To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

He waved at Phoebe. “Get to the carriage!” She’d turned and was staring past the carriage at the altercation behind it.

Two men erupted out of the area behind the maid—shoving her aside, they flung themselves on Deverell.

He had to stop and deal with them. A flurry of quick, punishing blows, a kick to one knee and they were down, rolling and groaning on the rough paving.

Deverell swung around, rapidly assessing. Scatcher had fallen on the rear of the group between him and Phoebe; despite his stature, he was giving a good account and Grainger was pounding to his relief.

But one man had won through; he’d reached Phoebe. He was standing before her and the maid, looking from one to the other—it was ludicrously obvious he’d been told to “grab the woman” and didn’t know which one to seize.

He seized Phoebe.

Deverell saw red.

The man started to drag her down the alley; she resisted, slapping at him with her free hand.

The man cursed, stopped, lifted his arm to backhand her across her face—

Deverell’s fist connected with the man’s face instead.

He wrenched Phoebe free. “The carriage!” He pushed her toward the maid, then squared up to the bruiser, who’d staggered back, bellowing in rage. Regaining his balance, he lowered his head and charged Deverell.

But the man hadn’t been taught to fight in the same arena Deverell had; with a few quick jabs followed by a satisfying roundhouse, Deverell felled him.

He spared only a moment to confirm that Scatcher and Grainger were holding their own, then turned and raced back to the carriage. Dragging the nearly hysterical maid, Phoebe had just reached it and opened the door.

“Get in!” She pushed the maid to the door.

Deverell reached them, grasped the maid about the waist and hoisted her into the carriage, then grabbed Phoebe and bundled her in after her. He slammed the door shut. “Stay there!”

There was no one on the box. The horses were shifting, restive, but not yet panicking.

He ran to the rear of the carriage. Birtles had been overwhelmed by three men, but Fergus had jumped down and gone to his aid. Laying about with his whip, he’d dragged the bruised Birtles free, but the hyenas were still circling.

The three attackers froze when Deverell appeared out of the night and ranged alongside Fergus and Birtles, now upright, albeit unsteadily.

Eyeing him, swiftly calculating the odds and deciding they were no longer in their favor, the three exchanged glances, then turned and fled.

Fergus swore and started after them. Deverell caught his arm and hauled him back. “No—let’s get out of here.”

Recalled to their purpose, Fergus nodded and lumbered back to the carriage. Deverell supported Birtles as far as the carriage door. “Get inside.”

Leaving the big man to clamber in, Deverell went to the horses’ heads and peered down the alley. The three who had tangled with him had staggered away; he glimpsed one of them disappearing down the narrow gap.

Further down the alley, wreathed in shadows, Grainger and Scatcher were still standing—but so were two of their assailants.

Deverell turned; in two

strides, he reached the coachman’s steps and swung up. “Go—we’ll pick them up on the way.”

Fergus released the brake and eased the reins; eager to get away, the horses jerked and clattered forward.

The two attackers facing Scatcher and Grainger heard; glancing around they saw the carriage lumbering down upon them.

They turned and fled down another of the narrow alleys.

“Get on!” Deverell waved Scatcher and Grainger to the carriage.

Scatcher came running; Grainger hesitated, wanting to give chase, but then obeyed. Fergus slowed the carriage; both men scrambled up to the footmen’s positions over the boot.