Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(90)

They might be common footpads. Unlikely, though. Footpads usually worked in smaller numbers, were not this organized, and were after money, not death.

Assassins, then.

And thirdly, His Majesty had recently assigned Hugh an important job: destroy the Lords of Chaos. On the whole, Hugh liked to finish his jobs. Brought a nice sense of completion at the end of the day, if nothing else.

Right, then.

“If you can, run,” Hugh said to the linkboy. “They’re after me, not you.”

Then he pivoted and attacked the closest group—the three men behind them.

Their leader, a big fellow, raised a club.

Hugh slashed him across the throat. The leader went down in a spray of scarlet. But his second was already bringing his own club down in a bone-jarring blow to Hugh’s left shoulder. Hugh juggled the bottle of wine, seized it again, and kicked the man in the balls. The second doubled over and stumbled against the third. Hugh punched over the man’s head and into the face of the third.

There were running footsteps from behind Hugh.

He spun to face the other end of the alley and another attacker.

Caught the descending knife with his blade and slid his sword into the hand holding the knife.

A howling scream, and the knife clattered to the icy cobblestones in a splatter of blood.

The knife man lowered his head and charged like an enraged bull.

Hugh flattened all six foot four inches of himself against the filthy alley wall, stuck out his foot, and tripped Charging Bull into the three men he’d already dealt with.

The linkboy, who had been cowering against the opposite wall, took the opportunity to squirm through the constricted space between the assailants and run away.

Which left them all in darkness, save for the light of the half moon.

Hugh grinned.

He didn’t have to worry about hitting his compatriots in the dark.

He rushed the man next in line after the Bull. They’d picked a nice alley, his attackers. No way out—save the ends—but in such close quarters he had a small advantage: no matter how many men were against him, the alley was so cramped that only two could come at him at a time. The rest were simply bottled up behind the others, twiddling their thumbs.

Hugh slashed the man and shouldered past him. Got a blow upside the head for his trouble and saw stars. Hugh shook his head and elbowed the next—hard—in the face, and kicked the third in the belly. Suddenly he could see the light at the end of the alley.

Hugh knew men who felt that gentlemen should never run from a fight. Of course many of these same men had never been in a real fight.

Besides, he had those three very good reasons.

Actually, now that he thought of it, there was a fourth reason he did not want to die tonight.

Hugh ran to the end of the alley, his bottle of fine Viennese wine cradled in the crook of his left arm, his sword in the other fist. The cobblestones were iced over and his momentum was such that he slid into the lit street.

Where he found another half-dozen men bearing down on him from his left.

Bloody hell.

Fourthly, he hadn’t had a woman in his bed in over nine months, and to die in such a drought would be a particularly unkind blow from fate, goddamn it.

Hugh nearly dropped the blasted wine as he scrambled to turn to the right. He could hear the men he’d left in the alley rallying even as he sprinted straight into the worst part of London: the stews of St Giles. They were right on his heels, a veritable army of assassins. The streets here were narrow, ill lit, and cobbled badly, if at all. If he fell because of ice or a missing cobblestone, he’d never get up again.

He turned down a smaller alley and then immediately down another.

Behind him he heard a shout. Christ, if they split up, they would corner him again.

He hadn’t enough of a lead, even if a man of his size could easily hide in a place like St Giles. Hugh glanced up as he entered a small courtyard, the buildings on all four sides leaning in. Overhead the moon was veiled in clouds, and it almost looked as if a boy were silhouetted, jumping from one rooftop to another …

Which …

Was insane.

Think. If he could circle and come back the way he’d entered St Giles, he could slip their noose.

A narrow passage.

Another cramped courtyard.

Ah, Christ.

They were already here, blocking the two other exits.

Hugh spun, but the passage he’d just run from was crowded with more men, almost a dozen in all.

Well.

He put his back to the only wall left to him and straightened.

He rather wished he’d tasted the wine. He was fond of Viennese wine.

A tall man in a ragged brown coat and a filthy red neckcloth stepped forward. Hugh half expected him to make some sort of a speech, he looked that full of himself. Instead he drew a knife the size of a man’s forearm, grinned, and licked the blade.

Oh, for—

Hugh didn’t wait for whatever other disgusting preliminaries Knife Licker might feel were appropriate to the occasion. He stepped forward and smashed the bottle of very fine Viennese wine over the man’s head.

Then they were on him.

He slashed and felt the jolt to his arm as he hit flesh.

Swung and raked the sword across another’s face.

Staggered as two men slammed into him.

Another hit him hard in the jaw.

And then someone clubbed him behind the knees.