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She shouldn’t look. She hadn’t asked Clayborn to get involved. She certainly didn’t require a protector. This would serve him right.
That, and she had to get out of there before someone else recognized her.
She looked anyway, just in time to see one of The Bully Boys land a heavy blow to the Duke of Clayborn’s face.
He came back swinging like his life depended on it. And it did, she supposed; her father’s men were not known for mercy. The duke held his own, however, landing a tight jab and another, sending one of his opponents to his knees before turning to the other, throwing a wicked uppercut, knocking the man off balance and straight back into the closest wall, to sink slowly toward the ground.
Adelaide watched until the body slumped over, then turned her attention to Clayborn. “Impressive.”
She could not see his eyes in the afternoon shadows, but she could feel his gaze on her as he studied her before speaking... the words so even and deep one would never know he’d been in an alleyway brawl moments earlier. “You’re welcome.”
Ever the arrogant bastard. Her gaze narrowed on him. “Was I to have thanked you?”
“Yes.” A muscle flickered in his jaw as he stepped over one of his foes, his movements long and graceful. Not that Adelaide noticed. At all.
“For what?”
He waved at the ground. “Is it unclear?”
She considered the men writhing at his feet. “Ah, I am to thank you for your tribute? As though you are a cat and you’ve delivered a fat rat to my kitchen door?”
“I thought you might thank me for saving your pretty—”
Her eyes went wide as he cut himself off. “Why, Your Grace, were you about to use foul language?”
He scowled at her. “I confess, you tempt me.”
She’d like to tempt him.
Now where had that come from?
He extended a hand toward her. “My box, please.”
So it was a box. Of course it was. She looked down at it, turning it over in her hands as she backed toward the exit to the alleyway, stepping gingerly over the prone body of her own opponent, putting distance between them. “What’s in it?”
His lips flattened into a thin line and she ignored the way she noticed. “Nothing of import.”
“Alfie Trumbull thought it was important enough to steal it.”
“Alfie Trumbull thought it was worth enough money to steal it.”
Except Alfie didn’t like robbery; he didn’t think it was worth the risk compared to broader, more lucrative crimes. So whatever was in this box, itwasworth money. And a great deal of money if her father had risked stealing it from a duke.
Even if it wasn’t worth money, it had brought a duke to Lambeth, so whatever was inside was a secret worth having.
As Adelaide had made a life of trading in powerful men’s secrets, and was currently very interested in secrets adjacent to this particular powerful man, she wasn’t about to give this one up easily. She tossed Clayborn a crooked smile. “Those are the same thing on the South Bank, Duke. But here we play by simple rules. She who finds, keeps.”
With that, she ran again, heading from the alleyway at a clip—aiming for the docks.
Of course, he followed. “It’s private,” he ground out as he kept pace with her, the words tortured from him, as though he resented having to speak them. Which of course he would—this was not a man who would deign to share with someone as common as Adelaide.
“That much is clear, or you wouldn’t be skulking about a well-guarded warehouse playing fancy dress.” She slid him a look. “You can’t possibly have thought you wouldn’t be noticed.”
He ran a hand over his beard. “Forgive me if I am not as deft at disguise as you.” He sent a cool look over her from head to toe, though Adelaide did not feel so cool under his scrutiny. “You thought you could simply walk in there, thieve from the head of one of London’s most powerful gangs, and walk out?”
“In fact, I was doing just that until you sent the entire afternoon sideways.”
“I was protecting you!” he growled, matching her annoyance with his own.
