Read Online How To School Your Scoundrel by Juliana Gray - Free Book Online
Authors: Juliana Gray
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whispered.
Markham leaned down and pressed the tip of his knife against the middle of Norton’s throat, against the round lump of his Adam’s apple. “Just a little something I learned from my father.”
“Me balls,” Norton groaned.
“They’ll be quite all right, I assure you, though I suggest you apply a cold compress when you return home.”
Somerton opened up his gloved fist and laid it flat against his thigh. The heat of his own body surprised him. He’d felt so cold, frozen solid against the frail wood of the pocket door, watching the scene unfold.
“Which I suggest you do immediately, sir. Return home, I mean. Unless you happen to have a list of Baltic shipping upon your person, in which case I beg leave to lighten you of the burden.” Markham spoke with quiet assurance, perfectly calm. As if the Almighty himself stood behind his shoulder, nodding in approval.
In the first few seconds of the struggle, Somerton’s every instinct had pitched him forward to Markham’s aid. Only the strictest self-control had held him in place, the confident logic that Markham was right: Norton didn’t dare harm the lad.
Because Somerton would kill him if he did.
And now? Somerton gazed at the dim-lit scene in quiet astonishment. Erasmus Norton felled like an oak by a lowly secretary.
By God, the pluck of him. The damned clean-scrubbed ferocity of him. The avenging angel, fighting the good fight.
“That I haven’t,” hissed Norton, “or I’d wipe your scrawny arse with it.”
“How fortunate for me,” said Markham. “In any case, I’m off. And I’ll be taking this”—he twirled the knife in his hand—“along with me.”
He tucked the knife inside his jacket, stepped elegantly over Norton’s prostrate body, and walked out the door.
The hearty slam of wood and brass echoed about the walls.
Somerton detached himself from the shadows and stepped along the direct line through the front room. Norton lay in the passage, his torso in the room and his legs sticking out into the hallway. Somerton stared down. “Dear me. Are you quite all right, my good fellow?”
Norton lay stiff. “Going to be sick.”
“You should have been more careful. The young ones are agile.”
“What sort of gentleman sticks another man in the marbles, I ask you? It ain’t on the level. There’s a code, sir.” He turned on his side and vomited onto the worn wooden floor.
Somerton removed a handkerchief from his pocket—plain white linen, no identifying marks—and dropped it on Norton’s chest. He lifted his chin and gazed thoughtfully at the door. “What gentleman, indeed?”
“It ain’t right.” Norton lay on his side, doubled over. “He might have ruined me forever.”
“Oh, buck up.” Somerton stepped around the body and reached for the doorknob. “You’re a hired assassin, not a curate. It’s no more than you deserve, after all.”
Before Norton could reply, he opened the door and strode down the steps, just in time to see a black shape emerge from behind an area gate at the end of the street and lunge silently upon the departing figure of Mr. Markham.
• • •
L uisa couldn’t precisely say when she detected the presence of the Earl of Somerton in the Stygian depths of the Ponsonby Place front room. No particular movement, no particular sound caught her attention. It was the sense of him, breathing quietly in the shadows. His heavy gaze observing her.
Observing her, and also guarding her. She knew, in that instant, she’d nothing to fear from the thick-armed ox holding her throat. Somerton could call him off with a flick of his fingers.
She’d had only to play her part.
As she strode down the pavement, overcoat swinging, fog stinging her face, she smiled at the recollection of her attacker’s surprise. His heavy grunt at her unexpected maneuver, his body crashing to the floor. For an instant, she’d turned the tables. She’d taken control again, she’d gained the upper
Markham leaned down and pressed the tip of his knife against the middle of Norton’s throat, against the round lump of his Adam’s apple. “Just a little something I learned from my father.”
“Me balls,” Norton groaned.
“They’ll be quite all right, I assure you, though I suggest you apply a cold compress when you return home.”
Somerton opened up his gloved fist and laid it flat against his thigh. The heat of his own body surprised him. He’d felt so cold, frozen solid against the frail wood of the pocket door, watching the scene unfold.
“Which I suggest you do immediately, sir. Return home, I mean. Unless you happen to have a list of Baltic shipping upon your person, in which case I beg leave to lighten you of the burden.” Markham spoke with quiet assurance, perfectly calm. As if the Almighty himself stood behind his shoulder, nodding in approval.
In the first few seconds of the struggle, Somerton’s every instinct had pitched him forward to Markham’s aid. Only the strictest self-control had held him in place, the confident logic that Markham was right: Norton didn’t dare harm the lad.
Because Somerton would kill him if he did.
And now? Somerton gazed at the dim-lit scene in quiet astonishment. Erasmus Norton felled like an oak by a lowly secretary.
By God, the pluck of him. The damned clean-scrubbed ferocity of him. The avenging angel, fighting the good fight.
“That I haven’t,” hissed Norton, “or I’d wipe your scrawny arse with it.”
“How fortunate for me,” said Markham. “In any case, I’m off. And I’ll be taking this”—he twirled the knife in his hand—“along with me.”
He tucked the knife inside his jacket, stepped elegantly over Norton’s prostrate body, and walked out the door.
The hearty slam of wood and brass echoed about the walls.
Somerton detached himself from the shadows and stepped along the direct line through the front room. Norton lay in the passage, his torso in the room and his legs sticking out into the hallway. Somerton stared down. “Dear me. Are you quite all right, my good fellow?”
Norton lay stiff. “Going to be sick.”
“You should have been more careful. The young ones are agile.”
“What sort of gentleman sticks another man in the marbles, I ask you? It ain’t on the level. There’s a code, sir.” He turned on his side and vomited onto the worn wooden floor.
Somerton removed a handkerchief from his pocket—plain white linen, no identifying marks—and dropped it on Norton’s chest. He lifted his chin and gazed thoughtfully at the door. “What gentleman, indeed?”
“It ain’t right.” Norton lay on his side, doubled over. “He might have ruined me forever.”
“Oh, buck up.” Somerton stepped around the body and reached for the doorknob. “You’re a hired assassin, not a curate. It’s no more than you deserve, after all.”
Before Norton could reply, he opened the door and strode down the steps, just in time to see a black shape emerge from behind an area gate at the end of the street and lunge silently upon the departing figure of Mr. Markham.
• • •
L uisa couldn’t precisely say when she detected the presence of the Earl of Somerton in the Stygian depths of the Ponsonby Place front room. No particular movement, no particular sound caught her attention. It was the sense of him, breathing quietly in the shadows. His heavy gaze observing her.
Observing her, and also guarding her. She knew, in that instant, she’d nothing to fear from the thick-armed ox holding her throat. Somerton could call him off with a flick of his fingers.
She’d had only to play her part.
As she strode down the pavement, overcoat swinging, fog stinging her face, she smiled at the recollection of her attacker’s surprise. His heavy grunt at her unexpected maneuver, his body crashing to the floor. For an instant, she’d turned the tables. She’d taken control again, she’d gained the upper
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