Page 43 of A Scoundrel in the Making

She started toward the stairs. When she’d disappeared, he called, “Russell! I must speak with you at once.”

“What the devil, Reade?” Russell called.

The girl gasped. Reade retreated a pace, then kicked the door. Wood splintered and the door slammed back against the wall. He lunged into the room. Russell stood on the other side of the bed near the hearth. The woman kneeling on the bed wasn’t the debutant Reade had expected, but at twenty-two, Miss Daily, was still young enough not to understand the predator she’d trusted. Her sleeve hung off her shoulder and a breast nearly spilled from her bodice.

He whipped his gaze onto Russell. “You’ve gone too far, this time, Russell.” Reade crossed to the bed and grasped the young lady’s arm.

“What is happening Douglas?” she said in confusion. “Is this part of the fun?”

“Fun?” Reade repeated.

“I see you did not heed my warning about staying away from my private chambers.” Russell yanked the claymore from the wall over the hearth and charged around the bed.

Reade leapt away from the bed and narrowly avoided a sword slice to his arm.

“Have you lost your mind?” Reade demanded.

“No one will blame me for protecting the lady from an intruder.” Russell swung the sword at his midsection.

Reade leapt back. His heart thundered. Could he outrun the madman without getting sliced by the sword? Eyes locked on Russell, he edged toward the door.

Russell’s eyes shifted to something behind him. “I knew the two of you hadn’t accidentally stumbled into my room.”

Reade glanced over his shoulder. Abigail stood in the doorway.

“By God, Abigail, what are you doing here?” He yanked his gaze back onto Russell. Miss Daily still knelt on the bed. Russell stood between Reade and the bed. “Let Miss Daily go,” Reade said.

Russell gave a mean laugh. “Miss Daily isn’t going anywhere, are you, my dear?”

“This isn’t part of our game,” she said.

“Oh, but it is,” he replied. “The best part. Now be a good girl and yank that bell pull by the bed.”

She glanced at the bell pull.

“Now, Brenda,” he ordered.

She scrambled across the bed and Reade’s blood chilled. Russell was calling for help.

Reade backed up. “Run, Abigail,” he ordered.

How far could they get before Russell could catch them? Alone, he might have a slight chance. With Abigail, there was no chance.

Russell advanced on Reade.

“Bloody hell, run, Abigail.”

The scrape of steel against wood sent a chill down Reade’s spine. She wouldn’t—

Russell neared within sword reach. Reade turned and seized Abigail’s arm. She shoved the hilt of the Sword of State into his hand. He registered the blade—then closed his fingers around the metal and shoved Abigail into the hallway. Reade stumbled two paces after her, spun, and yanked the sword up to meet the downward arc of Russell’s strike. Steel rang in an ear-splitting clang and the force of the blow vibrated down his arm.

“Abigail, get out. He’s called for help.”

“The Honors are mine.” Russell jabbed left, then swung to the right.

Reade parried. The man was a better swordsman than he was a card player.

“Who sent you?” Russell feinted left, then sliced at Reade’s right arm. Fabric rent and pain stabbed.