“I suspect there are a good many things you’ve not seen, Marcus Stanwick.” The cab began to slow. “I’ll be getting out here. You should carry on.”
As the carriage came to a complete stop, she handed up coins through the opening to the driver. After the doors sprung open, she gracefully leapt to the ground and began walking at a fast clip. He jumped out and hastened to fall into step beside her. “You’ll not be rid of me that easily. I have questions.”
“Your curiosity does not mean I have the answers or if I do, that I’ll divulge them.” Abruptly, she turned on her heel and started down another street.
There was a time when he’d known only the posher, more exclusive areas of London. Now he was intimately familiar with the dodgier corners, knew she was leading him farther into the bowels of danger. What surprised him was the confidence with which she traversed along the dimly lit cobblestone streets, as though she reigned over this world of ruffians and cutthroats who barely gave her a passing glance, in spite of her provocative attire. She ignored the dollymops—with skirts lifted to brazenly reveal an ankle, a knee, or a thigh—leaning against brick walls, hoping to earn a few quick shillings in a nearby alley or room let by the quarter hour. She appeared to be a woman with a purpose, and he was fairly certain it involved evading him. Not that he blamed her. He’d rather badly ended their timeat the Mermaid, and her words before she left Podmore’s library ate at him. “A few streets over is a pub. Let’s go there, talk things out.”
“Don’t look back, but we’re being followed.”
It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to glance over his shoulder. Now he understood her mad dash and frequent turns onto other streets. Going around corners gave her a chance to look out the side of her eye, without appearing to do so, in order to get a bead on who was trailing them.
Abruptly, she ducked into an alley. As he trailed after her, he angled his head only slightly but enough so he caught sight of a rough-looking fellow, maybe two or three, in close pursuit who would be upon them in no time at all. Enough light bled in from the street that he could see she’d come to a stop and was facing the mouth of the alleyway, fairly bouncing on the balls of her feet, like a boxer preparing for a bout within a ring.
“Race to the other end, escape, head to your residence,” he told her, reaching around beneath his jacket to pull free the two wickedly sharp knives from the leather scabbards he’d secured at his back. “I’ll dispatch this lot and catch up with you there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Was there a more stubborn wench in England? “Esme—”
But his argument was cut short by four men—he’d obviously overlooked someone—running into the alley and staggering to a halt. A malicious grin spreading over his face, the largest one took a step forward, while the others fanned out behind him—all brandishing knives. “We’re gonna have some fun ’ere, ain’t we?”
The whisper of steel sliding against steel echoed between the buildings. Darting his gaze to the side, Marcus was stunned to see Esme holding a sword—not a sword, more like a rapier—her umbrella nowhere to be seen. Had she been hiding the weapon in the long handle, just as she’d hidden a camera in a pocket watch?
She took a fencer’s stance. “Give it your best.”
Challenging the blighters was not the tactic Marcus would have taken, but he had no time to contemplate further as he lunged in front of her, blocking the two who had decided to come for her. Surprise was on his side because they’d expected to be battling a woman, had anticipated an easy victory. He managed to bury a knife in one and slashed with his remaining blade across the soft belly of the other. When the second ruffian groaned and bent slightly to protect himself from another swipe of the deadly dagger, Marcus took him down with a balled fist to his jaw.
Turning for the two who were now engaging her, he fought not to become mesmerized by her agility at warding them off, at the cutthroats’ grunts and cries of surprise when she managed to slice a cheek, an arm, a hand. Marcus grabbed the largest fellow, the one he wanted to never again smile, spun him around, and brought his knife down.
But the ruffian blocked the blow and shoved Marcus back. It took him two steps to regain his balance. The lout hurled himself and rammed into him. Marcus clutched the man’s shirt, bringing him along as he fell to the ground, rolling. Fists were flying, sharp-edged blades slashing at air and flesh, so fast, with such purpose, there was little time to think, to strategize, only to react. To roll away, to come to his feet, to kick the other man in the face before he was standing. Marcus delivered one blow, two.
As his foe managed to swing his lower body around, Marcus found his legs suddenly knocked out from beneath him. The man jumped on him, fists pummeling. Marcus stabbed him in the side, but still the blows came. He pulled the knife free, intending to aim for the heart, but the enemy grabbed Marcus’s hand that clutched the weapon and levered himself so his weight gave him the advantage and, smiling deviously, guided the sharp point toward Marcus’s throat. Marcus resisted, tried to buck him off, but something was amiss, his strength seemed to be waning.
Suddenly his nemesis went still, his eyes bugged, and blood gurgled from his mouth. He dropped down onto Marcus like a ton of bricks toppled from a scaffold. Looking past the man’s shoulder, Marcus saw Esme standing over them, rapier in hand. He couldn’t see beyond her, but where was the fourth fellow?
Dropping to her knees, she shoved the formerly grinning man off him, touched her fingersto his shoulder, causing pain to ratchet through him. “You’re hurt.”
At some point, although he vaguely recalled it, during the melee, his last attacker had gotten lucky with his knife.
“If you want to return to the residence with me, I can tend to your wound,” she said calmly.
Ruffians. Blood. Gore. She took it all in stride. When most ladies would be in tears, swooning, or have already run off. Ice Princess. But even that moniker he’d bestowed upon her no longer seemed appropriate. With a groan, he shoved himself up to a sitting position and studied her. “Who the devil are you?”
“Esme Lancaster.”
He wasn’t asking for her name, for God’s sake. He was asking for so much more. “Whatthe devil are you?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m an intelligent man with the ability to comprehend complicated.”
She glanced around the alleyway at the carnage, and he thought for a heartbeat he saw a bit of regret, perhaps remorse, wash over her features before she quickly hid anything she might be feeling, almost as though she couldn’t dare risk being viewed as soft. She brought her gaze back to his, resolve reflected in the shadowed depths of her eyes. “An agent of the Crown and presently protector of the Queen.”
Chapter 6
Two of the ruffians were dead. One by her hand, one by his. That of the gentleman who now sat at the thick blocked wooden table in her kitchen as she warmed some water. He’d knocked one thug out cold. The other would survive the wounds she had delivered if his mate woke up soon enough, which would probably happen because Esme had given the brute a hard slap to get him started toward that end before she’d slipped beneath Marcus Stanwick’s arm to help hasten their departure from the alleyway.
They’d changed hansom cabs three times on their journey to her residence, so she could make sure no one else was following them and to make it difficult for anyone who might be asking questions in the days to come to chart a direct path to her. Marcus Stanwick hadn’t asked why she was taking the precautions. As a matter of fact,he hadn’t said a single word after she’d made her declaration. She didn’t know if the profound silence was an indication that he believed her or that he didn’t. Not that it mattered.
