The thug darted left, quick as a rat.
Theo was quicker. He dismounted in one smooth, fluid motion, his boots striking the pavement with a muffled thud. Threestrides closed the distance. He seized the man by the collar and slammed him hard against the brick wall.
“What—what are you doing?” the thug gasped, struggling like a trapped animal.
Theo leaned in closer, his grip unyielding. “You remember what you took from me,” he said, his voice low and steady, a blade wrapped in velvet.
The man grunted, twisting to no avail. His breath stank of gin and fear, and Theo’s fingers tightened until his knuckles whitened.
The alley blurred.
“Hide, Theo. Hide, darling. Please!”
Her voice was a trembling whisper, her hands firm despite the terror in her eyes. She pushed him out of the room.
“Go. Go now!”
He fled, heart hammering, into the cold void of silence, the crack of splintering wood and heavy boots pursuing him into the dark.
Theo’s jaw locked. He forced himself back into the present, the stench of the alley burning in his nose.
“Your Grace?” one of the Runners said, approaching cautiously, a set of manacles dangling from his hand.
Theo released the thug with a shove, sending him sprawling into the Runner’s grip.
“Take him to the magistrate,” Theo ordered, his tone clipped. “He will be thoroughly questioned in the afternoon.”
The thug cursed under his breath. “You got the wrong man. I don’t know you.”
Theo’s gaze was cold enough to freeze the mist around them. “You will.”
The Runner paused. “Shall we begin without you, Your Grace?”
Theo’s eyes hardened further. “No. Not until I arrive.”
The thug, bruised and breathing heavily, gave a mocking laugh that ended in a cough.
Theo turned without another word, mounting his horse in a swift, practiced motion. He spurred the stallion forward, the mist parting before him as he rode.
As he neared the outskirts of Mayfair, the streets grew quieter, the gaslights fewer. A sharp cry pierced the mist.
“Help! Somebody help!”
Theo reined in his horse, scanning the gloom. Another cry—desperate, masculine—echoed down an alleyway to his right.
Suppressing a sigh, Theo guided his stallion toward the sound.The scene he found might have been almost comical were it not so pitiable: a man pinned beneath a sagging horse, feebly waving one arm.
“Over here! Please!”
Theo dismounted and approached. In the dim light of the moon, he could barely make out the man’s features. The horse, clearly exhausted, shifted its weight, but the man remained trapped.
“Hold still,” Theo ordered.
He seized the horse’s bridle, murmuring low, steady words until the beast, sensing a firmer hand, attempted to rise. With a great heave, Theo managed to shift the horse enough for the man to wriggle free.
The man scrambled to his feet, brushing dust from his coat.
“Thank you, sir, thank you!” he gushed.
