The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(102)

Something moved outside the building, and Fallon turned. The buyer. Fallon watched as another carriage arrived. He could feel the anticipation radiating off of Knottsby and Hardaway. A second later the door opened, and two men stepped inside. Grapling greeted the first man, finely dressed in tailored clothing and with a refined look about him. He must have been the art dealer. The buyer nodded to his man, and a leather bag was produced. Fallon waited.

“Where are the paintings?” Knottsby hissed in his ear.

Fallon held up a hand to silently tell the man to be patient. These things couldn’t be rushed. They had to move at just the right time, or the entire operation would fall apart. Lives would be put in danger.

A moment later there were loud scratching and banging sounds outside the door. Knottsby shifted forward, but Fallon caught his arm. It was nearly time but not quite.

“Easy with that,” Grapling called out as the man he’d left by the carriage heaved one end of a large crate into view.

“Sorry, sir. It’s blasted heavy.”

The crate started to shift, something slid inside, and it toppled farther. The young man was going to drop the crate, but there was nothing Fallon could do at this distance but wince for the paintings inside. Hopefully they were well packaged to survive their journey.

Except there was a flash of movement at his side, and Knottsby was already out of range of Fallon’s grab. He ran forward into the central lit area of the building even as he reached for his pistol.

“Always was impatient,” Hardaway mumbled at his side, and then he and Fallon were off as well, running into a fight two minutes too early.

Fallon checked the location of his pistol at his back and noticed Hardaway already had one in each hand. Backup in case one misfired or was needed elsewhere, no doubt. Fallon sped forward, all the while doing the math of their situation. Most of his men were stationed around the building to prevent escape. Inside these walls, it was five men against three. Hardaway had two weapons, which would leave them evenly matched as long as the art dealer wasn’t armed. It was a gamble, and one he didn’t like the odds on.

Knottsby was moving toward the boy with the crate while Hardaway was at his side, focused on the two young men on the other side of the crate. Fallon wanted to pummel only one man tonight, and he was headed straight for him. Grapling looked up as the three moved out of the shadows, but had no time to react. Fallon reached the crate and dug one toe of his boot against the edge, launching himself over the top to come down on top of the man.

He’d been longing to punch the man again after their fight at the museum had been cut short, especially after what the man had done to Isabelle. His fingers dug into Grapling’s shirt, and Fallon pushed him hard down onto the floor. Landing with an echoing thud, Fallon wasted no time landing a punch in the man’s stomach, then kneeing him in the side. Grapling tore at Fallon’s clothing, but he was no match for Fallon’s size; he never had been.

Fallon had lost sight of the rest of the fight, but only one opponent truly mattered—the one who had dared hit Isabelle. Fallon’s fist collided with Grapling’s jaw with a satisfying thwack, but a second later he was pulled off the man and slung onto the floor.

Knottsby’s opponent must have gotten away from him. Grunts and blows sounded all around Fallon as he scrambled to his feet searching for his attacker. Grapling was on his knees now, slowly climbing to his feet. Fallon chanced a quick glance to the side. Hardaway was fighting two of the men by using his pistols as clubs, while the buyer stayed back and clutched his bag of money to his chest. Perhaps he should have wagered on the outcome of this fight after all.

Hearing a struggle behind him, Fallon turned just in time to see Knottsby fighting for control of a pistol. Pulling out his own pistol, he reached for the man’s shoulder. Knottsby was a solid fighter, but he had thirty years on his opponent. Fallon had to help, or someone would get shot.

As he moved, he saw motion in the shadows. And a flash of an image where the light fell—soft blond curls framed round eyes. But he blinked, and the vision was gone.

Isabelle? It couldn’t be.

How had she slipped past his men? Why was she here?

Fallon turned back to Grapling just in time to see the man raising a pistol and aiming it at Fallon’s chest. He held a knife loosely at his side. Throwing knives had always been his specialty.

Fallon raised his pistol as well. A shot fired into the air behind him, and everything went quiet, aside from the ringing in his ears. Fallon glanced to the side. Pistols were raised around the room. Blast it all, Knottsby’s opponent must have had a second weapon. No one was getting out of this alive. But it wasn’t his life he was thinking of just now. It was Isabelle’s.

*

Isabelle backed away from the fight with hurried footsteps, her borrowed black dress blending her into the dark stone walls behind her. Bumping into something solid, she jumped, but it was only one of the wooden columns. She slipped behind it and peeked out from the edge. The wood was rough under her bare fingers, but she held on anyway. Watching.

Had Fallon seen her? She was almost certain he had.

Looking at him now was like watching the ghost of a lost loved one. Hair she’d once run her fingers through, lips she’d once kissed… She wanted to rush to him, but there was no longer anything there to hold on to. He was standing still now, pistol raised just like the others. She had no business being here tonight, but it seemed Fallon did have business to attend to—murderous business.