It was all the opening Sebastian needed.
He drove into them from behind, seizing the nearest man and slamming his head into the wall. The man crumpled instantly. Sebastian whirled, catching another by the arm and kicking his legs out from under him. The fellow collapsed with a howl, curling around his ribs.
The third came at him, and Sebastian met him with a brutal kick. Meanwhile, James struck the fourth man—a sharp blow to the groin that sent him staggering.
Then the inner door burst open.
“What in perdition’s name are you lot doing?” a harsh voice demanded.
James froze. His expression drained of colour.
“Stannard,” he whispered.
The wounded brute pointed weakly. “They were—escaping.”
Stannard shoved him aside with contempt. He was tall—almost Sebastian’s height—gaunt as a corpse, with a face carved of malice. His gaze snapped between Sebastian and James.
“Calperton?” he snarled at James. “Where’s the money?”
“I—” James faltered, then steadied himself. “How do I know you’ll return my sister once you have it?” he countered. “For all I know, this is a lie. You may not have her here at all.”
Stannard snorted. “Come and see for yourself.”
His gaze slid to Sebastian.
“And you.” He looked him over with cold disdain. “I do not know who you are, but you have damaged my men. I do not approve.”
Sebastian met that deadened hazel stare without flinching. “You have harmed someone I care for,” he said, voice low. “And for that, I will see you answer.”
Stannard barked a laugh. “Here? In my house? With half my men in the next room? You’ve a bold tongue for a toff.”
Sebastian said nothing. Their gazes held, and for a moment Stannard seemed tempted—almost eager—to test himself against him. Up close, he was far more dangerous than his men: thin, yes, but coiled with wiry strength. His gait was fluid, his hands scarred and knuckles long since broken. Sebastian, who had fought many a bout in friendlier circumstances, recognised a man who was well accustomed to violence.
Then Stannard spat on the stones, turned his back, and strode toward the inner door.
“Come in,” he tossed over his shoulder.
Sebastian took the invitation for what it was. No one barred his way as he followed James and Stannard’s second-in-command deeper into the building.
The gaming hall was dark and idle—no players, no cards on tables, no smoke wreathing the ceiling. Sebastian was grateful for that. They crossed the stone floor, passed leather chairs and empty hazard tables, and Stannard shoved open another door.
His office.
Sebastian barely registered the desk, the papers strewn across it, the cupboard against the wall—because on the far side of the desk sat Evelyn.
She wore a blue muslin gown. Her dark hair tumbled loose around her shoulders. Her face was pale with fear, her eyes too large in the dimness. But when her gaze locked with his, her whole face lit—briefly, brilliantly.
“Shut the door,” Stannard ordered. His man obeyed.
Sebastian could not look away from her. His chest tightened painfully. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and take her far from this foul place.
Stannard was speaking, but Sebastian heard nothing until Evelyn’s voice cut through.
“You need not demand the money from James,” she said sharply. “He has lost it. All of it.”
Her chin lifted. Her eyes—no longer frightened—flashed with fierce protectiveness.
Sebastian almost smiled. Even here, terrified and captive, she defended her brother with a courage that humbled him.
