Marcus turned to his butler.“Fetch my coat and boots—at once!And order the carriage!No time to waste!”Tucking his shirt in, he turned back to Jackson.“What happened?”
“An old gentleman arrived not fifteen minutes ago, all dressed up fancy and finicky like, as if for a special occasion, which is odd for this time of the mornin’.And then when I saw a parson getting out of a carriage—well, I knew what that meant.Trouble.”
Marcus swore.Peverill arrived with his coat and boots.Marcus grabbed them and ran out the door.He looked for his carriage.
“I got us a hackney, m’lord,” Jackson said and gestured to a shabby vehicle nearby.
“Excellent.”Marcus turned to his butler, hovering anxiously in the doorway and called, “When the carriage arrives, send it to Cressy Lane.Number ...?”
Jackson called out the number, and they both jumped into the hackney, which sped off.Marcus pulled on his boots, shrugged into his coat and ran his fingers through his hair.He’d never gone out in such a state—he hadn’t even shaved—but there was no time to lose.
“Sims is there, your lordship,” Jackson told him.“He arrived for the changeover of the watch, so I come to tell you while he stays back and does what he can.”
Marcus gritted his teeth.The men had done well, but dammit, it wasn’t enough!What the hell was Blaxland playing at?A parson and an old man in formal dress?At this hour of the morning?It could only be one thing.A wedding.
The hackney turned into Cressy Lane.Marcus leapt out before it had stopped.He headed toward the front door, but Jackson grabbed his arm.“They won’t answer the front door.But the kitchen entrance is down there.”He pointed.
“Good man.”The two men ran down the area steps and entered the kitchen, which was deserted.Upstairs they could hear voices raised—male voices.They followed the sound to the sitting room he’d visited earlier.Luckily the door was slightly ajar.They could hear everything.
“I’m not sure,” a light, anxious-sounding voice was saying.“The lady seems to be indisposed.I cannot perform a marriage if she’s—”
“Yes, she does seem to be unwell, Blaxland,” a second voice said pettishly.The prospective groom, Marcus thought.
“She’s not damned well ill,” Edgar Blaxland snarled.“I tell you, she was nervous—all brides are, dammit—and she took a mild composer, that’s all, and it went to her head.Women are like that, weak in the head.Now get on with it, man!”
Marcus edged the door open, and saw Tessa standing between her brother and the elderly gentleman, though standing was hardly the right word.She was sagging, swaying slightly, supported between them.Apart from the parson and the groom, there were two other men—Sims and a stranger.
Marcus burst into the room.“A mild composer?”For a moment, everyone froze.Tessa turned her head and mumbled something that might have been his name.Her eyes were slightly unfocused; the pupils shrunk to the size of a pin prick.
“You’ve drugged her, you swine,” Marcus snarled.
The old gentleman gasped and released her arm.Tessa sagged against her brother.
Marcus took her arm, shoved Edgar away—hard—and passed the reeling Tessa to Jackson, saying, “Look after her.”
“How dare you interfere with my business, you bast—” Edgar began.Marcus felled him with a furious punch.Edgar fell sprawling to the floor.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the parson began.
“Get out of here, vicar,” Marcus snapped, “or you’ll be charged with conducting a forced marriage.”
“A forced marriage?You can’t possibly think—oh good gracious me—I had no idea, I assure you.The lady’s brother assured me—”
But Marcus had no time for him.Blaxland had scrambled to his feet and was trying to drag his sister away from Jackson.Marcus grabbed him by the collar, whirled him around and slammed another series of hard punches into him.Blaxland sagged, his eyes turning up, and collapsed in a heap.
Marcus turned to see who he needed to vanquish next.His blood was up and he was ready for anything.But the vicar, still bleating that he’d known nothing about any forced marriage, that he thought the girl had taken drink, that was all, was being hurried from the room by Sims.
The elderly gentleman, who was staring in dismay at the crumpled heap that was his erstwhile brother-in-law-to-be, saw Marcus prowling toward him and with a squeak of alarm ran out the door, calling “Petty, Petty!”which turned out to be not a commentary on the situation, but the name of the second stranger, who seemed to be in his employ.
In a few short minutes the room was empty, apart from Marcus, Blaxland, Radcliffe’s two men and Tessa, sagging limply against Jackson, her eyes closed.
What the hell had the bastard given her?
Blaxland was breathing, but still unconscious, blood bubbling slowly from his nose, which was broken, Marcus hoped.He wanted to beat him to a pulp.He itched to give him a good kicking, but he’d been raised a gentleman, and kicking a man when he was well and truly down—well, there were times when a decent upbringing was a blasted nuisance.
In any case Tessa needed his attention.
The sound of wheels rattling on the cobbles outside drew his attention.“Your carriage is here, m’lord,” Sims said, peering out the window.
