Page 54 of The Viscount of Shadows

“Take a good look. Is this the railway boyo?” Danaher demanded.

“He didn’t have no red hair,” the short one declared.

“We didn’t see his hair, eejit. And he was wearing different clothes,” the taller one said.

“He didn’t have no titties, either, but this bloke does,” the short one snapped.

“Look at the face,” Danaher snarled.

The two men glared at her. One was about to speak when another man rushed into the room.

“There be coppers everywhere! They brought wagons and are swarmin’ all over, enterin’ every house. We got to leave!”

Claudia fought hard to keep the relief from outwardly showing, but inside? She felt like crying from the release of pent-up emotion. She glanced at the table, where her knife lay beside her cap. Cillian, however, had not found Lady Ainsworth’s pocketknife hidden in the lining of her overcoat. But the coat was on the back of her chair. Could she reach it in time before they swarmed her?

Danaher growled. “Birch, you come with me. You, Shorty, stay with Cillian and watch this one. I’ll be back.” Danaher and Birch slipped out the rear entrance.

Raised voices could be heard now, along with police whistles and an almighty clamor.

“He won’t be back. Danaher’s done a runner,” Claudia said, her voice still raw. “Saving his own skin. Leaving his son behind is typical. If you two were smart, you’d do the same. Make a run for it before it’s too late.”

“Shut your gob!” Cillian yelled.

Claudia wasn’t tied to the chair, so she hurriedly ran through escape scenarios. Meanwhile, the short hoodlum rubbed his hands together, clearly agitated. He paced about, peering out through the covered window through a gap in the boards.

Taking advantage of his distraction, Claudia jumped to her feet, grabbed the chair, and swung it about, crashing it down on Shorty’s head. She gave another swing, and the man fell to the ground, unconscious. The coat fell to the floor at her feet.

Cillian ran toward her, and she twirled around in a circle, catching him on the side of the head with the chair, although Danaher’s son stayed upright. The wood must have been rotten, for the chair splintered apart, jagged wooden pieces flying in all directions. Cillian was knocked senseless long enough that she was able to grab the knife from the coat.

She brandished it in front of her. “Come near me, and I will slice you open from stem to stern. I am capable.”

Cillian wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and shook his head as if to clear it. “Oh, aye. I’ve no doubt.” He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a knife about the same size as hers. “But you heard Himself; you ain’t leaving here.”

“Oh, I am.”

“Don’t try it. I don’t fancy being in a knife fight with a woman, but don’t think I won’t do it.”

“And damage the merchandise?” Claudia sneered.

The raised voices drew nearer. Claudia wasn’t waiting for Cillian to make the first move. Kill Danaher’s son? That wouldn’t be smart. But she could disable him. Lay a vicious gash on his pretty face if she could get near enough, or a few stabs to his side or back, enough to damage muscles and tendons.

Claudia shouted and lunged toward him, and the blade made contact with the side of his face near the hairline. But Cillian also managed a slice, catching her left side in almost the exact area Oliver had been cut. She grunted, but as she raised her knife for another possible lunge, her legs gave out just as three policemen burst through the door.

Cillian immediately rushed through the rear entrance, and one of the policemen gave chase.

“Detective Simpson,” she managed to croak. “He’s looking for me.” At least, she hoped so.

“Miss Ellingford?”

“Yes.”

They took her arms and brought her to her feet, and she cried out in pain. “Please, the coat, hat, knife, and holder. Bring them.”

Then darkness covered her like a cloak.