Saving the Scientist (The Restitution League #2)(8)

Shoes she could skip, but it would be the utmost idiocy to face thieves unarmed.

She squinted into the darkness. The hall table held a vase of flowers and three framed daguerreotypes. The edges of the frames were sharp, but would require a steady aim. That particular skill, she'd never laid claim to.

The kitchen offered an array of knives. And there was Cook's rolling pin. But those would require getting within arm’s reach of the intruder.

Not ideal.

Harrison's family crest. He’d been inordinately proud of the ugly thing. Had it commissioned after he and her father sold the factories. Ugly, and trumped-up as it was, it did contain the requisite swords crossed through the back of the shield.

She hurried into the parlor, cursing when her little toe caught a table leg.

She ignored the pain, and jumped atop the hearth, reaching above it to yank a long sword out of the shield above the fireplace.

The sword slid easily from its resting place, but it was far heavier than she would've guessed, too heavy to manage with one hand. The tip slammed down, biting into the wood mantel.

Ada shrugged off the damage. Now that she had two hands on the thing, she could at least keep the tip from dragging on the ground. Only just.

She was barely out the library door before the muscles in her forearms were fatigued with the weight of the ancient weapon.

The instant she opened the back door, she heard them, male voices whispering urgently in the dark. Things between the thieves did not appear to be going well.

“Stand aside, or we’ll toss you off.”

“You’re welcome to give it a go.”

Ada froze. The sword quivered in her grip. That voice sparked a thrill of anticipation.

"You an’ who's gang?" a harsh voice responded. "Gonna take more than one o’you.”

“Probably not.” Sweet sounded sure of himself, exceedingly so.

Disappointment squeezed her heart. He’d simply waited for her to go to sleep and skulked back to find her device. The betrayal was not unexpected.

The hurt was.

Rage shot through her, roiling in her gut, making her limbs vibrate with furious energy.

“You lying sot!” As if she had no control over her own body, Ada thrust the sword high above her head and barreled toward him.

"Wait!" Sweet yelled. “Stop!”

His command only stoked her fury. She lowered the tip to chest level and raced dead at him.

She was close enough now to make out his solid form. He was backed against the wall of her laboratory, to one side of the open door. A body-sized lump at his feet groaned softly. Two other large forms waited twenty feet back, facing him. All swung toward her, giving her blade their full attention.

A cold wash of fear caught at her throat, tamping down her rage.

The math was not in her favor. Three hooligans—four if she counted the lump on the ground—and she had but one weapon. A weapon she hadn’t the least idea how to wield.

The worry etched on Sweet’s face did nothing to reassure her. The long string of curse words cemented the realization that she’d charged straight into trouble.

Edison grabbed something out of the satchel at his feet and launched it at the ruffians. A loud snap split the air, then a flash of blinding light seared her eyes.

The sword fell from her hands as she threw them up to shield her eyes. The flash lasted no more than a heartbeat, but the dark afterimage—a pulsing black star rimmed with orange light—filled her field of vision. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, trying to blot it out.

Before her vision cleared, Sweet was on the men, punching one, then the other. The sound of the blows—and the grunts of pain that followed—travelled quickly in the still air.

As the two of them regained their vision, they hit back. The smaller of the two landed a punch, snapping Sweet’s head sideways. He staggered back, but shook it off and waded back into the fight.

It was the only blow they landed. Sweet was clearly more skilled, and more agile, than either of his attackers.

He fought with a grim fury uncalled for in a disagreement between partners. Something in the energy of their blows—a desperation, a rage, a fear—made her doubt her initial conclusion.

Perhaps he wasn’t in league with these thieves. Perhaps he’d returned to her laboratory for his satchel and been caught unawares.

Perhaps he really did want to help her.

Ada snatched up the sword. She gripped the cold handle, letting the heavy tip rest in the grass. Fear for his safety warred with confusion. She wanted to wade in, but the sword was unwieldy, and she wasn't sure she wouldn't hit Sweet.

At least the third man hadn’t joined the fight. While Sweet and the two men swung away, the large lump rose like a ghostly apparition and skulked off into the darkness.

She bit her lip and raised the sword, determined to assist in some small way. Maybe she could trip them? Whack them about the legs?

By the time she staggered forward with the damned thing, he had them on the run. As the ruffians hurried off toward the lane, Sweet rushed over and yanked the sword from her hands. It clattered to the ground with a metallic thud.

"Just what in the bloody hell you think you were doing?"

The anger behind his words pushed her back.

"What I always do, Mr. Sweet. Protecting what's mine."

Sweet grabbed her by the arm with more force than she thought strictly necessary. "I was protecting your things. You were making the job a great deal more difficult.”