1
FEAR NOT THE THORNS
London. September 1817.
11thhour of the eve.
Someone was trying to kill him.
Either that or Miles had become the most unfortunate man in London.
For beneath the waning arc of silver that served for a moon tonight, two thugs stomped towards him, jeers of violent intent venting like wolves on the hunt.
Clenching his fists, Miles braced in his stance and called himself all types of bloody fool.
Thus far, his evening had been most pleasant: a botanical lecture at the Horticultural Society, followed by a few fine whiskies and a perusal of this month’s species introductions, before a members’ discussion on the proliferation of aphids this autumn, which had caused quite a rumpus amongst some.
Foregoing the carriage to clear his fuddled wits, he’d been marching home when a female cry of distress from this alleyway had prompted him to investigate. A ruse, of course, as a grubbyslattern had sidled past with a snigger and he’d heard the chink of pennies before this twosome had replaced her.
Miles glanced over his shoulder but the recesses of the alley melded into narrow hostile darkness so he stood his ground. “Want some coin, do you?” Not believing that would be the case, it would nevertheless give him time to prepare and consider his options.
He’d give himself a fair-to-good chance in a fistfight, even outnumbered as he was, but one of the thugs wielded a baleful blade, the romantic moonlight glinting from the sharp edge as it swung back and forth.
Which tipped the balance somewhat in their favour.
Miles hadn’t carried a blade since his return from the Peninsular War as he’d thought the life of a civilian earl in London would solely demand a gaming purse, unsullied handkerchief and a gilt-edged calling card. “If someone’s paying you, I’ll double it.”
Caught within the faint spill of moonlight, the thugs closed in, the taller knife-wielder with an ominous rasp, while the other, a squat bruiser with ham fists, sneered. “Mum yer dubber. All us wants is yer blood. Oozin’ on them cobbles, red and thick.”
That would be a no, then.
“Well, I…” Miles spread his hands, noted the knife-wielder favoured one leg in particular. The bruiser’s left arm appeared crooked. “I don’t suppose I could–”
Miles struck, kicking the knifeman in the unfavoured leg, milling a fist to the bruiser’s left shoulder. Bellows ensued but his foes kept to their feet as the blade swept rather amateurishly. Yet a knife was a knife and it caught Miles’ forearm while knuckles slammed his cheek. He curled low, crashed a fistful to the bruiser’s gut and then spun him in a neck-hold so he was betwixt Miles and that damned blade.
“Ou’ the bloody way,” bawled the accomplice.
An inevitable elbow to his gizzards winded him so Miles was forced to shove the bruiser headfirst into the alley’s brick wall.
With blood dripping down his sleeve, Miles now gave no quarter, attacked the knifeman, scraping a boot down his unfavoured shin, grabbing his wrist and holding it high. The blade scythed the air as they grappled, before the two of them tumbled to the ground.
Miles slammed that wrist against the cobbles, once, twice, thrice, heard the clatter of blade and reared up. Smashed a fist down. Another. Not feeling the hit to his gut, the instinct of a soldier now claiming him.
But these two were as persistent as the French and a knee to Miles’ groin sent him rolling aside, the pain sharp and relentless, while the thug scrabbled to his feet.
A grimy boot struck out at Miles’ ribs, and so scowling, he hunched on the ground, readied himself to catch the boot when it next came at him, twist it and…
Except.
It didn’t.
He lifted his head and saw two further men prowling down the alley.
Bloody hell.
Two he had a chance but four?
Yet the tall thug’s lips now stretched in fear while the ham-fisted bruiser, dark blood matting his forehead, cursed low.
