Page 4
“Yes, Henley.”
As Ansley had put in an appearance every Tuesday and Thursday for the past three years, seven months, and one week whenever he was in town, the butler’s conclusion wasn’t a brilliant deduction.
What would the chap have done if he’d said no? He’d return tomorrow instead. Dressed in a kilt and toting bagpipes. Ansley owned both and was a damned fine piper, if he said so himself.
That drew a genuine, wry grin from him. Not only did uncharacteristic disgruntlement plague him tonight, he’d held his biting sarcasm in check. What in Hades was wrong with him? Mayhap he ought to be examined by a physician.
Henley opened the door then stood aside for Ansley to pass. “Have a good evening, your lordship.”
“Thank you.”
After rain had fallen in torrents from the gun-metal sky all day, the weather had turned unexpectedly mild for an October in London. He’d impulsively elected to walk to the club, quite putting out his coachman, standing with his team and carriage at the ready.
Another deviation from Ansley’s normal hum-drum, comfortable routine. Interesting and curious, that in recent weeks, not only had he diverged from his usual habits multiple times, he’d not plunged headlong into the mental chaos such departure from his norm typically wrought.
Could it be, at long last, his affliction had begun to dissipate?
However, unlike many of his softer, flabbier peers, he preferred physical exertion whenever he had the opportunity. Exercise helped calm him.
Nonetheless, the night air had grown damnably cold. If he were the type, he would’ve hunched into his coat and pulled the collar up against the biting wind determined to find its way to his bare skin.
However, he was not the sort to ever mistreat a collar in such a blasphemous way. Hence with his back ramrod straight and his cane held at a precise angle, he trotted down the five smooth steps to the pavement. His residence was but a few streets away. The brisk walk would invigorate and warm him. With luck, he’d sleep like a well-fed babe tonight.
Even so, boredom beleaguered him, and he was unable to pinpoint a precise reason for his malcontent.
Within minutes, he became aware of shuffling footsteps echoing behind him. Subtly changing his grip on his cane—which hid a razor-sharp short sword—he strolled another several feet. Pretending to inspect the iridescent half-moon, and then the white moth flitting frantically around a sooty streetlamp, he casually angled his head and surveyed the lane behind him as he strode along.
Even at this late hour, the streets weren’t deserted. Deuced difficult, however, to distinguish which chaps were about their own business from those with more nefarious intents. With a flick of his thumb, he released the clasp of the sword’s sheath. As he adjusted his grip, he rounded the street corner, prepared to draw the blade.
Closed for the day, several quaint shops lined the tidy street. Above them, mellow, golden light glowed in the windows of the shop-owners’ living quarters. A bit farther along, on either side of the cobbled lane, perched a respectable lodging house and a hotel as well as a livery stable.
Ansley had taken this route hundreds of times, and never once had a sod dared to challenge him.
Casting a swift, guarded glance over his shoulder, he swore beneath his breath as a bear-of-a-man trundled up behind him, wielding a wicked-looking knife. The blade glinted as the scraggly, bearded brute twisted it back and forth, his stance low and aggressive. And—bloody hell—practiced.
In general, this wasn’t a neighborhood gentleman were robbed in. He would’ve expected thieves near the docks and certainly, scuttling about in Whitechapel or Seven Dials. Only an idiot ventured to the latter alone at night.
This thug was desperate, stupid, or inebriated to his fleshy jowls. Likely all three.
Ansley exhaled a long, irritated breath, coming to a stop. Might as well see this inconvenience done with. He’d not make his bed by eleven, in any event.
Casually, as if he meant to ask the bloke for the time, he rotated to face his harasser. He most assuredly did not appreciate this interruption in his regimen.
“May I suggest you bathe on occasion? You might actually be able to sneak up upon your intended victim then.” He wrinkled his nose, the fetid odors of stale gin, sour sweat, unwashed body, and filthy clothing floating to him on the slight breeze. “I smelled your putrid stench before I saw you.”
The riffraff snorted then spit. He extended fat, grubby fingers. “’And over yer purse, gov.”
