Sir Randall laughed. “You bluff well, Lord Rothley. But you’re alone and outnumbered. And my comrades would die to protect the fraternity.”
Something occurred to her then. There were other people,importantpeople, involved with this group. It was unlikely anyone here would live long enough to stand trial. They’d either die protecting the cause or risk becoming the fraternity’s next victim.
“I’m not sure your comrades will survive much longer than you.” Gabriel scanned the men, doubtless searching for the weak link. “Reverend Clay. The Lord forgives those who repent. Be sure to choose the right side.”
Gabriel employed the clever tactic of divide and conquer.
It worked. Perhaps fearing the Lord’s wrath, the rector raised his hands. “All I wanted was to help the needy. But once these devils sink their teeth in, there’s no getting free.”
According to Mr Lovelace, that’s exactly what had happened to Miss Bourne. Olivia might have suffered the same fate, had her father not given his life to protect her.
“And Sir Randall,” Gabriel began, “are you aware Mrs Culpepper has faked her death? That she left her house to a fictitious relative abroad? That she plans to leave for France tonight?”
“Liar!” Mrs Culpepper cried. “Don’t believe a word, Randall.”
“I saw the grave,” Mr Dalton said.
Sir Randall turned, as sharply as if he’d seen a snake in the grass. “You’ve been acting odd of late. I feared you wereplanning something. You want the evidence so you might blackmail us all.”
“Fool. Can’t you see what he’s doing?”
Olivia ignored the angry exchange. She used the distraction to work at the knot on her bindings, as she had been doing for the past half hour.
Clearly weighing his odds, Sir Randall nodded to the three gormless brutes. They puffed their chests and approached Gabriel, one’s knuckles still cut from the beating he’d given Mr Lovelace.
Mr Dalton seemed amused by the situation. “Remember the brawl in that tavern near the docks?”
“The Slipper?” Gabriel slid the blade back into his boot. His sardonic smile would give Lucifer pause. “Where the dockworkers placed wagers against us? Yes. If only we could bet on ourselves now. I could purchase a new Arabian.” He flexed his fingers. “Which one of you bastards hit my wife?”
She wasn’t sure which brute threw the first punch, only that he missed. Her elegant husband. A gentleman by birth, a warrior by heart, a pugilist by necessity, delivered a blow that knocked the wind from the thug’s sails. He staggered back, landing on a side table, splitting the wood in two.
While the rector darted into the hall like a frightened doe, Mr Dalton proved just as adept with his fists. He was quick and lethal, using both brains and brawn, while his opponents swung like men with straw for wits and fists like mallets.
Two came for Gabriel at once.
The first blow caught his jaw, not enough to fell him, but enough to remind him this wasn’t a sparring match. He ducked the next, drove his elbow into the man’s ribs, then pivoted and kicked the other square in the knee.
Mr Dalton took a hit to the shoulder that would certainlybruise, but he answered with a head-butt that sent his opponent staggering back, clutching his bleeding nose.
And then Mr Lovelace arrived, one hand gripping an iron bar, the other his ribs. He brought it down across one man’s back with a sickening crack. The thug let out a howl and crumpled, arms flailing like a felled ox.
Mr Dalton grinned, a trace of blood on his teeth. “I do enjoy a dramatic entrance.”
“Yes, if only we hadn’t had to wait ten years.” With a wolflike grin, Gabriel beckoned his opponents.
But one lay groaning on the floor. The other two hesitated, bloodied, winded, and far less certain of their odds.
Mr Dalton straightened, reached into his coat, and drew a blade with a soft hiss of metal. “I suggest you reconsider. We’ve men surrounding this house. Leave now while you still can.”
That did it. One glanced towards the doorway, the other swore under his breath. The fight drained from their eyes. They stepped back and slipped into the corridor before vanishing through the front door.
Gabriel turned to Sir Randall. “I trust you’ve kept your membership at Jackson’s, and your courage matches your fellow Scots.”
Sir Randall adjusted his cuffs, chin lifted with a pride that bordered on delusion. “You think me a villain, but the people dinnae rise on their own. They whimper. They wait. We gave them something to roar about. And when they did, the House listened.”
“Yes, and lined your pockets in the process.” Gabriel shifted his gaze to Mrs Culpepper, perhaps aware of the blade pressed to Olivia’s nape. “Release my wife. You won’t escape this house. And once the investigation is underway, I’ve nodoubt they’ll discover you’ve profited from other people’s misfortune too.”
“How easy it is to speak from such an elevated position,” Mrs Culpepper mocked. “Your mother knew how it felt to be trapped by convention. Why do you think she chose to work for me?”
