A knife slashed downward, but sensing the motion, Gerard rolled from the blow. He whistled at Lowell, who ducked and sidestepped and joined him in grabbing Mortimer’s coat.
Zane and Drew flanked them, protecting their backs with fists. More scoundrels blocked them.
“Dammit, why can’t anything be easy?” With a sigh, Gerard stood up abruptly, smashed the knob of his stick against a whiskered jaw, and jabbed the knife end at a dirty trouser leg.
The enormous wolfhound at Iona’s side came to attention at the crack of a gunshot.
Uncomfortable in her ill-fitting boy’s clothes, she straightened from her post in a doorway to study the lamp-lit street. Gunshots weren’t good. She had only the small knife Azmin had given her.
Phoebe’s raven screamed a warning overhead.
Iona opened her senses to the wind. She’d already identified a carriage waiting down the street as Viscount Dare’s. Several of the men entering the tavern stank of hunger and a scent she could only call vile—not exactly deceit but worrisome. But she really needed to be closer to smell more.
Leaving her niche, she edged nearer to the stone cellar stairs leading down to the tavern, close enough to hear the shouts and groans. Heart in throat, she debated descending. Her meager gift wasn’t of much use indoors—and apparently not much use at all if she didn’t recognize the scent of violence.
To Iona’s disgust, Isobel ran from her hiding place around the corner. She’d insisted on accompanying Phoebe over Iona’s strident objections. Just as she appeared, men from the cellar began pouring up the narrow tavern stairs in a great hurry.
“Phoebe’s rats or mice or whatever say there is a tremendous brawl in the tavern. The rodents are apparently getting drunk on spilled ale. What do we do now?”
Panic? Iona pulled them both flat against the wall in the doorway where she’d been hiding and pointed down the street. “That’s Lord Dare’s carriage. Stand near it until we know what’s happening. I may need to send Wolf into the tavern, and it would be good to know you’re nearby to back me up.”
Isobel was a bookkeeper with a mind for money. Warfare was beyond her understanding. She nodded agreement and retreated to safety.
Iona steeled herself to go inside—until the fight burst through the door. In the shadows, she couldn’t discern villains from heroes. In the melee of torn coats and flying fists, she could only sense Gerard’s fury.
If she was not mistaken, that was him dragging Mortimer up the stairs.
She didn’t have Phoebe’s ability to give Wolf orders. He was only there to protect her. She hadn’t planned for a brawl where she couldn’t separate one man from another. She winced as a blackguard attempted to jerk Gerard back down the stairs. The earl had to release Mortimer to swing his fists. She could almost feel his pain.
He was hurt!
“C’mon, Wolf, let’s smite a few rodents.” She ran toward the melee, determined to pry Lord Ives from disaster.
Throwing punches over an insensate Mortimer on the stairs, the damned earl didn’t even notice as she and Wolf grabbed her stepfather’s coat. Gerard’s unprepossessing valet dodged flying fists to add his strength. Together they dragged the sot up the rest of the stone stairs, while the earl clouted and kicked the hirelings back down. Iona was grateful for her boy’s clothes. No one gave her a second look.
Once they had Mortimer sprawling on the cobblestones well away from the entrance, Lowell dived back into the fray, attempting to part Lord Ives from the throng.
Gerard was now fighting his way back into the melee. “Drew and Zane are still in there!” he yelled at his servant over the noise of the fracas.
Well, rats, Phoebe wouldn’t like that. Neither would Azmin. As more men spilled up the stairs, flinging fists and cudgels and knives, Iona began to hum under her breath. She just needed Gerard out of there. . .
She tugged Wolf’s collar, causing him to yip. A moment later, he howled—Phoebe was telling him something.
At the sound, Gerard glanced over his shoulder. She prayed he recognized the wolfhound. From his scowl, she gathered he did, but he didn’t see her. He returned to beating off attackers. Was that a sword at the end of his stick?
She couldn’t think curse words and concentrate on humming.
To her relief, the mob finally pushed his lordship back to street level.
Sensing a confusion of fury and. . . blood thirst?. . . approaching, Iona swung around, still humming. More men spilled out of the alley. To her utter dismay, at the sight, Isobel crumpled beside the carriage. Telling herself it was just her sister’s reaction to fright, Iona released Wolf and prayed.
The dog eagerly leapt to guard her against the new ruffians rushing toward the tavern entrance.
To Iona’s relief, the rather large Mr. Blair and the professorial viscount finally emerged looking bloodied but determined. Blair held a smoking pistol and appeared prepared to commit murder. But the three gentlemen were completely outnumbered.
And Mortimer was climbing to his knees, reaching for his pocket.
Twenty-three
Gerard breathed in relief as Zane and Blair fought their way out of the hole, both appearing to be mostly in one piece. If he were a gambling man, he’d wager the big Scot inventor had brawling experience. The good doctor, however, merely possessed an instinct for survival and a wicked temper.
Sensing the vibrations of blows before they landed had Gerard ramming his stick backward while swinging his fist and his boots to clear a path for his friends. Clutching a villain by the throat, he received a vibration so violent that he had to glance behind him—to see a band of hoodlums hoisting Mortimer to his feet.
The pistol that Iona’s stepfather held was waving in Gerard’s direction. Behind him and on his other side, he sensed more pistols being drawn. Bullets aimed at him would hit the cellar stairs and quite possibly his companions.
A woman screamed—in fury. Iona. He’d recognize her voice anywhere.
Well, hell.
Acting on what his senses
