Sure, he ran a gaming hell that fed men’s worst afflictions. First, he believed that was their vice, not his. And second, he amended that as a former street urchin, he was particularly suited to keep the peace in such an establishment. In fact, he liked to think he kept all those men safer for his efforts. If not for his club, they’d likely participate in the same behaviors at another place. And that place would not have a man who’d acquired his particular set of skills.
Fear pulled at his chest. Though, one other man did possess his skill set, almost exactly. Crusher was the only name he’d ever known the man by. They’d been fighters together and now they owned rival clubs.
He’d never liked the man—a big, mean, dumb fellow with a giant chip on his shoulder about his success. And now he’d taken the most beautiful woman in all of London.
Bad could confess, at least to himself, that the sight of Grace made every muscle in his body tense and his breath stall in his throat. Why did he have to be so attracted to her? It complicated everything.
But his thoughts focused once again on her rescue. He’d worry about his bloody feelings later. The carriage came into view, rumbling ahead of him as it bounced along the road. The sun glistened off polished wood, the distinctive pattern of carved horses flashing in the light.
Who used a carriage like that to stage a kidnapping? Not that Bad was complaining. It made tracking them exceptionally easy. Even the one time the carriage had nearly lost him, multiple passersby had been able to point him in the direction of the vehicle.
In Bad’s opinion, the choice of carriage highlighted both Crusher’s arrogance and stupidit
y. He’d enjoy making that man suffer when he got Grace back.
Crusher turned back from his seat and caught sight of Bad. Bad watched, his muscles clenching, as Crusher reached across the seat and then lifted a pistol from next to him on the seat and leaned back to fire.
The blast filled the air. Bad ducked low over the horse as a ball of lead whizzed by him. He had two choices, fall back again and wait until they surely stopped or surge ahead.
Just then, Abernath leaned out a carriage window, also holding a pistol in her hand.
She leveled the gun toward him. Bad pulled the pistol from his own waistcoat and fired at the same moment she did. Burning pain whizzed through his leg. And he looked down to see blood oozing down his pants. Still, he also noted the wound was on the fleshy exterior of his thigh.
Abernath, however, let out a scream and ducked back in the carriage. Not a moment later another scream cut the air. Cold dread washed through him. Grace.