Emerson kicked the door open and lunged out just as his attacker—
A gaslight piercing the gloom exposed his face as he regained his footing and came at Emerson again, this time with a knife, slashing wildly, catching Emerson’s well-fitted coat, rib-level.
“Damn you, Billy. Now I have to buy a new coat, wasting my time,” he growled at the low-life buster.
“Ye stole me best bloody doxy.” He raised the knife again, but Emerson kicked out and nailed him square in the groin, felling him to the muddy streets in an unconscious heap.
Emerson swooped up the dagger and jumped in the carriage. “Leave him be.” He pounded on the ceiling, wincing. “Let’s go.”
Amir jerked the carriage into motion.
“Hellfire!” Ben said, clutching the edges of the walls as the open door of the carriage slammed shut. “What the devil just happened?” Ben gasped, falling back against his seat.
Of course, Stockton slept through the entire ordeal.
Inside, silence settled heavy, broken by Ben’s ragged breath. “That—” He gulped air. “That was no random mischief. Youknewhim.”
Emerson sank back into the squabs, his jaw tight. “Yes. Lady Stanford confronted him—” He straightened his torn coat as if the matter were settled.
“Lady Stanford—” Ben couldn’t seem to grasp a breath. “Confronted…that!” His hand flew to the smashed-out window. “She saveda doxy?”
A small smile touched Emerson at the memory. “Indeed.”
Neither spoke again until the carriage drew up before Manchester Square. Emerson started to climb down first, his hand braced on the frame. The cool night air hit him—and with it, the warm trickle beneath his coat. He glanced down, frowning. “Well, hell,” he muttered. The coat sagged where the knife had dealt a near precision slice. He moved quickly to the portico and inside, pressing his hand against the fabric. When he pulled it away, slick, crimson stained his fingers.
Ben entered on his heels and froze, the color draining from his face. “Emerson, you’re bleeding—”
“It’s nothing,” Emerson said briskly.
But Ben’s gaze was fixed on the spreading stain, his breath shallow. “Good God—” His knees buckled, and Emerson lurched, catching his brother before he bashed his brains on the marble entry.
Pain flared sharp along his ribs as he dragged his brother against him.
Amir entered with the passed out Stockton over one shoulder, casting a look over the scene. His white teeth flashed in his darkface with a quick grin. “Ah, I’d forgotten the child fainted at the sight of a little blood.”
Emerson shifted his grip, teeth clenched against the sting of his wound, and barked for Yates.
“I doubt we have to worry over Billy any longer,” he told Amir.
Yates appeared out of the gloom. “Sir?”
“Where the devil are the footmen?” Emerson demanded. “As you can see, we’re in dire need.”
Yates glanced at Emerson’s bloodied hand gripping his brother with nary a flinch. “Ah, yes. So, I see, sir.” He took hold of Ben, dragging him to the parlor, and gently deposited him into a chair near the fire in the library.
Seconds later, Amir relieved himself of Stockton, dumping him unceremoniously onto a large settee.
“How bad is it?” Amir asked Emerson.
“I suspect I’ll live,” he answered, speaking of the cut along his ribs. “Though it burns like the devil.” He discarded his coat and waistcoat, then peeled the fine lawn shirt from his skin carefully, wincing.
“I’ll retrieve the box,” Amir said, heading for the door.
Less than a minute later, the door reopened, and Rose stormed in.
He stood muted at the unexpected sight of her. She appeared as windblown as he felt. “Rose?” His voice filled the room, looking to have startled her.
“The door was standing open—” She shook her head. “Where…whereare your clothes?”
