Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(98)

ISABEL LANDED PAINFULLY on her hands and knees. Winter! She sobbed as she rolled to see if he’d been killed with Mr. Seymour’s first sword thrust. To see if he was dying right now, his life’s blood spurting from him.

But Winter had his cloak wrapped about one arm, using it to defend himself as he maneuvered toward his swords. As she watched, Mr. Seymour thrust and thrust again, the point of his sword landing in the wadded cloak each time.

But the price of such defense was evident: A dark, wet stain was spreading over the cloak wrapped about Winter’s arm. Dear God, if he was crippled, this would be all over before he reached his own swords.

Isabel looked frantically about and saw Harold’s pistol. It lay against the wall behind Mr. Seymour. She began creeping toward it.

At that moment, Winter lunged for his swords, his right arm outstretched. Mr. Seymour followed, stabbing vindictively.

Winter rolled aside, his long sword in his right hand, just as Seymour’s sword point pierced the wooden floorboards where he’d just lain. Winter jumped gracefully to his feet and lunged at Mr. Seymour.

Isabel reached the pistol and grasped it in both hands, lifting the heavy thing and pointing it toward the fighters. But Mr. Seymour and Winter were now in a straight line comparative to her. If she shot and missed, she risked the danger of hitting Winter and killing him. She caught Harold’s eye and he started forward, but she waved him back. Anything he tried would bring him closer to the fighters—and into her own line of fire.

She held the pistol level and aimed at Mr. Seymour, waiting for her moment.

Seymour parried a lightning thrust from Winter. “You were supposed to be unarmed. This isn’t fair.”

“Oh, you aristocrats,” Winter hissed, stomping forward in attack, “you make your own rules that must be followed by all but are only in your own favor.”

Mr. Seymour sneered, batting aside Winter’s long sword. “It’s the natural order of things that the mighty will rule over the meek. If you don’t like it, then plead your case before God.”

And he struck, as quick and vicious as an adder, ripping a long tear in Winter’s waistcoat. Isabel moaned, low and terrified. Winter’s waistcoat immediately began to darken, and as he moved, blood spattered to the floor from both his left arm and his side. Dear God, he was losing so much blood! He would weaken if this didn’t end soon. But the men were still too close together for her to shoot.

“You’re good,” Winter panted, skipping back from another thrust. “But then you aristocrats often are—what more do you have to do than to endlessly practice your sword craft?”

“You may learn the art of the sword,” Seymour sneered, “but it’s like a parrot talking: he only mimics what he doesn’t truly understand.”

He lunged and Winter caught the attack with his own sword, the blades shrieking as they slid against each other, each man bearing against the other with his full weight and strength. Winter’s blood smeared the floor and his rear boot slid in it, forcing him to stumble to the side to avoid the tip of Mr. Seymour’s blade.

Mr. Seymour grinned. “Thin stuff, your commoner’s blood. I shall paint the walls with it when I’m done with you.”

Winter raised his eyebrows at the theatrical threat. “You make your money off the backs of little girls. Don’t think that I’ll let you win here.”

“Perhaps you won’t have that choice,” Mr. Seymour grunted. He darted to Winter’s opposite side.

Finally! Isabel pulled the trigger. The gun exploded with a deafening BOOM! The recoil laid her flat. She struggled to rise and for a moment simply stared in horror.

Both men were locked together, so close they might be embracing. Dear God, had she shot them both?

Then Mr. Seymour slid bonelessly from the embrace and Winter looked up.

“Oh, Winter!” Isabel didn’t know how she got there, but suddenly she was in Winter’s arms, kissing him awkwardly, tears slipping down her cheeks. She’d almost lost him. If she hadn’t fired when she had, he would’ve—

She glanced down at Mr. Seymour and frowned. “But where is the gunshot wound?”

Harold cleared his throat. “You missed, my lady.” He pointed to a large hole blown into the plaster of the wall.

“I missed?” She looked up in time to see Winter scowling at her footman.

Instantly he smiled down at her. “But it was very close. I’m sure that had you had time to aim, you would’ve got him through the heart.”

“Humph.” He was humoring her outrageously, but under the present circumstances, she could hardly protest. “Then how did he die?”

Winter lifted his sword. It was smeared with blood. His own face was white. “I let the beast out.”

“Oh.” She reached to touch him; he was too calm, too reserved. She could almost see him retreating back into himself.

“Jesus!” Lord d’Arque’s voice came from the door. “What happened here?”

He was staring about the room in horror. Isabel froze. If he chose to bring Winter up on murder charges, she would have a very hard time defending Winter. He was a commoner who had just killed an aristocrat.

“Your friend Seymour attacked Lady Beckinhall,” Winter said before she could speak, his voice hard.

Viscount d’Arque blanched. “Attacked? Dear God, my lady, I hope you are all right?”