As the Devil Dares (Capturing the Carlisles #3)(94)

“We were never alone together,” Evie explained, misunderstanding Mariah’s silence. “I slept in a shared room upstairs, and he slept down here on one of the benches. We never— I promise you!”

“I know,” Mariah reassured her grimly. But she also knew that all her sister’s protests wouldn’t make one whit of difference if anyone in London ever found out that she’d run away with a man. She’d be ostracized from society. Simply riding with him in a mail coach without a chaperone, even surrounded by a half dozen other people, was enough to ruin her. No one would ever believe they’d slept apart or that Evie had remained innocent. Especially not with a scoundrel’s excuse for a rake like Burton Williams.

“I think he changed his mind about marrying me last night during dinner,” Evelyn admitted, her body sagging against the settle, “when I commented that reserving a private dining room was too expensive. He said that I needn’t worry because we’d have plenty of money once we married and received my dowry.” She plucked idly at the lace edging the handkerchief, in her shame not raising her eyes to look at Mariah. “I thought he knew. I thought for certain that he knew…”

That the Winslow daughters had no dowries, that there was no guarantee that the daughters would inherit any part of the business…Williams must have realized the truth then—he would never see a penny of Winslow Shipping money.

A rush of relief cascaded through her that Evie had escaped that horrible man.

“When I woke this morning and went downstairs to join him for breakfast, he wasn’t inside. He was in the yard saddling a horse to ride back to London.” She raised her eyes, and the haunted look on her face took Mariah’s breath away. “He said he’d changed his mind,” she whispered, so softly that it was barely more than a breath on her pale lips, “and he didn’t want to marry me anymore.”

Mariah hugged her tightly, but this time, thankfully, no new tears fell.

“I’m such a fool!” Evelyn choked out against Mariah’s shoulder, “I thought—I thought he loved me.”

Her own voice cracked with emotion as she whispered hoarsely, “Then he’s the bigger fool because he doesn’t.”

A loud commotion went up outside in the innyard, followed by shouts and the noise of running feet and galloping horses. Then came arguing voices raised in anger. A smash of furniture, the splintering of wood and crash of broken bottles—a barmaid screamed.

“What on earth…?” Mariah hurried across the room and opened the door.

Staring wide-eyed, she was stunned into speechlessness at the sight of the bar brawl that had broken out. A handful of men flung fists at one another, smashing up tables and tumbling over chairs, while the few women travelers rushed outside to avoid the melee. Stable hands and grooms running inside to join the fight were caught up by the women in the bottleneck of the narrow doorway.

A bottle shattered against the wall. When the innkeeper poked his head up from behind the bar to curse at whoever had thrown it, an ale tankard flew past his head. He ducked back down, this time staying put and leaving the fight to play out without interference.

At the center of the fray stood three large, golden-haired men with broad shoulders, clenched fists, wide grins—

Robert.

She gasped. Impossible! Yet there he was, standing back-to-back with two other men who looked so much like him that they could only be the Carlisle brothers. The scourge of Mayfair and the bane of Lincolnshire. And right now, three men well on their way to destroying the inn.

One of the grooms who had pushed his way past the women grabbed the youngest brother by the back of his coat and tossed him across a table. When he landed, he jumped to his feet, then went running back into the brawl, fists flying. Seconds later he was thrown over the table again, and this time when he scrambled to his feet, a broad grin of unabashed joy lit his face. Without pause he rushed back into the fray.

The other man to Robert’s right—good heavens, was that the Duke of Trent? And were dukes supposed to be so skilled in bare-knuckle brawling? But this man was. He lowered his shoulder and plowed into a hostler who swung a wide punch and missed his target, bodily tossing the man through the door and out into the yard.

But her eyes kept returning to Robert, who simultaneously ducked and landed punches with the ease of a well-trained pugilist. Her heart lurched at the sight of him, and in that moment’s confusion, she didn’t know whether to rush forward to throw herself into his arms or join the other men in swinging at him.

In the middle of the skirmish, Whitby stepped inside the inn. “What the devil—”

Robert lunged.

*



Burning with jealousy, Robert grabbed Whitby by the lapels and shoved him against the wall.

“She belongs with me,” he growled through clenched teeth. “You don’t get her. Not now, not ever.”

“I don’t—I don’t know—” Whitby’s eyes grew large. But Robert wasn’t going to be fooled by that bewildered look on the man’s face. “Why are you here?”

Or fooled by feigned innocence. “To stop you from—”

A pint of ale poured over his head.

“What the hell!” He released Whitby’s coat, and the man fell to the floor in a heap. He wheeled around.

He should have known—“Mariah.”