Big hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her away. It was Mr. Duff. He shook his head at her. “Let me, Mrs. Kilbrenner, if ye please. Reaver will pound me proper if any harm should come to ye.”
She swallowed. Backed away. Looked around at Phoebe, who glared in concern, her hand resting on her belly. Realizing she had once again charged forth as though she were still battling alone, Augusta nodded and retreated to stand near the coach.
“You must be sensible, Augusta,” Phoebe admonished. “We’ve no idea what this villain might do.”
Augusta nodded, feeling like a girl being reprimanded by her mother. In fact, at the moment, Phoebe greatly resembled their mother. Strong. Steady. Calm.
They watched Duff and John first knock then crack the door with a hard shove of Duff’s shoulder. The jamb appeared to be half rotted, making their entrance easy. As they entered, Augusta could see debris littering the floor of the murky interior.
Her chest wound tight as she watched the two men disappear inside.
Long minutes passed in which the vise squeezing her tighter and tighter grew painful. Her stomach writhed, wanting her to move. To find Ash. To make sure he was not hurt or …
She could not bear to contemplate the “or.” He must be alive.
“They will find him,” Phoebe murmured, clasping Augusta’s hand.
“They will,” Anne affirmed. “Duff is strong, and John dotes on our little mouse.”
She prayed it was true, but the fear in her belly, quivering and making her want to retch, weighed heavily with doubt. She despised this waiting. Ordinarily, she was too busy with her plans and her battling to simmer in a broth of fear. Sitting idle while others battled suited her not at all.
A flicker of something in an upper window caught her eye. She shaded her brow and squinted, trying to see past the grime. It was an arm. Slender and slight. Then it was a hand, small and flattened against one of the panes. Then it was a shoulder, jammed against the glass.
Augusta’s heart stopped. That window was too high for a boy’s shoulder to reach the third pane. Someone was holding him up. Pushing him hard.
The little body jerked and a cheek slid flat along the mullion.
Oh, God. It was Ash. She knew it. He was being tormented.
She didn’t think. There was nothing but her boy. No sound. No thought. No consideration apart from one: She must save him.
Inside the building, she found the stairs quickly. Hiked up her skirts and climbed, automatically avoiding cracks and snags, but stumbling twice.
Needed to get to him. Needed to kill the Dog. Needed to save her boy.
She located the room in the corner of the second floor. Heard a thud just before she charged through it. And saw the Dog, fat and short and mean, looming over a spitting Ash.
Saw it all through a red haze. “Lay another hand upon my boy, and I shall rip you apart,” she growled.
The Dog turned, his jowls shaking with the motion. Then, he laughed. The whoreson laughed.
At his feet, Ash groaned and rolled up onto his elbow. “No,” the boy panted, struggling to stand. “Lady Reaver. Ye must go.”
“Reaver, eh?” The Dog’s smile faded into a sneer, his jowls undulating as he swallowed. “You his woman?”
“I am his wife. Now, release the boy.”
“Boy belongs to me. Way I see it, you stole ’im.”
Augusta strode further into the room. Distantly, she heard heaving breaths behind her. Anne, she guessed from the sound of the gait and the wheeze. “M-Mrs. Kilbrenner. You must get behind me, now.”
The Dog’s eyes narrowed, the fat of his cheeks nearly engulfing the gleaming slits. “Kilbrenner. Not Reaver, after all.” The grin returned, vile and satisfied. “Stupid whore. Come to take what’s mine, ’ave ye?”
“The boy is mine,” Augusta said, the words emerging low and resonant, straight from the center of her being. “You will give him back to me, or so help me, I will see you dead.”
He whistled mockingly. “Mighty big threat. You and that fat bitch couldn’t see a rat dead.”
Ash, wide-eyed and trembling, bolted past the Dog, but the vile creature grasped his arm and threw him backward. Ash landed with a wince and an arm around his ribs.
“Stay put.” He pointed at Augusta. “Get out, both of ye. Or I’ll show ye what I do to those what steal from me.”
Everything happened slowly, yet all at once. Augusta’s fury turned the room bright red. Her feet carried her forward at a dead run. Ash shouted. Anne screamed. The Dog stumbled back, astonishment flashing in serpent eyes. She hit the wall of disgusting flesh full force, shoving and clawing, grasping his ears and yanking hard enough to tear. Meaty hands grabbed at her arms, but she pinched and twisted whatever she could reach, making the Dog yelp and squeal.
Suddenly, pain exploded in her middle. She couldn’t breathe, staggering backward. The Dog was shouting something. Cupping his ear. Charging her. Ash escaped Anne’s hold and latched onto the whoreson’s leg, biting until blood seeped and spilled.
A scream. Gasping.
The gasping was hers. She couldn’t breathe. Oh, God, her chest wouldn’t work. It hurt. So much. He must have hit her. The pain was radiant. Consuming. No air. Her lungs worked to fill themselves. She slumped against the wall, struggling to rise when she couldn’t breathe. Spots floated in her vision.
Needed to protect Ash. Needed to help Anne, who was hitting the Dog with the remnants of a chair. Augusta’s back slid against the wall.
Spots and stars and no air.
Her backside hit the floor. Her head floated, and the room went gray.
That was when she heard it. The rumbling. The roar. A mad, thunderous squall unleashed upon the world with murderous fury. Thuds came as the squall met flesh. Piteous, vile pleas for mercy. Then, only the rumbling and the sickening sounds of cracking bone and someone’s deep voice saying, “Enough, Reaver. Enough.”
Next, she felt tiny hands stroking her hair. Too-thin arms holding her tightly. A small, sweet voice whispering in her ear. “Didn’t mean to break me promise. Didn’t mean it, Lady Reaver. Sorry, I am. So sorry.”
She wanted to answer, to tell her boy she was the one who was sorry for failing to keep him safe. But the spots were growing, and her head was fading until even the pain disappeared.
~~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I trust you dealt with the villain appropriately. The instances in which being a ruffian may be considered propitious are few. But this, I daresay, is one of them.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter expressing outrage at the violence present in London’s streets and approval of the violence necessary to answer it.
“She is quite well, Mr. Reaver,” the old physician assured him as he sipped tea in Reaver’s drawing room. “No ill effects. Simply had the wind knocked out of her. I am certain you’ve experienced the sensation a time or two, having been a pugilist of some renown.”