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Therefore, he must have come straight from hell.
Or a tavern, which was close enough.
He had a vague recollection of a long evening stretching into the night, full of boisterous laughter, ribald song, and the consumption of many tankards of metheglin.
The mead had been Hugh’s idea. He had expressed a wish to imitate the Vikings of old and after six or seven rounds of the heady, overly sweet stuff, had even endeavored to stand up on a table and recite a skaldic poem.
He had fallen off the table a few stanzas in.
Angel had left him where he fell—passed out on the sawdust floor snoring peacefully. The owner of the Red Hart was well-acquainted with the pair, tolerating their antics for the sake of the business the duke’s patronage brought, and had promised to see him conveyed to a bed. As there was clearly no waking Hugh, Angel decided that would have to suffice.
He vaguely wondered why he had not called a hackney, then remembered it was a fine night and he had decided a stroll home would clear his head.
So far, it had not, but it was a good idea in theory.
It was a worse one in reality. It was past two in the morning. The streets were dark and the silence deafening.
A wiser, less intoxicated man might have been more concerned for the safety of his personage.
But it was too late to turn back now. He was almost home. A few blocks past the bridge, then inside, to bed, rest, a tonic. Brown would have a tonic, good chap. Excellent valet. Would also make an excellent nursemaid.
He crossed the bridge, managing to walk in a mostly straight line.
Peering ahead he could see two figures towards the end of the bridge, their faces hidden under the hoods of the cloaks they wore.
He tripped on a cobblestone and nearly fell forward, catching himself on the bridge rail just in time. If the two strangers had seen, he must look a right fool.
A fair assessment.
Not that he was too concerned about the judgement of two strangers, but they were hooded which was a little odd on a warm summer night. Angel was lightly dressed, cravat loosened around his neck and tailcoat unbuttoned for optimal coolness.
The hoods were somewhat mysterious. Suspicious even.
Might get ugly. Could be footpads. Waiting for a drunk rich sod to come by. Might think he was an easy mark if they’d seen him trip. Be surprised then. Hopefully wouldn’t come to that.
Probably just a lovers’ tryst. Hoods up to protect identities.
He was nearing them now, and could see that one of the figures was quite slight. A woman.
A tryst then, definitely a tryst. He had had his share of midnight rendezvous. A lady might not want a home visit from a lover. What would the neighbors think? What would the husband think?
He heard the woman’s low voice, then the man’s deeper tone as he replied.
Deuced awkward to be interrupting a lovebirds’ moment. He made sure to stay on the opposite side as he walked.
Couldn’t help a curious glance though. Only human. Might even be someone he knew. Not that he’d ever breathe a word. Not that kind of a man.
He spotted a glint of shining metal.
It was in the woman’s small, outstretched hand. She didn’t know how to hold a knife whatsoever. Grip was all wrong, couldn’t do much harm that way.
He had been walking quietly if not steadily, unnoticed or at least ignored until now.
He could keep walking. Ignore them.
Perhaps she was a lady footpad. Who worked alone.
Though one would think she’d be better with a knife.
