Brewster nodded with a grunt. “That gent knows more than he’s saying.”
“He does indeed. Shall we walk?”
“Carriage is safer.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t want to announce that I am arriving. I’d rather see what Eden has to say when caught unawares.”
Brewster considered that and finally agreed. He did insist on a hackney to take us as far as St. James’s Street, which I decided was wise. My ebullience did not mean my leg would thank me for tramping so far.
The hackney drove south to Curzon Street, where Denis’s house lay quietly, the blinds pulled down over all the windows. A short street led to Piccadilly where we rolled past Green Park then south again on St. James’s Street to the narrow cul-de-sac called St. James’s Place.
St. James’s Place ran east from St. James’s Street, then bent around a sharp corner to go back north. It was quiet, another fog settling on London to dampen my sunny mood. We left the carriage there and tramped the rest of the way.
As we turned the corner to the far end of the deserted lane, running footsteps rang behind us.
Instantly Brewster pushed me out of the way, pulling a long knife from his boot, ready to defend me.
When the attack came, however, the assailants, three of them, didn’t try to cudgelme, but made directly for Brewster.
CHAPTER 8
Ishouted as the men surrounded Brewster, murder in their eyes. Surely an inhabitant of one of the houses around us would hear and either hurry to help or run for a foot patroller.
No doors opened, and no one appeared. I shouted again, this time running at the men. They took no notice of me as I staggered toward them, as though I were a mere bystander in this drama.
The men had clubs, but Brewster already held his wicked-looking knife. Two of the assailants were beefy, like Brewster, the third a willowy man with wiry strength. They raised hands and struck with the grim determination of those intent on killing.
Brewster blocked blows and stabbed out with his knife, making the men dance back. He swept his arm, his hand on the blade steady, eyes darting as he held his assailants at bay.
They circled him, more cautious now, but not backing down. Brewster was a good fighter and a former pugilist, but he could only take on so many attackers at once. When one got behind him, he was done for.
I drew the sword from my walking stick, the steel ringing. I charged in, ignoring my protesting leg, another shout issuing from my lips. So I’d yelled in battle, pounding across the field at my enemy, heart racing, blood surging.
I slapped my blade across the back of one attacker, slashing through his coat. He turned in surprise, and I thrust the sword up under the arm that raised a cudgel, the tip of my sword sliding through his armpit to his shoulder.
He screamed in pain and rage and dropped the cudgel, his nerveless fingers refusing to hold it. He swung his other, massive fist at me, but the strike was weak, and I slashed the inside of that arm.
The man howled, clapping his hand to his bloody sleeve, and whirled from me. He ran out of the lane, leaving his friends to fend for themselves.
The second burly man and the thin one circled Brewster, the larger one taking more chances. Brewster burst forth with his knife, managing to nick both men before they leapt away from him.
I flipped my sword in my hand, gripping it so the blade rose into the air, and brought the heavy steel of the hilt down behind the burly man’s ear.
He stumbled, though didn’t drop as I’d hoped. Brewster took the opportunity to aim a deadly thrust at the man’s chest. The man sidestepped to avoid it, and I hit him again. This time, he crumpled to the cobblestones.
The wiry man attacked me while I danced out of the way of the heavy falling body. I found myself fending off a swirl of blows, his strikes coming fast and strong. My grip on my sword was awkward, and I could only use it to block the cudgel coming down.
Brewster tackled him from behind, but the man fought furiously. He kicked my left leg, correctly knowing my weak point. I fell sideways, catching myself painfully at the last moment to keep to my feet.
I took a better hold of my sword and waded back into the fight. Brewster and the wiry man were striking each other without remorse, no pugilism here. They were fighting to kill, blood spattering to the pavement.
The man’s cudgel landed on the back of Brewster’s fist, knocking the knife from it. Brewster swooped his other hand into his coat, no doubt for a second weapon, but the wiry man moved in before he could retrieve it.
He raised his club to land a blow that would fell Brewster forever. I grabbed the man from behind, slipped my fingers under his chin, and laid my sword across his throat.
Brewster, armed with a fresh knife, lifted it to plunge into the wiry man’s chest.
“No.” I dragged my captive aside, Brewster’s blade narrowly missing his thick wool coat. I jerked the wiry man closer to me, my sword drawing a tiny sliver of blood on his neck. “Go back and tell Creasey he failed. Brewster and I are no threat to him. He is to leave us be.”
