Noble Scoundrel - Amy Sandas Page 0,95

released him. Reluctantly. They were driving along an ancient lane crowded with old twisty-limbed trees. It took a moment to realize it was the mews that ran behind walled estates far larger than any seen in central London.

The marquess directed the horses off the lane to a spot between two spreading oaks. After applying the brake and securing the reins, Warfield leapt to the ground. Hale was already there.

“Follow me. And stay quiet.”

A short grunt was Mason’s only reply. The lord’s attitude was getting on his last nerve, but he’d ignore it if it meant getting Katherine out of those bastards’ hands.

Creeping silently beneath a slivered moon, they approached an ancient mansion near the end of the lane. The imposing house and grounds were unkept, dark, and silent, suggesting the place had been abandoned some time ago. They stopped when they reached the high stone wall separating the garden from the lane.

Peering over the wall, Mason scanned the house for movement, light, voices, anything. “You sure they’re here?”

Warfield tipped his head to the shadows around old stone-built stables located on the far side of the garden. Barely visible was the black carriage.

“Let’s go,” Mason growled as he planted his hands atop the wall in prep to vault over.

Warfield stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, gripping with surprising strength. “Do you want the woman safely recovered?”

“I want her out of there. Now.” The tension in his body was about to explode. And the violence in Mason’s expression had to be obvious, yet the marquess stared calmly back at him.

“You can’t just charge in with fists flying. There are sure to be guards inside. No telling how many.”

“I don’t give a bloody fuck.” He turned back to the wall and leapt over in one smooth movement. Landing in a crouch on the other side, he scanned the shadows around him. Nothing moved. Through the bramble of overgrown hedges and bushes, he studied the back of the house, looking for a way in. He’d rather not break through a window when the noise would alert those inside to his presence—Warfield did have a point about stealth—but he didn’t relish having to waste time searching the place for a proper entrance, either.

Sensing another presence, he turned to his left to see Warfield walking silently toward him. “The gate was unlocked,” the lord offered casually.

“How d’we get in?”

“There’s a door round by the stables.”

Mason took off through the garden at a crouched run. As he came around the corner of the house, he noted two large men leaning negligently against the house. One of them was strikingly familiar—the retired Runner, George Boothe.

He experienced a brief moment of satisfaction when he saw the flash of fear in Boothe’s eyes a second before Mason’s fist had him crumpling to the ground, knocked out a second time. The second man put up more of a fight, but it was still a useless endeavor and he soon joined Boothe in an unconscious heap.

The door they’d been guarding was unlocked and allowed Mason into the dimly lit hall of a servant’s entrance. With his eyes already acclimated to the darkness outside, it wasn’t difficult to make his way into the house, listening intently for anyone else who might be lurking about.

After a moment, he felt Warfield join him.

They said nothing as they continued silently forward. The hall led to a kitchen that didn’t appear to have been in use for decades. Beyond that was another hallway, but this one led to a room dimly lit by a few sparse candles in tall iron stands. The room was empty but for a long, heavy table surrounded by a dozen wingback chairs.

As soon as he realized there was no one there, Mason rushed through the room, again not bothering to pause before charging through the open double doors at the far end. He stepped into the mansion’s grand hall, where four more guards stood loitering somewhat carelessly around the base of a wide curving staircase. Judging by their lack of vigilance, Mason would guess the place wasn’t often—if ever—infiltrated.

The guards had a moment of surprise before Mason charged the closest one, sending his shoulder into the man’s gut and lifting him off the floor. He slammed him into the wall, making the whole place shudder and moan at the impact.

“There goes our element of surprise,” Warfield noted caustically.

Mason ignored him. A couple quick hits to the kidney then an uppercut knocked the guard out, just as two more grappled with