Using the adjoining door, he entered her bedroom, ignoring the door to his own. A key unlocked a compartment hidden in the heavy headboard. William slid out a set of common garb, a wide brimmed hat, and the scarf that covered the lower half of his face. After changing attire, he crossed to her dressing table and released the secret drawer beneath it, large enough to hold a knife, pistol and powder. He loaded the pistol and put it through his belt, then slipped the knife into a boot.
A glance showed it was dark now, night coming quickly in the gathering London fog. William doused the candles and opened the doors of the Juliet balcony. A blur in the dark, he climbed onto the railing and jumped upward. He easily caught the edge of the roof and pulled himself up. The marquess’s men watched the house from the street, so he kept low as he ran along the garden-side of the roof. A short five-foot jump carried him to the next roof over, and the next.
The rooftops grew lower and closer together as William made his way into the poorest section of London. From his vantage point above, he patrolled the streets he and his mother had called home for a decade. Good people lived there. People who were doing their best to have peaceful, decent lives and feed their children. They were easy targets for the worst sorts of opportunists, for the bulk of the city couldn’t be bothered to right their misfortunes.
The night seemed peaceful. William was pleased. He would finish his rounds and return to Cecilia. If she was awake, they could discuss Walter Scott’s latest work before he left. He knew she was starved for company, locked in that house nearly alone, with servants she could never fully trust.
He didn’t need to watch over the borough throughout the dark hours. Soon, decent folk would be abed. William had no care for what those who lurked on the streets in the wee hours visited upon each other. They weren’t his concern.
He was returning to Cecilia’s when a furtive movement caught his eye. A woman, worn coat fastened tight and bonnet pulled low, hurried down the street. Her gaze darted, trying to be everywhere. The way she clutched her hands to her chest bespoke of someone in possession of more money than they were accustomed to, and afraid of losing it. William slipped along the rooftops, careful to keep her in sight.
She didn’t see the man until he slithered from an alley into her path. She stopped with a gasp, then made to go around him. He sidestepped into her path.
“Where are you going so late, Miss?” His voice was rough, words slurred.
“To see the doctor. There’s sickness in my house.”
She said it as if it might stop him. William knew better. This man’s type was already dying. William lowered himself from the roof into the shadows behind the man. He dropped the final few feet, silent.
“What’ve you got there?” The would-be robber reached for her clutched hands.
“No. It’s for my girl.” She didn’t yell, likely aware that could attract as much unwanted notice as help.
“Yeah? It’s for my drink now. Give it here.”
William drew his pistol, took two steps, and pressed the weapon to the back of the man’s head. “If she gives you that purse, it will be the last thing you ever put your hands on.”
The woman gasped.
The man whirled and swung at William. He dodged back.
“Why if it isn’t Lord Lefthook, ruining a man’s fun.” The robber drove his fist toward William’s jaw.
William dodged again. “I see my reputation precedes me.”
“Aye, and I know you won’t use that pistol.” The words were accompanied by a wild swing.
William ducked. He stuffed the pistol into his belt. He preferred not to kill. He brought up his fists. “You’re correct. I won’t use it, unless I must.”
“You saying I’m not worth shooting?”
“Probably not. Gun powder isn’t cheap.”
The man dove forward, fists swinging wildly. William ducked under the flailing blows. He came up close enough to smell the man’s rancid breath. He slammed both arms out, throwing the robber’s arms wide. The man staggered back. William cocked his arm. A single blow sent the man flying. He landed on his back and skidded across the cobblestones toward the woman. She stepped aside as the limp form slid until the man’s head checked up against the rough stone of a building.
Wide eyes turned to William. “Lord Lefthook?” she whispered.
“At your service.” William moved to stand before her. He bowed. “You’re walking the streets rather late, Miss.”
“Missus,” she said quickly. “Missus Banke. I know, my lord, but my daughter is sick. I can’t go in the day on account of I had to work, and I had to try to feed her before I could come out.”
He doubted she’d fed herself. “The doctor won’t be in at this time of night.”
She looked about, forlorn. She was frail, and young. “I thought an extra penny might wake him.”
William knew the old charlatan, who claimed to be a doctor. A penny might wake him, but he would do her child no good. “You’ve been skipping meals to save?”
Her eyes grew rounder. She gave a shaky nod.
