beef,” Alcock said, opening the carriage door and helping Damian to settle Scarlett onto the seat. “Instead of pickin’ your teeth out the gutter, you might have been pickin’ your fingers.”
For the first time tonight, Damian forced a weak smile. “Indeed, a man might overlook your stubborn insolence when you’re so skilled with your fists.”
“Seems you and Lady Steele are of a similar mind.” Alcock gave a curt nod. Once Damian had settled into the seat, she closed the door and climbed atop the box.
When the carriage jerked forward, Damian drew Scarlett onto his lap and cradled her head on his shoulder. “You’re safe now, love,” he said in a soft, gentle voice that had no place in a rogue’s repartee.
Scarlett’s eyes flickered open. “Safe,” she repeated, raising a limp hand to cup his cheek. “I—I always feel safe with you.”
Chapter Twenty
It was as if someone had taken an axe to Scarlett’s head and tried to cleave it in two. The thud drew every muscle in her body taut. Her brows furrowed in pain. The pounding in her temple sent sharp shocks down to her jaw. Having squeezed her eyes shut to ease the blinding ache, it took effort to prise them apart.
Daylight danced around the gaps in the drawn curtains. The hustle and bustle of city life echoed beyond the room—the clop of horses’ hooves, the rattle of carts, the energetic thrum of life.