Verity drank in the sight of Miles: his jaw clenched tight, shoulders square, temper coiled to erupt, hair tousled and eyes cold as Death’s hand.
“And how yer gonna do that, whoreson!” Chambers spat. “I’ll take this Angel with me. Watch from hell as yer tear yerself apart.”
“All this,” Miles growled, “just because I ended your little racket? You weren’t the one court-martialled.”
A harsh laugh as the knife abraded her bodice, his grip tightening. “I was making a tidy profit till you ruined it all. Had it good. But those Spanish mercenaries thought I’d crossed them and when they found me, beat me half to death. I was sent home to some flea-infested hospital, caught a fever, and all of it due to you taking a piss that night!” He hissed a breath. “Then a gift from hell. Cos I saw yer. Just two streets from Webb’s and followed yer to that bloody nob’s house of yours. Thought to make it look like an accident at first…”
Verity could feel sweat from his skin trickle upon her cheek, heard the savagery that gripped him, knew they were at an impasse.
And Miles dared not move.
But in that moment of silence…
A rustle of leaves and she slid her eyes to the side, saw Mr Alasdair Firth and another man behind the greenery of theFicus carica.
Knew what to do.
“I-I’m going to be sick!” She gurgled. Then heaved.
Chambers flinched and she flung marble dust over her shoulder, into his eyes.
Then Miles was there, taking the wretch to the ground, Mr Firth and Mr Lynch dragging her from them and that blade as they fought.
Miles slammed Chambers’ hand to the tiles, the knife skittering.
A smash to his face, another and another, the fiend no match for Miles’ wrath.
Mr Firth surged forwards, grabbing Miles’ fist with both hands. And even then, struggled to hold it.
“Enough… He’s…” They all stared to the groaning and bloodied face of Chambers. “Not going anywhere.”
Miles watchfully rose, his face pale, knuckles bleeding, and she darted into his embrace.
“Hell, Verity, my precious Verity… Forgive me, it was my fault.” His hands swept over her shoulders, her face, as though assuring himself she was truly unharmed. Then he crushed her against his chest. “You’re trembling.”
“I-I am well. You’re here.” She buried her face briefly against his coat and drew a shaky breath. “How did you know?”
“Your painting, Verity. You painted him.”
“Did I?” She peered down. “He said we’d spoken in a hospital and called me Angel but I don’t recognise him.”
“He had red hair then. Was in our dragoons but under a different captaincy than mine. But if you were asking for men of the regiment in the hospitals, you would have found him.”
She blinked.
Colonel Brandon meanwhile had now found a softer perch and had sat himself atop the villain, chewing his claws.
“Yes! Now I recognise him. He wanted a guinea for his picture and I swear stole my gloves. I’m glad I threw my expensive marble dust in his eyes now.”
Miles laughed. “As am I, my Amaranth.”
And without another word, with Verity’s eyes wide, he cupped her face with both hands, pulled her towards him and kissed her.
To a roll of eye from Mr Firth, a grin from Miles’ factotum, gold tooth glinting in the lanternlight, and…and wasn’t that other one-armed man a soldier she’d met in the hospital, too? He winked at them.
The plants, of course, just silently began to furl for the night, awaiting a new day.
32
