Page 13

Bloody, holy hell.

Someone followed Ian, and he blamed his own carelessness. Could this confounded evening possibly worsen? Too furious to take the carriage home, he opted to walk instead, hoping the exercise would alleviate a degree of his ire.

The effort had proved futile.

He’d been ambushed once already this tonight, though the methods used by Stapleton and his entourage of powerful cronies were much more refined than this pair of grimy brutes. A dim streetlamp’s light cut a narrow path across the pavement. He quickly scanned the lane for other riffraff. Deserted, as well it should be this time of night.

Lucky for these miscreants his dark thoughts had consumed him, and he hadn’t been as attentive as was typical. Unfortunately for them, however, they lacked good sense and selected him to spice. Eyeing the footpads creeping toward him from two different directions, Ian permitted a satisfied smile. Yes, indeed, a chance to expend his wrath might prove just the thing.

Unbridled rage yet throttled through him, and these spawns of Satan would be on the receiving end of a month’s worth of ire magnified to the point of violence over the course of the past two hours. Two hours in which Stapleton effectively cornered and entrapped him.

As he took a defensive stance, the smaller of the thieves swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his scrawny neck like a chicken pecking corn. Slanting a sidelong glance to his bulgier crony, he licked his lips. “Give us yer purse an’ we won’t ’urt ye.”

The ugly-looking knife he wielded belied his words. Laughing uneasily, he revealed several missing teeth, his rancid breath wafting to Ian on the cool evening breeze. A cloud blew past revealing a quarter moon, but its meager light did little to illuminate the gloomy street corner.

Ian smirked at the thief’s false bravado before switching his gaze to assess the larger man. The brute outweighed him by a good three or four stone, though Ian was several inches taller.

“Aye, guvna.” He nodded his oafish head, his many chins disappearing in the sweaty folds of fat around his neck. “We only be after yer blunt.” His sly gaze danced to his partner’s, and he sniggered as if privy to a private joke.

Shifting his blade menacingly from hand to hand, the short fellow cackled.

“Gentlemen—and I do use the term loosely—I welcome the opportunity to have a bit of sport with you.” He unhurriedly removed his hat from his head and just as nonchalantly tossed the expensive top hat to the ground. Casually twirling the silver tipped cane he carried in his left hand, he unbuttoned his coat with the other. “It’s been far too long since I’ve had an opportunity to practice my sparring.”

The ruffians traded a fleeting, bewildered glance.

Ian grinned at their growing alarm. As he’d anticipated, they both lunged for him at once. In one swift, fluid motion, he slammed his cane into the wrist of the scrounger brandishing the knife. The blade flew through the air, clattering onto the cobblestones and clanking along until it slid to a stop several feet away.

He simultaneously plowed his foot into the other ruffian’s pudgy midsection. The kick knocked the bigger man onto his ample bum, and with a loud, pained grunt, he skidded backward on his arse.

Clutching his damaged arm, the smaller robber swore. “Ye broke me wrist, ye bloody bug—”

Discarding the cane, Ian let fly with an uppercut. The blow landed square on the man’s pockmarked jaw. The cur spun halfway around, wobbled unsteadily, and then toppled to the ground, bum upward and out cold.

“That’s one.” Ian grinned, only a bit winded as he faced the other fellow. He beckoned with his hand, wiggling his fingers tauntingly. “Come on then. Let’s be about it, blubber guts.”

The other blackguard lumbered to his feet, and bellowing his fury, charged forward like an inebriated bull.

Ian ducked the first, ham-fisted punch. “Surely a great lummox like you can do better than that,” he mocked.

The thief’s second swing connected soundly with his cheek. Damn. Too much wine tonight had slowed his reflexes.

“’Ows ’bout that?” the brute puffed, sucking in great gulps of air. “I don’ see ye laughin’ now.”

Taking a couple dancing steps beyond his opponent’s reach, Ian touched his face. “Ah, it seems I’ve underestimated your skills. I do apologize. It shan’t happen again.”

“Come on, ye dandified twiddle poop.” The robber’s mouth curled sideways into a sneer.

Ian laughed, swiping the hair off his forehead. He’d never been called a twiddle poop before. An image of Lord Pickering’s garish attire sprang to mind. He chuckled once more. Now there was a twiddle poop.

The filthy man confronting Ian crouched low, his oversized hands circling about, beating the air. Thick rivulets of sweat trickled down his blotchy face, and his stubby tongue repeatedly darted out to lick the moisture off his thick upper lip.

Best to make short work of it.

“Do forgive me for ending our match swiftly, but I’ve important matters to attend to.” Lunging forward, Ian planted a facer upside his surprised assailant’s crooked nose.

His guttural groan muffled the crunch of breaking bones as blood spurted from his broken nose.

Another well-placed punch to his opponent’s flabby stomach bent the man over, and Ian kicked the rotter on his broad rear, sending him face-first to the ground.