“Next time I won’t miss,” Jackson called over his shoulder as he stalked from the room. His feet pounded hard on the stairs while he braced himself for what he might find outside. If an ambush were taking place, it was certainly a silent maneuver, for not a single sound of fists, grunts, curses, or gunfire leached through the warehouse walls. Even so, Jackson pulled his gun as he swung open the door.
But not one blessed thing smacked of danger. Baggett and Graybone yet perched on the wagon seat, the back of which remained covered with canvas. The street was eerily empty—as it should be after three in the morning. The only thing different was Shivaji now stood with arms folded near the front of the carriage instead of occupying the driver’s seat.
Huh.
It appeared Child really did have something come up.
Both Baggett and Graybone eyed him as he drew near, and he lowered his voice for them alone. “It’s a bust. Child rescheduled to tomorrow night at Bellow’s.”
Charles puffed out some air. “That doesn’t bode well.”
“No, it does not, but there’s nothing to do about it other than regroup and give it a go tomorrow.” Jackson tucked away his gun. “Maybe send in Frankie ahead of time for reconnaissance.”
“Right.” Charles tipped his head towards Graybone. “We’ll see these men back to the station, then. Get yourself some sleep. Could be a rough one tomorrow evening.”
Jackson nodded, the stone in his gut confirming the truth of Baggett’s prophecy. Child was up to something, all right.
And only God knew what that might be.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kit jerked awake, groggy as a drunken sailor. Flit. She hadn’t meant to doze off, but with her book fallen to her lap and the now-guttering lamp on the nightstand spitting remnants of light, clearly she had. Downstairs a floorboard creaked, and her gaze shot to the mantel clock. The minute hand crawled towards half past three. Oh dear. Yawning, she shoved the hair out of her face. Something must have gone wrong for Jackson to have returned so soon.
Kicking the blanket off her feet, she rose and frowned down at her skirt. She also hadn’t meant to sleep in her day dress, but there was nothing to be done for it now except brush out a few of the wrinkles. Another floorboard groaned, this time closer to the bottom of the stairs. La! Why bother with wrinkles when her husband would likely have the gown off the moment he climbed those stairs and entered their bedroom?
And then she’d not find out what had happened until morning.
She adjusted the wick, filling the room with light, just as a shriek from the nursery traveled down the corridor. Crying followed. Kit smirked. Guess sheandBella would hear how Jackson’s night went. She strode to the door, flung it open—
And stood face-to-face with a scar-faced man who stunk of burnt cabbage.
She reached for her knife.
Gone.
Blast!
She’d given it to Jackson.
Fingers bit into her upper arm, a sneer twisting the man’s lips. “Gimme any trouble and there’ll be the devil to pay.”
She sized him up as he yanked her out of the doorway. The hulk outweighed her by at least ten or twelve stone, and those shoulders were as broad as a Devon bull’s. Fist to fist was out of the question.
So she feigned a stumble. When his grip shifted, she wrenched free and lunged for the heavy crystal vase on the console table. The instant her fingers made purchase, she swung with all her might towards the brute’s head. Flowers flew. But her reach wasn’t quite high enough. The vase struck him in the shoulder, not a wounding blow, but enough to make him stagger.
Whirling about, she sprinted a few steps, then stopped dead cold. Another dark figure stepped from the nursery, Bella tucked beneath his arm. His other hand gripped a knife.
Bella wailed.
Kit stiffened.
They’d picked the wrong mama bear to cross.
She charged, head bent. If she rammed him in the gut, Bella would fall but so would the blade. And once her fingers met steel, by all that was holy she would—
Kit whumped to the floor, chin hitting hard. Teeth puncturing tongue. Blood filled her mouth. The next instant she was yanked to her feet, an iron bar of an arm across her chest, pinning her tight against a thick body.
And a blade at her throat.
