Charlotte watched him go. Two cucumber sandwiches would not sustain a boy for long, but no doubt he could sell the linen napkin to good effect. She almost smiled at the thought. Then she drew herself up to her fullest height, lifted her chin, and turned to look at the gentleman now looming over her.
“Good afternoon,” she said, tightening her grip on his briefcase.
In reply, he caught her arm lest she follow the example of the urchin. His expression tumbled through surprise and uncertainty before landing on the hard ground of displeasure; his dark blue eyes smoldered. For the first time, Charlotte noticed he wore high leather boots, strapped and buckled, scarred from interesting use—boots to make a woman’s heart tremble, either in trepidation or delight, depending on her education. A silver hook hung from his left ear; a ruby ring encircled one thumb, and what she had taken for a beard was mere unshaven stubble. Altogether it led to a conclusion Charlotte was appalled not to have reached earlier.
“Pirate,” she said in disgust.
“Thief,” he retorted. “Give me back my briefcase.”
How rude! Not even the suggestion of a please! But what else could one expect from a barbarian who probably flew around in some brickcottage thinking himself a great man just because he could get it up? Pirates really were the lowest of the low, even if—or possibly because—they could go higher than everyone else in their magic-raised battlehouses. Such an unsubtle use of enchantment was a crime against civilization, even before one counted in the piracy. Charlotte allowed her irritation to show, although frowning on the street was dreadfully unladylike.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law, sir. Kindly unhand me and I will not summon a police officer to charge you with molestation.”
He surprised her by laughing. “I see you are a wit as well as a thief. And an unlikely philanthropist too. If you hadn’t stopped for the boy, you might have gotten away.”
“I still shall.”
“I don’t think so. You may be clever, but I could have you on the ground in an instant.”
“You could,” Charlotte agreed placidly. “However, you may like to note that my shoe is pressed against your foot. If I am so inclined, I can release a poisoned dart from its heel which will penetrate boot and skin to paralyze you within moments.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ingenious. So you too are a pirate, I take it?”
Charlotte gasped, trying to tug her arm from his grip. “I most certainly am not, sir, and I demand an apology for the insult!”
He shrugged.
Charlotte waited, but apparently that was the extent of his reply. She drew a tight breath, determined to remain calm. What would Jane Austen’s fiercest heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, do in this situation?
“I consider myself a reasonable woman,” she said. “I take pride in not being prejudiced. Although your behavior is disgraceful, and I shall surely have bruises on my arm, I do appreciate this has been a difficult afternoon for you. Therefore, I give you permission to withdraw.”
“How kind,” he said wryly, although he did ease his grip on her arm. “I am going nowhere, however, without my briefcase.”
“But it is for the orphans,” she said, her tone suggesting horror that he would deprive the poor, wretched creatures of whatever small comfort his briefcase might afford them.
“The orphans, indeed? And you’re taking it to them right now?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s afternoon. No well-mannered lady does business in the afternoon. I’m taking it home, selling its contents, and adding the income to my estate. It will support my general affluence and prestige, which in turn will lend weight to my opinion about the sad plight of orphans.”
“I see. So by contributing to your personal wealth I am helping the poor?”
“Exactly.”
He grinned. “You sure you’re not a pirate?”
“Certainly not! I am theoppositeof a pirate. I am a good person. I only steal from the rich.”
“And those who would be rich if they’d just put their minds to it?”
“Yes.” She paused, frowning. “No. That is—” She broke off, muttering.
“I beg your pardon?” the man asked, then flinched as a pumpkin flew past his head, narrowly missing him before exploding against the wall of Almack’s. Wet pulp splashed his coat, although by good fortune (and some reversal of the laws of physics) none touched Charlotte.
The man regarded her steadily for a long moment. Then with his free hand he pulled back her sleeve to reveal a delicate gold bracelet set with tiny jeweled bee charms.
“I thought so. I’ve heard of women like you. What is your name?”
Charlotte tried again to escape his grip, without success. “Very well,” she relented. “I am Miss Anne Smith. And whom do I have the misfortune of addressing?”
