Deftly, Rakecombe slipped his carnelian signet ring off as it was most revolting when skin got stuck under the gold setting. “Is a waistcoat really worth your life?”
“Well, when you put it like that… Yes, it cost me nine guineas.”
They attacked as one, taking the villains by surprise. The taller wraith squawked at the sight, probably too used to quivering sapskulls.
Rakecombe took on the nearest two, hoping Jack could manage the hulking Jim. He smartly smashed his fist into one fellow’s cheek and felt a glancing blow himself.
The second coward circled around his back and as Rakecombe punched out a further fist to the villain’s gut, the other man grasped a tight arm around his neck from behind. A stranglehold.
Using him for leverage, he kicked out, catching the ballocks of the man in front who howled with agony and bent double. Rakecombe then smashed a knee to his quaking chin, heard a resounding crack, and the rat fell backwards, clonking his skull on the cobbles.
A sharp jab at Rakecombe’s throat promptly caused him to still.
“Not so tough now, are you,” taunted the wraith, panting, breath misting the blade held to Rakecombe’s skin.
“No, you are quite right, you are the toughest,” he hissed. But in an instant, he elbowed the villain straight in the kidneys whilst hurling his head back, breaking the man’s nose with a wet crunch. The knife dropped away and swirling, he slashed out with his own dagger, scoring the man across the chest. “But I am the deadliest.”
The wound wasn’t going to kill, but one never knew – he might die of infection. The rat scurried away, knowing the odds were not on his side tonight.
Muffled groans broke from a side alley and Rakecombe scrambled to the sound. He never should have left Jack alon–
With face harsh, the currently unaffable marquess bashed the huge oaf’s head against the wall whilst simultaneously punching his gut with those metallic glinting knuckles.
The flailing man was no match for the sheer strength, intensity and agility of Jack Winterbourne.
“Enjoy hitting women, do you?” growled Jack, aiming another punch.
Rakecombe winced as head encountered wall again. “The man’s unconscious. That’s hardly fair.” He stepped forward, catching the marquess’s fist. “Enough.”
Wild eyes met his, and for a moment, he thought Jack might lash out, so he gripped the fist yet tighter, both their knuckles stretched white and bloody.
Finally a nod, and the villain was released to slide down the wall in a heap, groan emerging.
Jack turned away, heaving breaths and slamming a fist to the wall.
Who would have thought the marquess had quite the temper buried deep under all that jovialbonhomie?
Rakecombe let him rasp some more, watched his shoulders ease, anger draining as quickly as it had arisen.
“Let us depart, Jack. I often find myself in need of a wash after St Giles…and a stiff whisky wouldn’t hurt.” He placed a hand on his shoulder. “We will talk tomorrow, but it appears one of us needs to pay Penbury a visit in Manchester, and since I am a duke, that would be you.”
Jack was silent for a time, until twisting his head, a half smile appearing. “Certainly. If we can discount Penbury, it will make our search easier.” He ran a hand through his hair and the immaculate Brutus coiffure was restored once more. “But for tonight, I need something gentler than whisky. Lady Gibbon has blackmailed me to supper and I do so admire such cunning.”
They strolled from the alleyway, and Rakecombe slipped his signet ring back on. “Well take some horse blinkers if you do. Her bedchamber resembles a bawdy house.”
“And how would you know what either of those look like, Rakeprude?” Jack scoffed.
He glared at the quicksilver chap. “Mission related.”
“Faugh! And by the way, now we have worked together, fought together, loved together, do you think I might know your codename? ’Tis only fair.”
“We have not lov…” Rakecombe hesitated. In point of fact, there was no reason why he shouldn’t disclose hisnom de guerre. Probably best to get it over with. “I’m a Dog.”
“All men are at heart, old boy, no need to–”
“No. My codename.”
A smirk, if he wasn’t mistaken.
