The Scoundrel and the Debutante (The Cabot Sisters #3)

“Prudence!” Mr. Matheson shouted at her, which was followed by another sickening thud of fist on bone.

Prudence was frightened, but she was also very angry. She was suddenly reminded of the lesson Lady Chatham, a grand dame of Mayfair society, had told Prudence and the other debutantes who would be presented at court. “It will not do to look as if you might faint,” Lady Chatham had said. “Clasp your hands at your back and squeeze them tight to keep from shaking.”

Prudence did that now, clasping her hands so tightly around that gun that it felt as if the metal was cutting into her skin. She lifted her chin, looked the man in the eye, just as she’d met the king’s eye. “Take one more step, and I will shoot you, sir. That is your only warning.” She sighted him with the gun pointed directly at his head.

The tall man’s gaze narrowed. He studied her, clearly debating. “Give me the gun.” He lunged for it at the same moment Prudence fired. She couldn’t say what part of him she hit, only that she’d hit him—he screamed and fell to the ground. His companions dropped Mr. Matheson and ran for him. In the chaos, Mr. Matheson managed to get to his feet. He struck out at one of the men with a knife, slashing across his arm.

“Get him up, get him up!” one of the men shouted, and they helped the tall one to his feet. He was clutching his arm as they half dragged, half pushed him back into the woods.

Prudence stood there, the gun pointed ahead of her, trembling badly.

“Prudence? Put the gun down,” Mr. Matheson said hoarsely.

Her gaze moved from the trees to him. He was on two feet, weaving. The knife he’d pulled from the air clattered to the dirt. And then he collapsed down to his knees. “Oh! Oh!” she cried and scrambled for him, catching him before he toppled over, sinking to her knees with her arms around his shoulders.

“That’s right,” Mr. Matheson sputtered, wincing with pain, his arm across his abdomen. “Run, cowards.”

She couldn’t make out all of Mr. Matheson’s injuries in the low light of the fire, but one eye was swelling and his nose was bloodied.

He wrapped his fingers around her arm, and she noticed the state of his knuckles. “Help me up. I don’t want to die sprawled here like a drunk,” he said, wincing as if the words caused him pain.

“You can’t die,” she said frantically, and with both hands, grabbed his arm, pulling him up. “I won’t allow it! Please, Mr. Matheson, please!”

He managed to keep himself upright and grinned at her as she helped him stagger to his feet. “See? Right as rain,” he said breathlessly, and threw a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Where’s the gun? We should keep it close, I think. And the knife, if you can find it.”

She dipped down and picked up the gun. Mr. Matheson swayed unsteadily as he made sure it wouldn’t fire. “Well done, Prudence Cabot,” he said. “I think you saved our hides. Speaking of which, where is the nag?”

Prudence looked frantically about. “She’s here, still eating.”

“Smart thieves—they knew better than to take her.” He stumbled; Prudence caught him with an arm around his waist. She managed to drape his arm over her shoulder. She struggled under his weight but was able to direct him to a tree and help him down. He settled with his back against it. His breathing was shallow as he attempted a smile for her. “I didn’t leave an arm or a leg behind, did I?”

She shook her head. “It’s my fault,” she said, swallowing back tears. “It’s my fault we ever came upon that tavern.”

“I won’t argue that,” he said, and stroked her cheek. “But fortunately for you, I don’t hold a grudge.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Matheson,” she said, her voice full of the despair she felt.

He groaned and closed his eyes. He must hate her now for having stolen onto the stagecoach. If she hadn’t, he would be safely on his way to Weslay, and she would be waiting for Mr. Bulworth to send his man for her. Prudence felt awfully stupid—what had seemed like such an amusing and harmless stand against propriety this morning now seemed the most frightening and foolhardy thing she’d ever done. She was very fortunate they’d not killed Mr. Matheson. Stupid, stupid girl!

“Give me some whiskey, will you?” he asked. “I have some in my bag.”

Prudence scrambled up and hurried to the place she’d last seen the man with her bag. But there were no bags. She whirled around, trying to see past the light of the fire. “They’re gone!” she cried. “They took our bags!”

“Goddamn it,” he uttered.

She picked up the knife and returned to his side, knelt beside him and put her hands in the pockets of his coat, which was still lying on the ground. She found a handkerchief and used it to dab at the blood around his nose. “You need a doctor.”

“I’m sure I look much worse than I truly am. Horrible, is it? Terrifying?”