A rough hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back, distracted as I was by the unfamiliar feeling of pierced muscle and organ.
My other assailant. How had I forgotten him? It would be a costly mistake. I was left with my umbrella clasped in only one hand. My other arm was trapped in his hold.
My victim righted himself, hand clasped against his wound. The men were too close now. I couldn’t get my arm back far enough to thrust.
This was it.
Time slowed and everything sharpened. Heavy breathing filled the air. Their scent filled my nose and lungs—liquor, piss, blood, and bile. They shared greasy brown hair, brown eyes, and a ruddy complexion. Brothers perhaps.
My rapers—murderers?—closed in on me.
Not like this.
I went limp, becoming dead weight in the uninjured one’s grasp. My shoulder slipped through his hold, and I landed at their feet. I was grounded, but free, and I had space.
And a clear shot at a man’s most vulnerable part.
I grabbed the umbrella with both hands and slammed it up decisively between the uninjured man’s legs. The angle wasn’t the best, but he crumpled at the waist, hands cupping his genitals.
I was lining up for another hit when the bleeding man was wrenched backward with a grunt.
Before I could decipher what had happened, a familiar baritone rang out.
“Evening, gents. What might you be up to?”
William.
Relief poured through me. Somehow, I knew without a doubt that I was safe.
Twelve
LUMLEY COURT, LONDON - JUNE 12, 1816
WILLIAM
The hour was laterthan I’d intended when I left Adriane to her stars. The sun had just dipped behind the horizon. I would need to hasten my pace to avoid unsavory elements. My sweetling hadn’t been allowed a decent burial in a respectable cemetery, not after her time in the brothels of Paris.
Predictable as the rise and fall of the sun, I came across two men having a bit too much fun with a tempting armful. They hovered menacingly over the girl. She was little more than a heap of skirts on the pavement.
I sighed. This was precisely the sort of thing I’d hoped to avoid.
I snatched the nearest one by the shoulder, wrenching him back to me and meeting his face with my fist. He crumpled forward gracelessly.
“Evening, gents. What might you be up to?”
“William!”
Bleeding hell! Not her again. Sparing a glance at the heap of skirts confirmed what I knew the moment I heard my name. Lady Rycliffe, holding my own umbrella out to me.
“It’s not raining, and I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.” The man I struck managed to right himself, and the other had rounded on me.
“You can hit them with it. I’ve done it.” Now that she said it, the men were rather disheveled.
“Well, keep it then!” Each man took a swing simultaneously.
I blocked the one intended for my face instinctively, leaving my gut open for the other. Though painful, it lacked the force I would have expected of a man his size. Still, it knocked the air out of me.
“I have a knife,” she cried.
