Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

Drawing back the sling’s band, Olivia held her breath.

Steady, steady.

The snout of a pistol came into view, followed by a hand, an arm…a face, eyes intent on the shadowed landing above the planked treads.

Olivia had only seen Viscount Lumley from afar at several of the Season’s entertainments. But there was no mistaking the thick jowls, the ginger sidewhiskers.

Taking dead aim, she let fly with the pawn.

The smooth carnelian stone caught him flush on temple. With a wordless grunt he dropped to the floor.

Olivia raced to the spot and retrieved the pistol.

Then everything seemed to happen at once—The sound of a door being kicked in. A shot. A scream.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

A moment later, John appeared on the landing, the smoke from his spent weapon curling around Prescott’s tousled blond curls.

“John!” she cried, her legs going limp with relief.

He halted halfway down the steps. “Er, might you aim that gun barrel at some spot other than my chest?”

“Sorry.” Olivia dropped her hand. “My aim, however, was not half bad just a moment ago.”

She gestured to the crumpled body at the foot of the stairs.

John let out a low whistle. “How the devil…”

“Davenport’s sling,” explained Olivia. “And one of your chess pieces. Alas, I fear you may have to purchase a new set. The dark pawn has likely gone to its Maker.”

“A noble sacrifice, considering the circumstances.” He hugged his son a little tighter. “I assumed Lumley had managed to escape. The man holding Scottie said he had gone out to have the coach to be brought around a half hour earlier than previously ordered.”

“He was returning, and must have sensed something was amiss,” she answered. “Thank God that the Devil’s ingenious little weapon was so simple to wield.”

“Amen to that,” murmured John.

Prescott lifted his head from his father’s shoulder and flashed a sleepy smile. “Look, Miss Sloane! I have an even bigger shiner to replace the one I got in the mail coach. Lucy will be awfully impressed.”

“Indeed she will,” agreed Olivia. “It’s truly hideous.”

“You think so?” asked Prescott hopefully.

“Couldn’t be worse,” she confirmed.

The lad grinned. “Oh, excellent!” He snuggled a little deeper into John’s arms. “But I think I have had enough of adventures for a while. I’m ready to go home.”

“I, too, am anxious to wash my hands of these miserable dastards and return to more edifying tasks.” John kicked the tap room door shut behind him, anxious to shake off the prickle of disgust crawling over his flesh.

Thankfully, the task of settling accounts with his son’s abductors had not taken long. The innkeeper had hurriedly patched up the wounded arm and bruised jaw of Lumley’s two hired minions. Hearing that the earl was not going to summon the authorities and press charges, the pair had lost no time in scuttling off into the woods.

Like dung beetles seeking to burrow beneath a fresh pile of manure.

As for Lumley…

John cracked his knuckles, taking grim satisfaction in the sting of his scraped skin. The viscount’s cracked head and pummeled face would likely heal by the time he arrived in Jamaica. But it would be a long and painful journey, and a permanently disfigured nose would serve to remind him of the perils of engaging in foul play.

As would a lengthy exile in the West Indies.