Page 20 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

A shattering crack pierced the growing fog in her mind, and the hold on her neck slackened. Inez staggered back, hands to her injured throat, sucking in air. She blinked. A cloud of white bloomed around his lordship’s head, like a halo. He made a stuttered, cut-off sound and swayed on his feet, shaking his head.

“Damn it. That should have dropped him.” An angelic voice spoke at her ear.

Inez blinked again. She must be seeing things in the throes of death. “Joseph?”

She moaned and tilted toward him, as if the world had shifted. He was warm, solid, and real. He smelled like horse.

“Would have dropped him, if it were earthenware instead of porcelain.” Joseph shoved the broken top of a decorated jug into her hand, the handle still attached. “If he gets past me, use the edges. Go for his eyes or under the throat, here.” He tapped the side of his arrogant jaw, the soft skin beneath. He was smooth-shaven, as usual, and the lean column of his throat, part and parcel of his splendid maleness, had her staring, stupefied, for a frozen second.

“You attacked a lord!” Wigsby bellowed. “I’ll have you hanged right along with her, you cur.”

“Oh, I’m not done. You attacked a defenseless woman.” Joseph turned and drove his fist into his lordship’s fleshy cheek.

She wasn’t defenseless, Inez thought hazily, clutching the broken top of the porcelain jar to her middle as she pressed against the small side table and watched. She had him. She had never been one to watch bare knuckle boxing, thinking it a brutal sport, but there was something beautiful in the way Joseph moved with controlled, lethal grace.

His opponent was a brawler, a bully who relied on his size and weight to carry him in a match, but Joseph had technique. His lordship, who outweighed Joseph by at least two stone, most of it fat, swung wildly, throwing his bulk around. Joseph ducked his broad swings and landed his punches with precision. Belly. Ribs. A flurry of jabs to the face, then another deep blow in the gut.

The strength and fury of him was magnificent. A hot flush moved from her throat to her breasts and down to her belly.

His lordship snorted out air and stumbled backward. “I…will…kill…you,” he huffed.

“In my sleep, I don’t doubt. Coward.” As his opponent lunged forward, trying to catch him in a bear hug, Joseph ducked and delivered two blows to Wigsby’s stomach, where his coat gapped open over an embroidered waistcoat. Each fist summoned a grunt of pain, and the other man halted, hanging in the air, panting.

“Mercy?” Joseph said, though the cold set to his face told Inez he’d rather not.

“Mercy,” Wigsby wheezed, swaying on his feet.

“You don’t deserve it.” Joseph turned to regard Inez, and the granite line of his jaw softened. “Are you⁠—”

“Cuidado!” The malicious smile alerted her first, before the meaty arm rose in the air. Inez threw her porcelain weapon over Joseph’s shoulder, aiming for Wigsby’s face.

Her missile bounced off him, but it slowed him a beat from delivering a rabbit punch to the back of Joseph’s neck, the blow that even Inez knew could fell or kill a man. Joseph feinted to the side instinctively, his reflexes faster than hers, and his lordship’s fist grazed his temple. A spurt of blood arced in the air, and Inez swallowed a scream.

Joseph, his face pure vengeance, turned and chopped the side of his palm into his lordship’s windpipe. Wigsby clutched his throat, gagging, his face purpling as he sagged to his knees. He swung one arm convulsively, trying even then to grab Joseph’s ankles and bring him down. With a contemptuous lift of his lip, Joseph curled his fingers, drew back his arm, and drove his fist against the side of Wigsby’s head. The hairpiece tilted and fell along with its master, and his lordship keeled face-first onto the floor.

“’E ain’t gettin’ up nowise soon,” remarked Titus. He was one of the bully backs Mother Vesta kept to look after her girls and occasionally usher out a gentleman patron who became rowdy or demanded services he hadn’t paid for.

Straightening from his position leaning against the wall, some distance down the hallway, the large man came forward and observed his lordship’s prone form with interest, then gave Joseph an admiring look. “Ye got in some good cracks, that ye did. Regular Jack Slack.”

“Nowhere near champion level.” Joseph winced as he flexed his hands. Both of his knuckles bled freely, skin scraped raw. “Damn his fancy buttons. I think I cracked a bone.”

“Ice them fives for a time, onest or twice, then wrap ’em.” Nero, the second heavy and a match for Titus in sheer bulk, came forward from the stairs. “And a raw steak for the glimms, so ye don’t show up black and fright off the ladybirds,” he advised, tapping the side of his head near one eye.

Inez realized both men could have intervened but didn’t; they believed Joseph had the fight well in hand. Her chest swelled as she sucked in air. She’d been holding her breath all this time.

“What will happen to him?” Inez croaked.

“We’ll let the molls roll ’im, then dump the cull in Smock Alley. Let ’im think ’e got taken by the anglers and swig men,” Titus suggested.

“I say lump ’im in the Spital Market an let the tradesmen have their way,” Nero offered.

“Dump him in the Thames,” Inez said shakily. “Perhaps then Priscilla’s husband can inherit the estate, and do better with it.”

“A bloodthirsty wench, are you? I never knew.”

Joseph put a finger to her chin to inspect her face. Rage and the fight had given his face a cast she barely recognized. His shoulders seemed enormous, his hands were weapons, and the lines of his face seemed sharper, bolder. He looked like a warrior. A king.

“You’re the bloody one.” A trickle of crimson streamed from his temple where his lordship’s signet ring had cut the skin. Without thinking Inez yanked out the neckerchief tucked at her bodice and pressed it to his head, cupping his other cheek with her palm. His skin was warm and firm and soft, so soft.