“He’s here,” she choked out.
“Who?Ramsay?”
“No, that fellow from the other day.From Harrowby’s,” she clarified shakily, her suddenly cold hand clenching his.“Not three rows behind us.He’s watching me.Don’t look!”
He didn’t need to.He believed her.Nothing else could have frightened her so.Still, he never imagined that the villain seeking to kidnap her would have tailed them the entire way across town and into a crowded theater.Also, there had been no sign of him along the way.Analyzing their options, Aylesbury made a quick decision.
“Come with me,” he whispered, cupping his hand beneath her elbow and propelling her along with him as they quickly worked their way through the protesting spectators to the side of the theater opposite the would-be kidnapper.
As they made their way to the aisle, a glance over his shoulder revealed not only the ruffian from Harrowby’s but also two others making their way across the crowd.Bloody hell, three of them.Aylesbury fumed silently, cursing inwardly.He might have been able to take on a pair but was admittedly outnumbered with the addition of a third.As it was, he was unarmed and outnumbered.His mind scrambled for a solution as they exited the theater.
Anticipating a long stroll and intimate tea with Fiona after the short film, he’d sent his driver off for a pint and instructions to pick them up at the Café Royal on Regent Street in two hours.There were no cabs out front waiting to be hired, no carriages nearby, or other vehicles beyond the occasional horse cart.
Aylesbury did a quick mental tally of the surrounding area.Nothing.Nothing but theaters, taverns, gambling houses, and other businesses of ill repute.
No bobbies.No one to call on for help other than vendors hawking wares of oranges and meat pies and newsboys calling out the news of playwright Oscar Wilde’s recent conviction on charges of gross indecency.His sentence of two years hard labor was nothing compared to the punishment Aylesbury wanted to inflict on the bastards chasing them.
Once he had Fiona safe, that was.
Taking her by the hand, he tugged her along with him, setting off at a brisk pace to the west.Their best chance for assistance would be that way, toward Piccadilly Circus and the café where his coachman awaited them beyond.Still, it was nearly a dozen streets away.
“What do we do, Harry?”Fiona asked, her voice laced with the onset of uncharacteristic panic as she panted along beside him.A panic that might cripple their chances of a neat escape.He couldn’t have that.
“You feel up for a bit of a race, my dear?”
“A race?”she asked in confusion, resting a palm across her flat stomach, drawing his eyes to her narrow waist.Bloody hell, she was bound into that appealing hourglass figure by a steel cage.It limited not only her movement but also her ability to draw even a deep breath.
“I’ll wager you ten pounds that I can best you in a footrace to the Café Royal,” he challenged, hoping to rouse her competitive spirit.
Or her anger.Either one would do.“There’s no chance you could win, of course.”
“A race?How ridiculous, Harry.How can you...”
Too late for games, Aylesbury thought looking over his shoulder to find the three toughs wending their way through the crowded sidewalks.
“Devil take it, Fiona.Run!”
