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“Perhaps. It was a blur. I was so taken by surprise I did not even get a chance to fight back.”
“I’m glad you did not,” he said gravely. “It might not have ended well.”
“I shall keep a knife on me in future just in case.”
Though tempted to argue against the idea and remind her of the small scar he still carried from her previous knife antics, he was not intending to leave her alone for a single moment anyway so she would never have to use it.
“We could go back to the gaming hell,” she suggested. “See if I spot the man there.”
“Perhaps.” The idea of her anywhere near such a dangerous person made him curl his fists.
“Or we speak to the sheriff who arrested the forgers. Perhaps he can tell us if there were more of them. Their base was at St. Saviour’s Dock.”
It was a better idea than throwing her into the face of danger. Maybe if they did that, he could persuade her to stay at home while he went to Pidgeon’s and followed the men his cousin was meant to meet with. It seemed Foster had grown greedy and did not want to part with any newfound wealth.
Knowing the men he’d been associating with, it would not end well. He couldn’t give a fig if Foster ended up in a world of trouble. Demeter, however…he’d die before letting anything happen to her.
Which meant they had to solve this matter and find the men throwing about threats. Quickly.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Demeter ignored the desire to pace her bedroom. She also dismissed the idea of standing by the window to look out for Blake. By some miracle, she forced herself to remain perched on her bed while she toyed with the amber bracelet about her wrist. None of her actions stopped her from gnawing on her bottom lip or wonder exactly how many times could one’s stomach flip when one thought of the person they loved.
She inhaled deeply and held it for several moments. She had to be sensible about this, had to approach this with cool calm logic. Today, they would go and speak with the sheriff in Bermondsey. Hardly exciting unless he had some information for them. There was nothing to say it would lead anywhere—after all, they were lucky her bold actions had brought no scandal to their doorsteps. Or at least to hers. Blake would hardly suffer if he was found to have bedded his fiancée.
Her pulse fluttered when someone knocked at her bedroom door. A hand to her chest, she rose from the bed, straightened her skirts, and strode across the room. All she needed to do was behave normally. Whoever it was could not discover she was head over slippers in love with Blake, and if she wasn’t careful she’d let herself believe they really did have a chance at a future. Aunt Sarah had already commented on the strange smile she’d had at breakfast.
There were many things she was happy to confide in her aunt about but this felt too big, too significant for her aunt’s sometimes scattered counsel.
Forcing what she hoped was a natural smile upon her lips, she opened the door. “Yes?”
Any further words died on her lips when she took in the two strange men at her door. Before she could demand to know who they were, a hand shot out, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her into his chest. He smelled of sweat and ale. The rough fabric of his shirt prickled her bare arm.
Eyes wide, she tugged back. “What are you—?”
His large hand clamped across her mouth and she screamed against the clammy fingers pinching her mouth and nose. The sound died swiftly, the lack of air crushing any further cries for help. She swung her gaze left and right down the empty corridor.
Who were they? How did they get in her house?
She wrenched back again, jarring her shoulder.
A crack of flesh against flesh. Then blinding pain. She staggered, everything white behind her eyes while her cheek throbbed from the contact of knuckles upon her cheek. The man holding her wrist lifted her, his strong arm pressing painfully into her ribs. The patterned rug swirled in her vision, making her stomach roll.
“Don’t bloody damage her, fool,” the second man muttered, coming around in front of her.
Something pulled at her wrists then he bound a rag about her mouth. When she tried to move her hands, she found them restrained.
Narrowing her gaze at him through the pounding head and foggy vision, his features briefly came into focus. Tall, broad shoulders, deep-set eyes, and pale brown hair that shone with grease. She didn’t recognize him. He hadn’t attacked her near Blake’s, nor had she spotted him at the gaming hell or at the failed meeting.
“What do you want?” she tried to demand.
The words came out muffled as her tongue pressed against fabric. Any attempts at escape only made her cheek throb and her head swirl so she closed her eyes.
Perhaps if she regained her strength.
Or perhaps someone would spot her and come to her rescue. The men still had to leave the house, after all.
Demeter snapped her eyes open when the world shifted, bringing bile into her throat. The man carried her as though she weighed no more than a strand of hay, moving with efficiency past the bedrooms to the grand staircase.
