Page 6

With the thumb of the hand holding the umbrella, she attempted to brush away whatever marred her cloak near her hip. Her efforts made no difference, except to transfer soil to her already tattered glove. She hadn’t another pair either.

With a disgusted shake of her head, she focused on the lane once more. At the bizarre scene playing out before her, she shuffled to a troubled stop.

A tall, sinewy gentleman attired in the first stare of fashion with a sword of some sort, posed in a defensive stance as a hefty, sloppily-dressed man lunged at him, knife in hand.

Dear God.

Her pulse thrumming loudly in her ears, and palms sweaty in her now-ruined-gloves, she frantically glanced around for someone to intervene. The street was deserted, not a soul in sight. No enthralled onlookers peeked through covertly parted draperies on the upper levels either.

The toff appeared to be holding his own against the much heavier brute. She feared distracting him and giving the attacking cur any advantage.

“I’m delighted to inform you, you great stinking beef wit, you won’t relieve me of my purse this evening.” An edge of droll sarcasm tinged the gentleman’s refined, well-modulated voice.

An aristocrat?

He sprang forward—the movement extraordinarily graceful and powerful for a man his size—and sent a button flying from his assailant’s filthy coat.

Why, he’d done that deliberately.

A powerful jolt speared her chest, and she slapped a palm to her bosom. As if in doing so, she could snuff the undefinable, troubling sensation. Astonishment? Respect? Incredulity? Powerless to sort through the mélange, and equally unable to haul her riveted attention from the men sparring but a few feet away, she swallowed.

The gentleman toyed with his less-skilled opponent. Taunting and provoking. Much like a cat playing with a mouse. The outcome was certain, but the conclusion wasn’t the impetus. The progression was what thrilled this man. What spurred him on.

How could she possibly assume such a thing about a complete stranger?

Instinct. Something she’d learned to listen to a long time ago. And rarely was her intuition wrong.

A mocking half-smile curving his mouth, he danced nimbly backward as the oaf lumbered toward him, sweating and swearing in profusion.

“Simply put, you rank-smelling clodpole with a brain the size of a radish, I have more expertise than you.” How can he jest at a time like this? “Something you should’ve considered when picking a victim to fleece.”

Again, an image of a cat toying with a mouse sprang to mind. The ne’er-do-well’s trouncing bordered on cruelty, yet she couldn’t summon compassion for him.

“We’ll see ’bout tha’, m’lord.” the robber huffed, gasping for breath and raising his arm as if to hurl the knife.

Neither man noticed her as she crept along the edge of the buildings, hiding in the shadows. Biting her lower lip, she searched the lane again.

Could no one hear the fight? Or was everyone too terrified to interfere? Perhaps this sort of ruckus was commonplace?

If so, she’d have to rethink her opinion of London.

The nobleman appeared unruffled and to have matters under control. He swung his sword, and with an admirable, skillful flick of his wrist, knocked the blade from his opponent’s hand.

At that precise instant, another ruffian, this one wielding a club, emerged from an arched doorway, his intent clear.

“Behind you, sir!” A shrill, panic-filled cry tore from Willow as she thrust her arm out, pointing to the dingy doorway. “Another man.”