Page 62 of The Lady’s No Angel

“Aye, she did that. But it’s an ill wind, I say. Reckon I’d rather split the loot one way rather than three.”

Angel laughed and stepped a little closer to him, aware of Leo’s low growl of warning. “Oh, well, of course you would. But the thing is, Stan, the treasure is mine. Black Jack gave it to me. You wouldn’t want his ghost to come and haunt you for stealing from his beloved granddaughter, would you?”

She kept her voice light and cajoling as she moved nearer, easing closer to him.

Stan snorted. “There ain’t no such thing as ghosts.”

Angel gasped, looking appalled, her hand going to her throat. “Oh, Stan! Oh, dear, you really ought not to say such things, not in a wicked place like this, where the ghosts of so many unhappy dead walk at night. You might wake them, and stir them up and—”

She took a deep breath, then screamed, pointing over his shoulder.

Stan jolted in shock. Eyes wide with alarm, he swung around, turning the pistol in the direction she pointed. The moment it faced away from them, Angel chucked Leo’s coat over his head.

Not needing to be told that this would be a suitable moment to act, Leo threw himself at Stan and bore him to the ground. Momentarily blinded, shocked by the assault, the pistol dropped from Stan’s grasp with a dull thud, disappearing into the undergrowth. Angel snatched up the lamp, holding it high to cast light on the struggle.

Stan recovered quicker than she might have hoped, wrenching the coat from his head and swinging a wild punch that caught Leo in the solar plexus. Leo grunted, hunching over, but rallied with remarkable speed, driving his shoulder into Stan’s chest and knocking him backwards.

Stan swore as his head smacked the ground, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. Bigger and heavier than Leo, he tried to use his bulk to his advantage, but Leo was quicker. They grappled, boots slipping in the damp earth, each man straining for dominance.

Stan got his hands around Leo’s throat, squeezing hard, his face screwed up in concentration as he tried to crush the life out of him.

Angel gasped, searching for something—anything—to help. Her fingers closed around the shovel’s handle, ready to clout Stan if necessary but Leo twisted, breaking Stan’s grip. He smashed his fist into Stan’s jaw and the man reeled back but recovered quickly and went for him again.

Taking her chance, Angel smacked him in the back with the shovel. Pain sang down her arms as it seemed to connect with a brick wall, not a man, and Stan turned towards her with a snarl. With a shriek, Angel danced back as Stan lunged for her, but Leo intercepted him, dragging him away.

The two men rolled, fists flying, grunts and curses filling the air until a shrill whistle cut through the night.

Gasping, Angel turned to see movement all around them, lanterns bobbing in the darkness as another whistle rang out.

“There, get them!” called a voice, which seemed to be taken up by everyone around them.

Stunned, Angel could only watch in disbelief. Stan, who was apparently more used to being chased by officers of the law—which Angel presumed these men must be—stumbled to his feet and legged it.

More whistles shrieked as men peeled off to give chase.

“Hold there! In the King’s name, drop your weapons and stand away from the grave!”

Angel gasped, daring to move closer to Leo, who was getting slowly to his feet. In the dim light of the lantern, she gazed up at him. His clothes were torn, he was covered in mud and blood, and his right eye was swelling shut.

“Oh, Leo, are you quite sure you want to marry me? I’ve brought you nothing but trouble,” she said desperately.

But he only laughed and reached for her hand. “Don’t you worry, love. We’ll be all right.”

The yellow glow of the lanterns moved closer, illuminating perhaps a dozen men advancing on them in a ragged line. At their head strode a burly fellow with a battered tricorn hat and a staff of office—the headborough. Behind him, two parish constables and several sturdy townsmen armed with cudgels and old muskets looked more than eager to do their duty.

“What’s this, then?” the headborough demanded, surveying the scene, which Angel suddenly realised looked dreadfully incriminating. The open grave and the scattered shovels were going to be hard to explain away. “Grave robbing, is it? And fighting over the spoils, eh? Lord above, you must be desperate, or foolish beyond permission to try that here. Don’t you know it’s criminals buried here, not one of them with a farthing to bless themselves with? Not by the time they was laid in the ground, leastways.”

Angel glanced at Leo, who was uncharacteristically quiet, and tried to explain. “No, sir, you don’t understand—”

“Save it for the magistrate, miss,” snapped one of the constables, grabbing her by the arm none too gently.

“Take your hands off her.” Leo’s voice rang out, cool and clipped, and an uneasy silence descended over the assembled company.

Angel stared at him in shock. He sounded like a stranger suddenly, like a man she might be afraid of if she didn’t know him so well.

The headborough, who had recognised the cultured tone the same as the rest of them, eyed Leo, taking in his muddy coat and dishevelled appearance, and the air of command that clung to him although he looked thoroughly disreputable. He nodded at the constable, who released Angel.

“Would you like to explain yourself, sir?” the headborough asked, his eyes narrowed.