“Get off me,” he snarled.
“Bring him in,” an authoritative voice ordered.
Two men grabbed at him, but Sebastian kicked out at them, all of his training in pugilism rising sharply to the fore. His fist connected with someone’s ribs; the fellow doubled over, wheezing. Another staggered after a vicious kick to the knee. But even as Sebastian seized the leader by the collar, blows rained upon him from all sides.
Behind him, he heard Lord Calperton grappling with yet another attacker. Despite his slighter frame, James must have held his own, for one of the assailants suddenly yelped—and the leader barked a command.
“Stop!”
At once, the men backed off, panting. One clutched his jaw—James had apparently struck true. Another guarded his ribs, glaring at Sebastian with murderous resentment. None came forward again, however, and Sebastian took the moment to straighten, a thin trickle of blood slipping from his nose onto the stone.
“Which one of you is Calperton?” the leader demanded.
Sebastian met James’s eye. Their captors clearly did not know whom they sought—a small miracle, and one that could yet serve them.
“If you cannot tell,” Sebastian said mildly, “we shall not enlighten you.”
The blow came fast, as expected. Sebastian caught the man’s wrist and forced it back with a growl, but at once the other two surged toward him. For the first time, he recognised he might not withstand them all.
He willed for time. Time for Nicholas. Time for the Watch.
Before the men could descend on him, another voice cut through the space.
“What in blazes is happening out here?” it snapped.
All three froze.
“Two toffs pushed their way in,” one of the injured men muttered.
“We reckoned one must be Calperton,” added the leader.
“Do you know what he looks like?” another one of the men asked.
“That’s Calperton,” the man who had ordered them to stop said, nodding at Lord Calperton.
Sebastian swore inwardly. He had hoped they would mistakehimfor James—he could better withstand whatever came next, and if they took James inside, he might at least reach Evelyn.
He cast a quick look around. They stood in a gated anteroom—stone-flagged, walled on three sides, the outer gate behind them and the inner door to the club before them. Smoke-stained, close, foul. A cage.
“Bring him in,” the newcomer ordered, indicating James.
“And the other?” one of the bruised men asked, nodding at Sebastian.
“No notion,” the newcomer said irritably.
Sebastian drew a breath. The wounded men stared at him with that particular look that precedes violence—he had mere seconds.
“Go with them,” he told James quietly, firmly.
James gazed at him with a worried expression but turned away.
“Go,” Sebastian insisted. “Say whatever you must to save her.”
James swallowed hard and turned to follow the man who had commanded the other three.
Sebastian braced himself. The room seemed to hold its breath. He glanced upward in a fierce plea for courage; for strength; for anything to keep him standing long enough to reach Evelyn.
The man escorting James barked at him to hurry. As James turned, he suddenly bolted for the outer gate. Shouts erupted. The three men lunged after him.
