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Raucous laughter rung out. “You’re just too fecking slow.”
The second voice sounded garbled. There were a few scuffling sounds and then the scent of cigarette smoke wafted inside. They had to be close if she could smell it through the doors. Goodness, her legs were beginning to cramp. Bronwyn inched forward slightly, shifting the pressure off her thighs, but it sent a small scatter of gravel down the stairs that sounded like gunshots to her ears. She held her breath.
“Did you hear that, Ralphie?”
“Fecking rats.”
“Let’s head back. Larry and Frank went the other way.”
God, Bronwyn hoped there weren’t any rats in the cellar she was hiding in. She could think of nothing more horrible than one of them crawling up her leg. She blinked, remembering what had brought her here in the first place. Never mind, capture by Carl and Ralphie would bemuchworse. After a few minutes, their voices got fainter, and with no small amount of relief, Bronwyn realized they were walking away. And then a shout made her freeze.
“Oy, he was in the tavern!”
“A rich toff by the looks of him. At least we won’t go home empty-handed.”
The sounds of a scuffle reached her ears, punctuated by dull thwacks and grunts. What sounded like a moan pierced the air. She couldn’t tell if it had come from her two pursuers or whatever poor sod had happened upon them by accident.
It’s none of your business, Bronwyn. Stay hidden.
There were more out there, including the brutish lout from the tavern, who she knew would want a personal reckoning after she’d upended a table at him. But she couldn’t stay hidden, not when some innocent soul was getting mugged by those two unpleasant criminals. Carefully, she eased upward, cringing when more gravel skittered beneath her feet. She pushed the door upward, hoping that the hinges would not be old and rusty and loud. Thankfully, they weren’t. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw three shadowy, grappling figures taking center stage.
One bearded redhead lay groaning on the ground, while a man—a tall, well-dressed, hatless man with a cap of light-brown curls—kicked a knife out of his hands that went skating halfway across the courtyard. The other man ran at him from behind, and she couldn’t help it, she shouted out a warning. But it was too late. The man looked directly at her and Bronwyn shuddered with the wallop of recognition just as the knife in the second man’s hand came down.
The Duke of Thornbury was here.
With unearthly, catlike speed for a man of his size, he dodged the brunt of the strike and slammed upward with his own fist right into the man’s throat. Crimson welled over his neckline, spotting his white cravat with red, and Bronwyn realized with a cry that the assailant’s knife had found his skin after all. He’d avoided a killing blow, but gotten carved from chin to collarbone in the process. The sight of that blood did something to her.
“Valentine!”
“Stay there,” he growled. “Don’t move.”
It was in slow motion that she saw the fallen man pulling a gun from his boot. Bronwyn didn’t think; she pulled the pistol from her pocket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the man right in the thigh, but it was enough for him to drop the weapon and collapse.
***
Valentine stared at her in mute shock before rushing over to where she stood like a deer frozen in the shine of a lantern, frowning ferociously at the man she’d shot as if daring him to rise. “Run!” he rasped, taking hold of her arm in an unyielding grip and ushering her from the open square. “There are more of them, including that big beast from the tavern.”
“What are you doing here?” she bit out over her shoulder as she hurried to keep up with him.
He glared down at her. “Looking out for your fool self.”
“Last I checked, I didn’t need much looking after, Your Grace,” she shot back, even though he’d seen the gratitude and the fear in her expression. “I’m not the one bleeding like a stuck pig or who would have been shot through the gut. I was quite fine in my quiet little hiding place.”
“These men are not playing parlor games.”
She let out a gasping snort. “Is that so? Because I could have sworn he invited me to play whist right after a game of blindman’s bluff.”
“Put that vigor toward running instead of nattering, and we just might make it out of here.”
“You’re bleeding,” she panted, eyes slicking over him again.
His neck stung, but he could pay it no mind. It was in one of those places that bled profusely because of the thinness of the skin, but he hoped the injury wasn’t anything more than a scratch. He suffered worse and lived.
And besides, they were moving much too slowly. While the lady was commendably fast on her feet, he could hear the indistinct shouts of their followers, which meant they weren’t far behind. Thankfully, he knew Philadelphia well enough to figure out which routes to take, but they wouldn’t have a hope in hell if they didn’t pick up the pace.
The big man from the tavern hadn’t been that far from Valentine’s heels, but he’d managed to throw him off near Market Street. In the process, he’d lost Bronwyn, and it was only by sheer luck that he’d come upon the two bully ruffians who’d stopped for a cigarette in that square. Was it also by luck thatshehad saved his life twice now? The first time with the shout and the second with that rather excellent shot. Had she meant to shoot the man in a place he might survive?
Valentine shook his head. She was a witless chit with nary a skill beyond chattering the ear off the nearest gentleman. She’d probably pointed and shot, and hoped for the best. He revised the opinion as soon as he made it. No, her hold on that weapon had been one of confident skill, not the grip of a novice. He attempted to reconcile the versions of her he’d seen—the flighty coquette, the carefree dancer, and most of all, the marksman in disguise who met strange men in taverns and referenced a notorious person of interest. Valentine intended to get to the truth of the matter sooner or later.
