From the corner of his eye, David saw the woman in the red dress cowering against the building, crying and watching him in open-mouthed horror.
“Run!” he yelled at her. If he was going to end up with bruises or a bloody nose over this, he at least wanted to know she was safe. For today, at any rate. Still pinned by the giant holding him from behind, David stiffened his arms and jumped up to slam both feet into the pimp’s chest.
All three of them fell to the mud, which had an odd red-brown tinge David didn’t want to contemplate. He finished shrugging out of his coat as he stood, freeing his arms just in time to block a punch thrown by Brute. He was too slow to avoid the right cross from Giant to his jaw but he spun with the punch and used his momentum to smash his fist into the pimp’s nose. Blood sprayed.
Still struggling to draw air, David shook his head to get his hair out of his eyes and clear his vision.
Breathing hard, Brute bent over, hands by his knees while blood trickled from his nose.
David hoped that was the end of it. He’d recently dressed up in a crazy costume to protect two other women, even broke into a man’s lodgings in the dead of night to do so, and escaped unscathed. Yet here in daylight, he was going to be black and blue if he wasn’t careful.
Giant punched him in the back, a quick one-two below his ribs. David kicked backwards, and heard a satisfyingcrunchand gasp of pain. He staggered forward to catch his balance just as Brute straightened, and barely registered sunlight glinting off a knife blade the pimp had pulled from his boot. David raised his arm in time to block a slashing blow aimed at his throat.
Someone screamed. He hoped that high-pitched sound came from a woman in the crowd and not himself. Fire raced up his forearm and blood soaked his torn sleeve. He felt hot and cold at the same time, and it was getting difficult to tell which way was up. His own knife was in a pocket of his coat … several feet away, crumpled in a mud puddle.
The pimp wore a feral grin as he tossed the knife from one hand to the other, a bright red smear of blood clinging to the silver blade. David’s blood. Brute advanced and David retreated, trying to keep an eye on the pimp and also figure out where Giant had got to.
Someone new stepped into the alley from the back door of the butcher shop. “What the ’ell is going on ’ere?”
As David turned to look at the mountain of a man in a bloodstained apron, the Giant’s fist crashed into David’s cheek, and the world went black.
* * *
Ashley decided to skip walking in the park in favor of heading to the shops just a few blocks over. “You can help me pick out a better color of ribbon,” she said, touching the white satin bow beneath her chin that held on her chip-straw bonnet.
“I know just the shade of yellow ribbon you need, miss,” Sally said with a conspiratorial smile.
They headed for the linen drapers past the bakery rather than walking all the way to Madame Chantel’s modiste shop without a footman. They were almost there when a commotion behind the butcher shop drew their attention.
Ashley peered around the corner, trying to see through the crowd that was egging on combatants in a fight. Three men? That didn’t seem fair, two against one.
“Are you sure about this, miss?” Sally whispered as Ashley moved closer.
Ashley had broken up her share of fights, all of them between female students. She had heard of men fighting, but the alley seemed an odd place for a boxing match. And weren’t boxing matches always and only between two men at a time, not three? Some of the men in the crowd were placing bets with each other.
The butcher stepped out of the back door and roared to demand what was going on.
One of the fighters turned to look at the distraction. The taller of the other two took the opportunity to plant him a facer, and he went down like a sack of turnips. He didn’t move.
Despite the mud and blood spattered on all three men, Ashley saw the streak of white in the unconscious man’s shoulder-length hair.
What in Hades was Ravencroft doing, fighting two men?
The butcher took off running, chasing the other two down the alley.
Without thinking, Ashley dashed forward, shoving her way through the crowd. She didn’t see Westbrook or anyone else she thought was a companion or servant of the earl. Who would come to his aid?
Two street urchins darted in and stole his shoes right off his feet. Somebody else snatched his coat that was crumpled in the mud a few feet away. All three disappeared into the crowd that was now quickly dispersing.
She dropped to her knees beside Ravencroft’s inert form and pushed on his shoulder to roll him from his side to his back, and brushed the hair from his face so she could assess his injuries.
Blood was pooling beneath his right forearm at an alarming rate.
A woman came out of the shop, wearing a bloodstained apron. “What’s going on ‘ere?”
Ashley pulled her handkerchief out of her reticule, and quickly realized it was woefully inadequate. So much blood! She held Ravencroft’s wrist up to let the blood drip freely through his slashed shirtsleeve. “Sally, hold up his arm.”
Sally leaned over and took Ravencroft’s wrist, holding him with only two fingers and her thumb, while Ashley dug her penknife out of her reticule and cut away his sleeve at the shoulder. Too filthy to use as a bandage, she used it to wipe away some of the mud, then tossed it aside and untied his cravat. There had to be some clean sections in the folds.
