Striped Kerchief groaned and struggled but could not free himself.
Pig Eyes pushed Maggie aside, readying to help his comrade.
“If it were me, I’d choose another alternative.” With his free hand, the gent pulled out a pistol. Cocked it. “I’m a fastidious sort, but if I must, I’ll make an exception. Luckily, my valet has a knack for removing blood stains.”
Pig Eyes’s gaze widened. While Maggie doubted he knew what “fastidious” meant (to be honest, she wasn’t sure herself), the rotter definitely understood the meaning of the loaded pistol.
Raising his hands, he stammered, “Don’t w-want no trouble.”
“Make your apologies to the lady. Be quick about it,” the gentleman said sharply.
“S-sorry miss.” Pig Eyes wet his lips. “A misunderstandin’, it was.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie spotted Mr. Marsh charging toward them like a bull.
“No ’arm done,” she said in a panicked rush.
“And you?” The toff directed his inquiry to the man still trapped beneath his boot. “Will you apologize to the lady, or shall we go another round?”
“Meant no disrespect,” Striped Kerchief gasped out.
The gent released him. “Begone.”
At the command, the ruffians hustled out the back door, disappearing into the night.
No sooner had the door closed then Mr. Marsh was upon them.
“What’s going on ’ere?” The proprietor jabbed a stubby finger at Maggie. “You be the cause o’ this trouble, girl?”
Her heart thrashed against a cage of fear. “N-no, sir, I weren’t doing nothing—”
“Oi should’ve known better than to ’ire a Goode,” Mr. Marsh spat. “Ramshacklum drunks, slommocks, and drawlatchets, the lot o’ you!”
Maggie willed back the humiliating tears. As if it weren’t enough that her dreams were crashing down like a house of cards, her shame was being aired in front of the gentleman who’d gallantly defended her. She prayed that he didn’t understand the local vernacular Mr. Marsh used to describe her kin: a “slommock” was a slattern and “drawlatchet” a lazy person. “Ramshacklum” meant “good for nothing”—and was a common prefix to her family’s name.
She couldn’t meet the gent’s eyes, didn’t want to see the all too familiar disdain.
“You are the owner of this establishment?”
The gentleman’s curt words cut off Mr. Marsh, who sputtered, “Aye, sir. And you may rest assured that this slommock won’t be bothering—”
“She wasn’t bothering me. Quite the opposite. In point of fact, she was lending a hand.”
At that, Maggie peered up.
Mr. Marsh squinted. He clearly didn’t believe the gent but also didn’t want to offend an obviously well-to-do customer. “With what?”
“I wished for a seat in the alcove and offered to buy the occupants a drink in exchange for their table. They, however, took offense.” As the gent shrugged his broad shoulders, nary a wrinkle appeared on the deep sapphire superfine. “Your employee here…Miss Goode, is it?”
His unexpectedly gentle tone eased some of the knots in Maggie’s midsection.
“Yes, sir,” she whispered.
“Rhys Jones, at your service.” He inclined his head.
Maggie dipped her knees in an awkward curtsy.
“Miss Goode saw what was happening and tried to intervene. Alas, even her gentle diplomacy could not dissuade the two brutes, and I had no choice but to respond. Now that the unpleasant business is concluded,”—Mr. Jones’s commanding tone indicated that he was done with explanations—“you may fetch me a bottle of your finest brandy and a collation. A round for the house as well. Forthwith.”
