Lightheaded and nauseated, he was ill-prepared to act appropriately when the old woman cried out and ducked under her table.
Darcy spun around just as a fist connected with his chin. It struck him like a brick, blurring his vision and throwing him off balance.
Reacting on instinct, he lashed out before the target could move. Knuckles stinging, lip swelling, he squared his feet, steadying himself as his vision focused and hesaw his assailant—a burly man with a neck as thick as his blockish head and a waist as wide as his shoulders. There was a chill in the early morning air, but the man sauntered in front of his gang in a sleeveless shirt, blustering threats and warming up his limbs in anticipation of combat.
Darcy sighed and looked heavenward. What had he done to deserve this? True, he ought to have heeded the merchant’s warning and departed sooner. He had allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. But he had met nothing but obstacles since he had saved his sister from the clutches of that greedy rake, George Wickham. Did honor deserve so much punishment?
Four other men joined the loud bully. There were certainly more hiding in the shadows and wishing for some entertainment at no cost to their own persons. They would be of no assistance to Darcy. Flight was out of the question. Reason and sense? Darcy doubted the ruffians possessed any to appeal to. He would have to fight. Drat it all, he was neck-deep in trouble in a neighborhood where he had no allies. This was the very situation he had hoped to avoid.
Praying for a miracle, alert to seize any advantage to come his way, Darcy tucked his arms against his ribs and raised his fists with a lip-splitting smile. Five against one was not ideal, but neither was it impossible.
As he had hoped, his tooth-baring grin gave his assailants pause. Let them think him a fool. He wouldonly be able to land a few blows before they learned otherwise.
All at once, they attacked. Darcy put his imagination to work. In his mind, each opponent became the rotten cad who had stolen Georgiana’s inheritance and nearly ruined her. He put his weight behind every thrust of his fist, jab of his elbow, and kick of his feet.
Sweat stung Darcy’s eyes, and he took as many hits as he gave, but four months of suppressed anger and surging frustration lent him alarming strength. When he took a kick square on the shin, the pain did not prevent him from swooping his throbbing leg around to knock two of his assailants off their feet.
If he could make the leader surrender, the rest would leave him alone and he could return to Mayfair with only a split lip as visible evidence of his activities… an injury easily explained away by a visit to Jackson’s salon. Georgiana would not question him.
The two men Darcy had knocked down stayed down, rubbing their bums and bickering with each other. Another man, upon seeing them, decided that he had been pummeled enough and ran away.
That left two men: the ringleader and one loyal lackey. Much better odds. Confident that he would leave Seven Dials (mostly) unscathed, Darcy charged at the block-headed brute.
“Cousin!” The shout came from a voice he knew well.
In the split second his eyes darted toward the call,Darcy took a hit to his cheek that vibrated through him like a bell struck with a clapper.
CHAPTER 2
Blast Richard!A colonel in His Majesty’s army who was an accomplished pugilist in his own right ought to know better than to distract a gentleman mid-fight! By sheer force of will, Darcy held himself upright. Gingerly, he touched his cheek. No blood. He would have a terrible bruise, but at least the skin had not broken.
“You are a difficult man to track down,” Richard complained as he rushed up to him. “I had to bribe your valet.”
Darcy grit his teeth. This was fantastic! Not only did his cousin’s unwanted interference result in a preventable injury, but now his assailants knew he had a valet and was certainly a gentleman worth assaulting. “Stop talking and raise your fists,” he hissed.
His foes snickered, and two opponents swelled back up to four. Two for him; two for Richard. Manageable.
Then he heard the slide of metal against a sheath.The square-headed brute gripped a knife. Slowly, Darcy held his hands out to the side, his palms up. The fight was over. He would defend himself with his fists, but this was no longer a superficial brawl. This was deadly. Their only hope of leaving this wicked place intact was to keep their heads level and their tongues cool.
But a chuckle at Darcy’s side made his blood freeze. “Do not do it, Rich,” he mumbled under his breath.
Richard pointed at the blade. “What isthat?” he mocked.
Darcy exhaled. The damage was done.
“Are ye blind? It’s a knife!” the man jerked the blade through the air.
“My good sir…” Richard clucked his tongue. “Thatis not a knife.” He reached to his side and slowly, deliberately, pulled his favored weapon from its sheath, holding the devilishly curved blade up for their opponents to appreciate. “Thisis a knife!”
Darcy clenched his jaw and his fists lest he strangle his cousin.
In a showy display, Richard slashed and twirled the scimitar in front of him.
The men had sense enough to run.
“Cowards!” Richard called after them.
Darcy grabbed him by the collar and pushed him down the passageway that led to his waiting carriage. “I do not know which will get you killed first, Rich: that stage prop you like to show off or your blasted tongue.”
