Page 102 of Gentleman Jim

“They snatched him,” Maggie said. “And they’ve cut the traces of our carriage.”

St. Clare helped Enzo out of the cab. “How did they get the better of you?” he asked in a low voice. “You were armed to the teeth.”

Enzo answered him in Italian, his words accompanied by an apologetic shrug.

St. Clare turned on his cousin. “What did you hope to achieve by this pitiful jest?”

“It’s no jest.” Fred limped toward them. He was holding a handkerchief against his mouth. Fury still burned in his face, but it was no longer made manifest. He was too bruised and battered to continue fighting. “I’m going to have both you and your tiger brought up before the magistrate for abducting Miss Honeywell. And your good name won’t make one wit of difference.”

Lionel’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. “But you don’t have a good name, do you? You’re less of a Beresford than Madre and I suspected. Indeed, you aren’t a Beresford at all.”

“Of course he’s a Beresford,” Maggie said sharply. She looked to Fred. “And it’s not abduction if I went willingly. You already admitted as much in front of the entire tavern, accusing me of being a—”

“Stay out of this, Margaret,” Fred told her.

The valet’s screams had been reduced to whimpers. “Me hand!”

“Enough, man,” Lionel hissed. “The bullet only scorched you.”

Fred came forward, reaching for Maggie’s arm. “I’m taking you back to Beasley Park.”

St. Clare barred his way. “Like hell you are.”

“She has no choice.” Fred gave him a look of malicious triumph. “Your carriage isn’t functional. The only way she’s returning home tonight is with me.”

Maggie drew closer to St. Clare. “If that’s the case, I’d rather walk, thank you.”

St. Clare cast a swift glance at his hired cattle. The two bays were nothing very elegant, but they were big and strong. “That won’t be necessary.” And then to Enzo: “Ready the horses.”

Enzo sprang into action. He quickly rid the bays of their harnesses, leaving only their bridles attached. It took but a moment longer to thread the long carriage reins back through the rings of the horses’ bits, fashioning two pairs of makeshift riding reins.

Fred and Lionel might have attempted to stop the industrious tiger if the crowd of customers from the tavern hadn’t gathered around. Old men and young stood watching and cheering, uttering unhelpful commentary and encouragement.

The barman was at the front of the fray, his club in his hand. “You lot better clear out before the constable arrives and reads the Riot Act.”

“No fear of that.” St. Clare met Maggie’s eyes, an unspoken question in his own.

Her mouth tilted up very slightly. “I suppose I must ride pillion.”

“Don’t be absurd, my love.” He tossed her up onto the back of the larger bay, and then, taking the reins from Enzo, vaulted up behind her. His arm came around her waist, holding her fast. “This way is far more efficient.”

She settled back against his chest, his flintlock still clutched in her hand.

“Don’t you dare go with him,” Fred bellowed. “Do you hear me, Margaret? You’ll be ruined!”

Enzo retrieved the shotgun from inside the box of the abandoned carriage before mounting the second horse. He pointed the weapon at Fred and Lionel.

“Where’s my pistol?” Fred asked Lionel.

“Miss Honeywell shot it out of my valet’s hand,” Lionel said. “A fascinating display.”

“She kicked it under the carriage, sir,” the coachman added helpfully. “Shall I fetch it?”

“Of course you should bloody well fetch it,” Fred snarled. And then: “Margaret! There’ll be consequences for this! If you leave with him tonight, you’ll lose everything you love!”

“Not everything,” Maggie said.

St. Clare felt the sudden urge to grin. He spun his horse around, and catching the barman’s eye, flipped the man his promised second sovereign.