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As his carriage moved ahead, they stepped into the narrow alley behind the theater. Sutton brought the edges of his coat closer together against the cold.

"What I don't understand," Marie said when they turned into a dark alleyway, "is how did she manage to catch you by surprise? Didn't your man of business, Whitmore⁠—"

"Whitlow," Sutton corrected.

"Yes, right, Whitlow. Wasn't he supposed to inform you of her every move?"

"He was," Sutton agreed. "But apparently, her decision to come to London was last-minute and impulsive. Poor Whitlow barely had time to collect his own belongings before she bundled him into the carriage. And I swear, the man gained a few silver hairs while stuck in the country with her."

Marie let out a throaty laugh. "You sound almost impressed by her."

Sutton attempted to frown, but the corners of his lips refused to turn down. His wife's impulsivity, ingenuity, and absolute refusal to follow social norms were what had drawn him to her in the first place. Though those very qualities had led to the downfall of their unfortunate marriage, he couldn't quite bring himself to regret them.

They turned another corner, slipping away from the gas-lit thoroughfare. Marie's townhouse was the second door from the right. She lived close to the theater, which was convenient for rehearsals, though the narrow side streets between the Haymarket and her front door were best avoided after dark. Sutton had hired a couple of stalwart footmen to escort her, but Marie usually dismissed them if Sutton or one of her admirers saw her home.

Tonight, this proved to be a mistake, Sutton realized when three men stepped out of the deep shadow of a brick archway.

Sutton stopped, and instinctively put his arm out in front of Marie.

He sensed danger even before he saw the dull gleam of iron in each of the men's hands.

Footpads.

And they had weapons. Pistols.

"Lord Sutton?" the shortest man growled, his voice low and rough.

Footpads who knew him by name?

"I am at a disadvantage, it seems," Sutton said, keeping his voice level, his eyes on the guns. "Who do I have the displeasure of conversing with?"

The men did not answer. Instead, they raised their pistols.

Sutton shoved Marie hard toward the wall and threw himself after her, flattening them both against the damp brick. The first shot cracked through the alley and a chunk of mortar exploded above his head. The second came an instant later from the brawny man beside the first shooter, and the ball whistled past Sutton's ear.

Thick white smoke rolled across the alley in the still air, hanging between them like a curtain.

Two pistols spent. One still loaded.

Probably waiting for the smoke to clear.

Sutton only had seconds to act, and he was not going to waste them. He twisted the silver pommel of his walking stick, and with a sharp schwing, a length of steel slid free of its sheath.

"Run," he breathed against Marie's ear, then plunged out of the smoke and drove the blade through the lanky man's wrist.

The man shrieked. His unspent pistol clattered to the stones and skidded off into the haze. He stumbled back, clutching his bleeding arm, his eyes wide, then turned and fled, his boots slapping down the length of the alley.

Coward.

He had barely finished his thought when the brawny man was on him, swinging his empty pistol like a club. Sutton ducked, and the blow missed his skull by inches. He drove an elbow into the man's jaw, then a kick into his ribs, and the brute grunted and staggered.

With a cry, the brawny thug charged him.

Sutton noticed the steel flashing in the moonlight only at the last second.

He jumped back, but it was too late. A short blade raked along Sutton's left side as he twisted away, a line of fire through waistcoat and shirt. He hissed through his teeth and drove his sword-cane into the man's thigh. The brute howled and went down on one knee, then onto the stones.

Sutton pressed his palm to his side. It came away red.