The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,51

go to the duke if she didn’t cease her advances, the duchess tried to discredit him, but Kendrick wouldn’t hear of it.”

“You’re lying.”

“And then she punished poor Prue for no reason at all, simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Why haven’t you told me this before?”

Westmore shrugged. “Because Prue asked me not to. She didn’t want you to lose your mother’s love as she had.”

“Do Clarissa or her brothers know?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Agape, Winter stared at his oldest friend, shocked to the core at the revelations, but before he could answer, a commotion from the other room reached them. A high-pitched scream filtered through the air, and then he was pushing past the duke, his long legs taking him around the bend to where the crowd was the thickest. His eyes searched desperately for yellow and found none. Relief was fleeting. The odds were slim that Isobel or Clarissa were in that mêlée, but he had to make sure.

His heart shriveled as he heard the sound of Isobel’s voice. “Help. Get help, please!”

Fear punching through him, Winter shoved through the crowd with Westmore on his heels. He was mad with worry, growling at anyone in his path. “Get out of the way, for God’s sake, or I will remove you bodily, so help me.”

The violence in his voice must have done the trick, because the throng parted, and the sight that greeted him nearly made the strength drain from his body. Both Isobel and Clarissa were on the floor, but it was the sight of the red staining Isobel’s ivory gloves that made his throat close. “Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?”

“It’s not my blood,” Isobel said, her eyes wild with terror. “It’s Clarissa’s.”

Westmore took charge, calling for a constable and keeping the crowd at bay, while Winter skidded to a crouch beside the two women. There was a short but deep scratch on Clarissa’s upper arm. Uncaring of being in public or propriety, he ripped his cravat from his neck and pressed it to her wound. She winced but didn’t make a sound, even as he wrapped and tied the white cloth around the injury.

He examined his wife, scanning her body to make sure that she was not hurt. Other than the fear etched on her face, she appeared to be unharmed as she’d claimed. It didn’t stop his heart from thundering in his chest, however. “What happened?”

“There was a man,” she stammered, her hands trembling as she clasped them in her lap.

Winter looked around. “Is he still here? What did he look like?”

“No, he ran when I screamed. He was young with dark hair, and well-dressed.” She swallowed hard, tears filling her eyes as they landed on an ashen Clarissa. “I saw the glint of something in his hand just before he grabbed for my reticule on my wrist, and then Clarissa pushed in, shoving him out of the way. He must have cut her somehow. And then he took off.”

“A thief?” Westmore asked from where he stood, his large body partially blocking them from scrutiny, eyes narrowing.

It wasn’t uncommon for thieves to frequent events open to the public. Flashmen were becoming more creative, dressing their footpad accomplices up in fancy clothing to take advantage of wealthy patrons in crowded settings. But something in Isobel’s face made Winter pause.

“What is it?” he asked.

She bit at her lips, the nervous gesture telling. “He said something.”

“He spoke to you?”

“Yes, at least I think he did. He said I would pay.”

Winter rocked back to his heels, his eyes locking with Westmore’s. That could only mean one thing—that the thief knew exactly who Isobel was. Fury and fear twined in his veins. It hadn’t been an isolated incident by a random pickpocket. She had been targeted.

But by whom?

Ludlow had said that Oliver had received the invitation and he’d passed on the tickets to the women since he could not attend. Had his brother been involved somehow? Would he go to such extremes as to hurt his own sister-in-law? Winter’s rage intensified to inhuman levels.

Fuck, he was going to throttle the lily-livered bastard.

His gaze caught Westmore’s as he rose. “See them safely home.”

“I will,” the duke replied. “My carriage is in front. I fetched it when I sent for the constable.” Westmore paused. “Don’t do anything that will land you in prison.”

“Wait, Winter, where are you going?” Isobel asked, her fingers reaching up to catch the edge of his jacket. But despite the clench at his name on