Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,89

on the road to London every minute began to feel like hours, and the hearty confidence he’d shown Ivy dwindled away. Perhaps he should have gone directly to the magistrate, or maybe roused the Humphries. Lines of worry etched his brow as he pounded on the club door. He rudely, pushed past the porter into the hall.

“See here, man, what do you think you’re about?” demanded the porter.

“I’ve got to see the Viscount St. Ryne,” gasped Thomas, heading for the stairs.

Two burly footmen barred his path.

“You’ll wait outside and we’ll inform his lordship when he’s free,” pronounced the porter as the two footmen grabbed his arms and hustled him to the door.

Thomas savagely twisted free and ran up the stairs followed by the footmen while the porter shouted from below. The footmen caught up with him on the landing when Thomas paused in uncertainty as to which way to proceed.

The hue and cry caught the attention of several gentlemen who immediately began to place bets among themselves as to the young stranger’s success against their footmen. Thomas’s desperation giving him strength, he landed several flush hits engendering a smattering of applause from his audience and a renewal of betting activity. But he was becoming winded.

“I’m for St. Ryne, they’ve got her ladyship!” he blurted out before a punishing left deprived him of breath.

One gentleman in the group straightened. “Hold!” he commanded. The footmen and Thomas reacted instinctively to his voice. The man strode forward briskly to fix Thomas with a quelling stare. “What is this about the Viscountess?”

Thomas swallowed convulsively. “Mr. Tunning and Mr. Atheridge, sir, they bound her and took her. Mr. Tunning don’t mean well by her neither.”

The gentleman swung around to one of the footmen nursing a sore jaw. “You,” he ordered, “go round to my stables and have them saddle my two fastest horses and bring them here.” He pulled off a signet ring from his little finger. “Use this ring as authority. Have them here in less than fifteen minutes and there’s a gold crown in it for you.”

“I say, Branstoke, what is this all about?” asked one of the sprigs of fashion ogling the fight.

“Stanley! Fetch St. Ryne immediately, even if you have to drag him here.” Branstoke’s voice thundered, a far cry from his habitual languid tones.

Young Stanley reacted instinctively to the voice of authority just as Thomas and the footmen had and trotted off to discover in which room St. Ryne sat.

Beyond seeing that he did as ordered, Branstoke scarcely paid him heed. He turned back to Thomas, dragging him out of hearing of the curious. “All right, lad, tell me what happened.”

The words tumbled out of Thomas’s mouth as he explained what he and Ivy saw. Branstoke’s brows drew together as he listened and a crowd began to gather, filling the hall.

“Thomas! Stand aside. Let me pass!” St. Ryne’s voice came from the far side of the crowd where he was rudely shoving his way through his fellow club members, ignoring their disgruntled oaths.

“My lord!” gasped Thomas, when he saw him finally push his way through.

“What’s going on? Stanley babbled something about Elizabeth.” He grabbed Thomas by his coat, nearly pulling him off his feet.

“Kidnapped, she was, my lord, by Mr. Tunning.”

A small uproar surged through the crowd. St. Ryne ignored them, his attention on Thomas. “When? How?”

Branstoke laid a hand on St. Ryne’s arm. “I’ve sent for two fast horses. Your man can give the details on the way.” He clapped Thomas on the back. “Will you be all right, lad? You’ve been through a lot already.”

“I’m fine, sir. ’Sides, I’d do anything for her ladyship.”

“Enough! We haven’t any time to lose,” snapped St. Ryne, heading for the stairs, Thomas and Branstoke following.

“But, I say, St. Ryne, you’re in your evening dress!” protested a town tulip, eyeing him through his quizzing glass.

“I’d go buck naked if it would get me to her faster!” he called back over his shoulder.

“Wait, you’ll need weapons,” said Branstoke.

St. Ryne stopped short. “Blast! There’s no time, and in the temper I’m in I could rip Tunning to pieces with my bare hands.”

“What about Mannion’s poppers?” suggested a gentleman from the top of the stairs.

“He’s right,” Branstoke admitted. “Mannion’s carried dueling pistols with him anytime these past twenty years.”

“I’ll rouse Mannion,” another offered.

“No time, he’s passed out in the library. Porter! Fetch Lord Mannion’s greatcoat, they’re probably in the pockets. Get St. Ryne’s as well!” Branstoke called after him.

The front door burst open. “Sir, I brought