“You wish to say something?”
“I do, in fact.” Jack’s languid tone reminded Steadman of a cat before the pounce. The shuffling of feet forming a circle around him reinforced his realization that catastrophic events were about to unfold. After fifteen years of life on the edge, this might be how it ended. And just short of his goal! His only relief was having forced Morgan to remain at the inn. If he were to die now, at least she would be spared. Morgan was resourceful. She would find her way back to London without him. He only wishedhe had kissed her the day before, one last time, and had told her the surprising truth about his feelings for her. He unfolded his arms, ready for the inevitable conflict.
“Say what you must. I stand ready.”
The big man chuckled. “I asked around about you. Talked to Prudence Lightboddy this morning.”
“You didn’t hurt her, did you?”
He shook a shaggy head. “O’course not. She’s an old woman with rheumatoid knees.”
“What’d she say about me?”
Jack edged nearer, looming. “She was coy as always. Didn’t say who you were. But she admitted you was asking questions about me. And that you weren’t no low born man. Don’t think she meant to say that.”
“Probably not.” Steadman balled his fists and squared his shoulders. “She never knows when to stop talking.”
Jack chuckled darkly. “True. True. But now we know you aren’t what you claim, which means only one thing.”
Steadman dipped into a crouch, ready to spring. “And that is?”
“If you aren’t with us, you’re against us. Which makes you a lawman or worse.”
Steadman laughed long and low. This was it, then. He hoped Lucy would miss him. And Morgan too, though he didn’t deserve her. “I do not deny it. Here I am, then. But I’ll make sure to take you with me.”
Jack’s confidence wavered as a ripple of uncertainty passed over his coarse features. Then he drew his brow down until it touched the bridge of his nose. “Take him, lads.”
Before Steadman could launch himself at Jack’s throat, a pistol shot rang through the air. He froze—along with Jack and his men. A voice shouted from perhaps thirty yards away, alto but striving for bass.
“Bow Street! Step away from that man!”
He turned along with the others to find the shadow of a figure nearly blending with the near-darkness, complete with a Clericus hat. A spark of reflection from the torch hinted at pistols—one in each of the person’s hands. His spirit sank into the dirt. Morgan! No! Why did she come? Did she not realize the danger?
“Bow Street?” said Jack. “And just one of you. A pity.”
In a flash of insight, Steadman ascertained that this would not end well. Morgan had three shots at most, having discharged one. The gang numbered seven. He could take down one or two. The math proved grim no matter how he massaged it. Three-Finger Jack laughed again.
“I was right about you, Worm. But I will not be defeated by a liar and wisp of a man who refuses to show his face.”
Steadman’s thoughts raced, searching desperately for a way to save Morgan from impending disaster. Her shouted command interrupted his calculations.
“I am an excellent shot, and my bead is on you, Jack. Release Sir Steadman or I will shoot you down.”
He cut his gaze toward Jack. The man arched his eyebrows and turned his regard on Steadman, blinking rapidly.
“Sir Steadman? The Beau Monde Highwayman? The Knight of the Road?”
He cursed silently. How had Morgan let that information slip? He raised his fists for battle. “The very same.”
Jack briefly continued to stare before throwing back his head and laughing. “Sir Steadman! Local boy turned hero! In the flesh!”
The gang closed in on him, but not to injure him. They slapped his shoulders and back and began peppering him with fawning questions.
“Is it true that you once…”
“Tell us about the time you…”
“How did you manage to escape after…”
