Page 34 of The Viscount of Shadows

The Sentinel turned to the other two men, battering them until they were unconscious. The vigilante laid his hand against his wound. Blood oozed between his gloved fingers. Shaking her head, trying to gain strength and clear the fuzziness from her mind, Claudia rushed to the vigilante’s side. Taking her shawl, she bunched it up and held it to his gaping wound.

That few moments allowed Jedi Danaher to scramble to his feet. He grabbed her hair, and Claudia cried out with pain as the wig came away, along with hairpins and clusters of red hair. Jedi tossed the wig aside and spun her about.

“What the feck is this? Who are you? I only know one person with hair that shade. And she be dead. Unless—Claudia?”

Claudia pulled up her skirt. She would kill this man right here and now. He more than deserved it. All his evil deeds of the past? And no doubt the ones in his future. She would be saving others’ lives if she ended his. But before she could grab her blade, The Sentinel bashed Jedi on the head, knocking him insensible. Danaher lay still. Was he unconscious? Claudia kicked him with her boot, and he didn’t respond. It appeared so.

“No murder, not tonight. No time,” the vigilante gasped. “Is the blood dripping on the cobbles?”

She glanced down. “No.”

“Good. This way.” He slipped his truncheon into his belt.

Claudia could hear distant shouts and loud clamor. They had to escape. However, it would only take seconds for a quick slice across the carotid artery. There was no time to debate the matter, for she sensed The Sentinel would disagree. And cold-blooded murder on a defenseless, unconscious man? It would not sit well with her, even if Danaher were the man in question.

Instead, she slipped the vigilante’s arm about her shoulder, and they hurried off as quickly as possible. “Wouldn’t it be easier to escape through the park? Toward Kensington?” Claudia pointed.

“There are not many exits out of Notting Dale; we will be caught. The smart move is to vanish right under his nose.”

The Sentinel was correct once again. Danaher’s men would locate them before they managed to leave Notting Dale. Moving swiftly through a maze of back lanes, they reached the rear courtyard of an abandoned house. The windows, which ones remained, were boarded up.

“In through those loose boards,” he rasped, pointing to an entrance. “Check again to ensure I am not leaving a trail of blood. They will trace us if I am.”

Under the subdued light of the moon, Claudia inspected the uneven ground. Then, up to his still-covered injury. “No blood.” However, the shawl was soaked through.

Once inside, he motioned toward the large fireplace. “Use the iron bar. Open the trapdoor, there.” He pointed to the floor of the hearth. The Sentinel’s hand trembled. He was losing too much blood. Claudia did as he instructed. “Hide the bar in that pile of rubble,” he muttered.

“Wait, there are no rats down there, I hope. I cannot stand them.” That was an understatement. You don’t live on the streets and not have to deal with rats. How many nights had Claudia slept in dubious dosshouses, lying awake all night because of the rustling and squeaking of rats in the darkness? She shuddered at the thought.

“No rats,” he replied. “At least, none the last time I was here. Hurry. Let us get below.”

Claudia assisted him down the narrow stone steps into complete darkness. He silently pulled the door shut using a piece of rope attached to the underside of the door. “Won’t they see footprints above?” she whispered, holding him upright.

“No. I ensure there is little dust or dirt on the wood floors.” He pulled away from her, and Claudia could hear him fumbling about. She listened to the strike of a match, and then muted lighting filled the area. The Sentinel had lit a small oil lamp.

“Won’t they see the light through the floorboards?” she asked quietly.

“As best as I can make out, there are three layers of subfloor between the wooden slats and this cellar. Decades past, this was used as a storage area, probably for stolen goods. Quick, help me to the pallet. We have to halt the bleeding. In the trunk, there are medical supplies. And water. I hope you can stitch, miss.”

Claudia opened the trunk and rummaged around, locating what she needed. “Yes, I can stitch wounds. Let us hope the cut is not too deep. Here, drink some water.” Claudia kneeled next to The Sentinel. He pulled up his mask until it rested under his nose.

Leaning in with the glass bottle, Claudia studied the lower part of his face. It was familiar, with a sturdy jawline and a fine, sensual mouth where the lower lip was plumper than the upper. It may be one she made a study of. Why she thought that, Claudia had no idea.

Then she saw it. A mole—right above the man’s upper lip.

It cannot be.

It cannot be him.

“Tensbridge?”