“Are you deaf, my lord? I said don’t move.” A blade appeared in the man’s hand, the dull gleam of it winking in the dim light, and an instant later warm blood trickled down his neck. “You don’t follow orders very well, Lord Windham.”
Lord Windham. The villain knew him. This wasn’t a random robbery then, but a planned attack. It wasn’t good news.
“Secure the other one.”
Beside him there was a thud, followed by another grunt from Hayward, and a familiar, cold fury settled like a ball of ice in hischest. By the sounds of it, the blackguard had just planted a fist in his friend’s stomach.
“Now, there’s no need to be ungentlemanly about this, eh, Windham?” The villain who had him by the neck cackled, and a puff of his fetid breath wafted into Cass’s face, making him gag.
“Just give me the money like a good lord, and we’ll take our leave.”
That voice. There was something familiar about it…
“Don’t be a fool, my lord. Reach into your pocket, easy like, and hand over those bank notes before your friend here gets hurt.”
The voice…yes, he had it now. It was the man who’d been seated beside him at the Hazard table earlier. He was a big, brutish sort of fellow, and he hadn’t been pleased to see his money disappearing into Cass’s hands.
“And we’ll have those dice too while you’re at it, your lordship.”
Dice? What did he…oh. The man was accusing him of cheating with false dice. “I don’t have any bloody?—”
“’Course you do, my lord. Do you take me for a fool?” A rough hand was shoving at him, tearing at his clothing and pushing into his pockets. “No one wins like that without cheating.”
Beside him, Hayward let out another gasp and toppled forward, his forehead striking the cobbles with a sickening thud, and another surge of rage gripped Cass, twisting his stomach.
No. This wasn’t going to happen. Not without a fight.
A second passed, then another. The man on top of him tensed, sensing an oncoming attack, but he was a second too late. Cass jerked his head forward then slammed it back, smashing the back of his skull into the man’s nose. The blade skimmed his throat, but he’d thrown his attacker off balance, and it left only a shallow cut.
He didn’t feel it. Not the pain, and not the blood, though it was more than a trickle now, the thick heat of it pooling in the hollow of his throat. He didn’t hesitate, but slammed his head back a second time, aiming for the man’s nose.
He hit his mark. The man was too skilled a fighter to be surprised into releasing the stranglehold he had on Cass’s neck, but not so skilled it didn’t slacken, the muscles in his forearm loosening just enough for Cass to wrench free of his hold.
He whirled around and pulled his arm back, ready to land a fist in his attacker’s jaw, but before he could swing, the man lunged. His knife arced through the air and found its mark on Cass’s arm. Fortunately, his coat caught the brunt of it, otherwise the knife would have slashed him to the bone.
The man was quick, and struck again at once, but this wasn’t Cass’s first brawl, and he was ready for him. He blocked the blow with his walking stick, then swung for the man’s head, but his attacker leapt backward in time to avoid a strike to the temple that would have knocked him senseless.
Instead, the stick caught him in the chest in a blow that should have sent him crumpling to the ground, but he was a big, strapping fellow, and he only staggered backwards, a whoosh of air bursting from his lungs. He kept his feet, a bloodthirsty snarl on his lips and swung, and his meaty paw connected with Cass’s cheek.
His head jerked sideways, the entire side of his face exploding in pain, but by some miracle he managed to stay upright. He circled the man, waiting for his chance, and when he saw an opportunity to strike, he lunged, throwing every bit of strength he had left in his body into the blow.
The man leapt to block him, but he was expecting Cass to aim for his head or chest again. Instead, Cass aimed for the vulnerable space behind the man’s knees.
The blow was swift and brutal. The man’s legs collapsed underneath him, and he went down like a horse, his body weight sending him slamming into the cobbles. He kept hold of his knife, but before he could move Cass was straddling him, his knees digging hard enough into the man’s sides to make him gasp.
Cass tossed his walking stick aside and seized the man’s wrist. He slammed it as hard as he could against the cobbles beneath them, but the man didn’t drop his weapon. So, Cass did it again, then again, until his attacker’s fingers went slack around the knife’s hilt.
He seized the knife, and God only knows what he might have done with it, how far he might have taken it, but before he could move, something slammed into the side of his head.
Pain burst inside his skull—splitting, searing pain—and stars burst behind his eyelids.
Then he was falling, his vision tunneling as he plummeted into darkness.
“If you insistupon winning exorbitant amounts of money at the Covent Garden gaming hells, Windham, then you’d do well to remember where you left your carriage.”
Something was moving in front of Cass’s face, but black was crowding at the edges of his vision, and he couldn’t make out what it was. “Is that you, Hayward?”
“Yes. Who else would it be? Take my hand.”
