Page 7

Why was Grandmother alone?

Where was Fellowes, her coachman?

Jason’s gaze snagged on a forlorn figure wearing muted blue and huddled on the ground. Not alone, then. Nonetheless, Myrtle Grayson was practically as old as Grandmother and not nearly as spry.

Even as Jason broke into a sprint, a young woman dashed toward his grandmother from the other direction. Without hesitation, she clobbered one villain with a stick of some sort, then turned on the other assailant.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, a dry chuckle escaped him.

A regular firebrand.

Jason hadn’t known they existed in England.

Her marine-blue redingote swirled about her ankles, and her bonnet’s ribbons came undone as she whirled around to confront the second thug. The frilly accessory flew from her head, revealing a halo of burnished red curls.

A firebrand with fiery red hair.

Unfortunately, her bravado had only succeeded in further enraging the thieves.

Jason picked up his pace, breaking into a run and shouting for people to clear a path. They darted to the sides, complaining or letting out little cries of confusion and alarm.

One of the youths now brandished an evil blade. From the deft way he shifted it from hand to hand, he was no novice with the weapon.

Devil and damn.

Of all of the times to be without his own blade. Still, a pair of callow youths were no match for him. Particularly when they were stupid enough to attack his not-so-frail grandmother.

At that moment, she landed a hardy blow on her attacker’s shoulder.

Bully for you, Grandmother.

Jason never would’ve believed the diminutive woman capable of such feistiness.

The young woman continued to defend his grandmother while other passersby shied away. Not so far that they couldn’t retain their excellent view of the altercation, however. Even the men, the dandified coxcombs, slunk backward. The portly beadle who was supposed to guard Burlington Arcade’s entrance hovered behind the crowd, peeking over the spectators’ shoulders.

Lilly-livered poltroons all.

Jason owed the young woman a debt of gratitude for her bravery and fortitude.

His grandmother’s protector’s brilliant coppery hair had tumbled from her neat chignon and swung about her shoulders and back as she waved the stick she held. No, not a stick. There was something shiny on one end.

As he neared the ruckus, the lout yanking on his grandmother’s reticule pulled her off balance. The roaring in Jason’s ears and the blood humming through his veins deafened him to what he shouted at the thugs. He’d reached the onlookers but couldn’t get to his grandmother in time to prevent her tumble.

“I’ll see you in prison,” Jason roared.

To his utter astonishment, the young redhead hurled herself in front of Grandmother. She gripped his grandmother in a tight embrace and then twisted her agile young body so that she would hit the pavement first.

After a panicked glance at Jason’s incensed countenance, the thieves wisely turned tail and fled.

Just as he reached his grandmother, she and the young woman toppled to the ground.

Grandmother cried out.

In pain?

“Grandmother?” Jason whispered, falling to his knees beside them both and tentatively touching his grandmother’s narrow back. “Grandmother?” he said again when she didn’t respond.

“Lenora,” wailed a woman stumbling to a stop beside him, dragging the name out into several extra syllables.