Glad the rain held off, Guy made his way back to his hotel. Tomorrow, he would leave London for Digswell. Perhaps what he found in the country might please him more. Any hope that his father’s loving descriptions of England would make him feel less a stranger, began to fade, as he continued through streets completely foreign to him. He straightened his shoulders. He’d come to England to claim his inheritance and claim it he would. There was no returning to France now.
Dusk fell, too early for the gas lamps, and ominous shadows crept across the footpaths. On impulse, he took a shortcut, a shadowy laneway which by his calculations, would lead into a main thoroughfare.
He was halfway along it when the sound of running feet made him spin around. Two men appeared out of the gloom and advanced toward him.
Guy moved back until his shoulder brushed the wall. “What is it you want?”
When neither of the men answered, cold sweat gathered on his brow. His glance flicked ahead to where the laneway joined a busy road. “Répondez-moi,” he demanded. His throat tightened in fear. Was he to meet his maker before he even reached Rosecroft Hall?
“’E’s the one all right,” one of them murmured. They separated, and each took a menacing step closer, blocking off any avenues of escape.
The moon sailed above the narrow gap between the buildings and shone on the knife held by one of the footpads.
Guy drew the sword from his cane. “Back away.”
At the sight of it, they stepped back, hesitated, and stood regarding him.
A feint might work. Once they were off guard, he’d run for it. He moved away from the wall and drew circles in the air with his sword. “Come on, you want to fight? I’m willing.”
“He can’t take both of us,” the tallest of the two muttered.
“Yer, but he might run one of us through,” the other replied. “And we weren’t paid enough for that.”
“Shut up, you fool.”
Surprised, Guy stilled, his heart thudding in his ears. “Who paid you?”
“Say nothin’,” the tall man warned. He then whispered something to his companion.
Guy watched them, his swordstick at the ready. Did they mean to kill him?
As the taller man raised his arm to throw the knife, Guy lunged to the left. A pistol shot blasted through the confined space, rattling the nearby windows as the knife hit the wall, and clattered to the ground.
The tall man shrieked. “I’ve been shot.”
“You there!” Highlighted by the light from the street behind him, a caped figure strode toward them from the main thoroughfare, a pistol in each hand, one smoking. “Next time I’ll aim to kill.”
The pair turned and ran back the way they’d come.
Guy picked up the knife. He would have liked to get hold of them and find out who sent them. He turned to face the man who’d likely saved his life.
As their footsteps faded into the night, the gentleman tucked the pistols into the pockets of his multi-caped greatcoat and came over to Guy. “Saw them follow you. I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster, but I turned the corner and wasn’t sure which direction you took.”
With a swell of gratitude, Guy sheathed his sword, shelved his suspicion that he’d been followed for later, and bowed. “I am indebted to you, monsieur, one obviously needs to be well armed in London.”
“It is wise to be on your guard. Footpads will tackle an unarmed man.”
Guy clutched his cane. He’d been armed, but it hadn’t deterred them.
“We’d best get out of this dark place.” The man led the way toward the lit street. “New to London? I don’t advise you to walk alone around these parts at night.”
“Oui. I arrived from France this morning.”
“You can’t think much of us then, an attempted robbery on your first day.”
“It seemed more personal.” Guy studied his rescuer. He was of a similar age to himself, somewhere in his early thirties with an air of solid confidence about him. Whatever reason brought him here, Guy could only be grateful for it.
The large, fair-haired man raised his eyebrows. “The war might be over, but not all the English can forgive and forget.”
