“Oi, ’oo’s causing trouble?”
“Cagey bugger wiv the dark ’air,” another man chimed in. “Says that leary cove ’oo were in last night’s ’is brover.”
A chorus of rumbles echoed from the bar. Worried glances darted to the table at the center of the room.
Diana stared at the sacks along the wall that she was now certain did not contain hops.
“My mate got nicked today.” The barman pointed a meaty finger at Ian. “Because of the dodgy notes ’e got from this snide pitcher’s brover!”
Shouts broke out. The men at the center table were on their feet, staggering over each other in their effort to charge.
“On my count, you head to the back stairwell,” Ian rasped. “It should lead to the cellar. You can escape outside to the alley. Get a hack and get as far away as you can.”
Birdie intervened by darting past and spinning drunk men around. Diana hated leaving any of her crew on their own to handle cleanup from an altercation, but she had to get Ian out.
“I won’t make it across the room without a distraction,” she warned him.
“Diana, don’t you dare—”
She hopped up on a chair, placed her thumb and forefinger in her mouth, and peeled a whistle so loud, the man nearest them covered his ears.
The room went completely still.
Diana’s cloak fell from her shoulders to reveal her shimmering silk bridal gown.
The sight of it precipitated more than a few grunts of surprise.
It was, after all, a room populated mostly by men.
And she was, after all, the most drawn woman in London.
No one expected her to reach beneath her skirts for two daggers and throw one at the sacks in the corner.
Five-pound notes cascaded out.
With a collective roar, the mob scrambled for the money.
Ian threw Diana’s cloak at her. “Cellar. Go now.”
She hesitated. The knife she’d thrown was a particular favorite, and she hated losing it.
Nearly as much as she hated the idea of leaving Ian to fend for himself.
“Go, Diana. I’ll find you.”
The urgency in his voice forced her to hike up her skirts. She made it across the room and down the winding staircase to the cellar. There, she pried open the doors used to load casks and pulled herself out into the alley.
Years of disciplined training forced her to prop her back against the wall, as her eyes worked to adjust to the dark. The lane was small and she couldn’t see well enough to gauge where it led.
She counted her breaths. Then counted to a hundred while she willed Ian to emerge.
He’d never let her go far without him. Not while she still wore the emeralds around her neck.
Unless something had gone horribly wrong.
And today, very little had gone right.
He was so strong; she’d never considered he’d need her to extricate him.
