Coming out on the other side, she found herself on a strange street, but sensed she was within blocks of her house. This street was not as crowded as the others.
Her chest hurt and her heart pounded in her ears. She gasped for breath but forced herself to walk and act as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Her disguise was intact; her hat firmly over her head. No one gave her strange looks and a burly man carrying a leather pouch filled with papers brushed by her with the rudeness men used on each other.
At last, she let herself smile.
She’d gotten away with it. The purse weighed down her coat. It was hers.
Coming out onto a connecting street, Char realized where she was. Yes, home was only a short distance from here. She couldn’t wait to—
A tall, loathsome figure stepped out on the path in front of her as if he had anticipated she would be coming in this direction.Whitridge.
He’d lost his hat during their chase. She could see his eyes clearly now. They were angry blue shards. His fists were clenched.
Charlene whirled around and ran, this time in panic. She shoved an orange girl and her patron aside and then almost ran over a child carrying eggs. Whitridge no longer hurled accusations at her. He was intent upon capturing her.
And if she hadn’t been so stunned by his sudden appearance, by his dogged determination, Char would have been more aware of where she was going. Instead, she made a fatal error. She turned down another alley, and realized too late this one had a closed passage. Worse, she could not turn back, not without running right into her pursuer’s arms.
The stone foundation of a building facing another street loomed in front of her. Charlene ran to the wall, placing her hands on the cold rock as if she could find a secret exit, a doorway, a window, a crack—
Strong hands grabbed her arm. Whitridge threw her around and against the wall to face him. Her air left her body in a whoosh.
“Hand over the purse,” Whitridge ordered.
Char couldn’t speak. She was trying to breathe. He took her by her shoulders and gave her a shake for emphasis. Her head rocked back and forth and her hat tumbled off her head. Her blond braid, the color of moonbeams, fell down to her shoulder, pins scattering everywhere.
Chapter Two
What the bloody—?” Whitridge started. The blazing anger in his eyes turned to confusion, then shock. They dropped to her chest as if wanting to confirm the surprise. His hands loosened their rough hold.
Charlene took full advantage.
She could not be caught. She doubled her fist and, fear giving her strength, punched him right in the gut with all she had.
Well, she’d aimed for the gut.
In truth, her blow had fallen lower, to a place most gentlewomen would not touch in public.
And his reaction was all she could have asked for.
He released his grip, doubling over. His breath came out in a grunt of pain.
Char was shocked. Who knew that men were that vulnerable in their private areas? This was a trick she would not forget.
She snatched up her hat from the ground and took off running, pulling her jacket up around her neck to hide her hair. Whitridge did not, or could not, follow, and she found herself looking back, hoping he wasn’t mortally wounded.
He leaned a shoulder against the wall. For the briefest moment their gazes met. He was furious.
“I’m sorry. Sorry.”
Whitridge didn’t appear in the mood for an apology, so she kept running. She burst out into the street and once again tried to walk, but discovered she now had new problems.
As she made her way to Mulberry Street, first one boy of age ten or so and then another fell into step beside her. A bit later, a third, older boy followed close behind.
Thesewerestreet lads, angelic, albeit dirty-faced, ruffians who roved London in a pack known as the Seven because of their number. They were far better pickpockets than she.
She hoped to ignore them, to keep walking until she reached the back garden gate of her home and safety.
They would not let her.
