“I decided it was about time to handle things myself. Can’t trust my men to do a good job these days it seems.” The man’s accent left Duke in no doubt this was the son of the man waiting to be hanged.
He’d seen a portrait of the son in many a newspaper and though the print did not reveal every scar or the height and strength of the man, there was no hiding the angular nose or the thick, dark hair. The smile Duke wagered could be mistaken for charming by many a woman offered a sinister slash of surprisingly good teeth. This was a man at the top of the criminal ladder—a man of privilege thanks to the deeds and blood of others.
Well, he wouldn’t be spilling any blood today. At least not Violet’s.
“You know,” Duke said with a chuckle. “There are other ways to help your father. Why not engineer an escape? If you were willing to go so far as to kidnap a noblewoman, surely there were other things you could do for your father?”
“My father,” Doyle said tightly, “wants you.” He shook his head and swiped a hand across his face, the pistol lingering too closely to Duke’s shoulder where Violet gripped. “He has invested too much in this godforsaken place to simply run away. He needs to be proven innocent.” He waved the pistol briefly at Duke and Violet issued a squeak of fear. “He’s read of many of your cases and, thus, he wants you.”
For the first time, Duke spied the exhaustion in the man’s face. Dark circles ringed his eyes and though Doyle was but four-and-twenty, he had the look of an older man. Taking on a criminal gang as large as his father’s had no doubt carried quite the toll but Duke recognized that look. He’d seen it in many of his friends at White’s. It was the look of a son desperately trying to prove himself to his father, despite it being impossible to ever win the man’s praise.
“This is folly you know.”
“My father wants you,” Doyle said through a tight jaw. “And he’ll have you. No matter what.”
The gun flitted over Duke’s shoulder again, toward Violet. Violet dug her fingers into him, and Duke saw Doyle’s finger linger on the trigger. He wouldn’t get a clean shot, not like this. Duke needed to get Violet as far away from here as possible before that opportunity arose. Once she was safe, Doyle’s leverage would vanish. He’d have to fight Duke himself if he wanted him for his father.
“Don’t hurt her.” He lifted his hands in surrender slowly.
Color came back to Doyle’s blanched knuckles. It was enough. He smacked the gun from Doyle’s hand, sending it bouncing across the frost-hardened ground.
Doyle bellowed a curse.
Duke didn’t wait.
He pivoted and grabbed Violet’s hand. “Run,” he ordered. “Head to the church.”
The gates were close. The grey stone of the building stood out like a fortress against the bare trees. Once he had Violet behind those thick walls, he could protect her. They just had to get there.
She stumbled along and he half-dragged her, half-encouraged her, shoving her under the lychgate and down the path that dissected the graveyard. A crack resounded through the air. Stone splintered. Tiny shards of gravestone showered his back as he covered Violet with his body.
“Keep moving.” Doyle had to reload. They had time.
Violet fumbled with the huge iron latch. “It won’t open,” she cried.
He reached past her, twisted the latch, and shoved open the door. “Get in. Hide,” he urged.
She grabbed his arm. “Hide with me. Do not leave me.”
He hesitated, looking into shimmering blue eyes. Every part of him wanted to face Doyle down. To make him pay for all he had done to him, to his father, and most of all to Violet. He’d terrified her, left her black and blue and weaker than he’d ever seen her. Doyle needed to pay.
“I have to do this, Vi.”
“Do not give him a chance to shoot you.” She set her jaw and he smirked at the sudden return of the Violet he knew and loved. “You are smarter than that, Duke.”
He nodded, pushed her inside and shut the door behind them. He’d still get his revenge, but he’d be clever about it and most importantly he would ensure Violet was safe.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gloves to the smooth wood of the pew, Violet inhaled a shuddery breath. Doyle had a pistol. He’d shot at them. Her cheek stinged from the splinter of stone that had struck her.
He intended to kill them.
Duke motioned for her to hunch down behind the pew while he dragged a bench in front of the two large doors. She gripped the edge of the seat and motioned for him to hurry. Crouching next to her, he grabbed her face and smoothed a thumb across her cheek. “Are you well? All in one piece?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
The words came out tremulous, but the dazed sensation had passed. She almost missed feeling fuzzy and removed. Everything was too real now. When she’d spoke of investigating, of trying to find the men who took Duke’s father, she’d never thought of the danger. It had been a strange, abstract idea that she read about in newspapers. Now it was here, bashing at the church door with a pistol in hand and who knew how many bullets in his pocket. How had she gone from preparing for Christmas to being chased down by a crazed criminal?