A Spy's Devotion (The Regency Spies of London #1)(9)

Using the element of surprise, he kicked the block of wood out of the hand of the first man and then kicked him, hard, in the groin.

Nicholas jumped to his feet and landed a blow to the other man’s nose. That man drew a knife. Holding his nose with one hand, he slashed at Nicholas with the other.

Nicholas anticipated the move and sidestepped just in time to escape a stab to the midsection. But in jumping out of the way, he stepped on the first man, who was lying on the ground, moaning.

The downed man grabbed Nicholas’s ankle, throwing him off balance. As the second man lunged at him again with the knife, Nicholas fell flat on his back in the alley, banging his head.

Two gray-green eyes loomed over him as the second man held the knife to Nicholas’s throat.

Nicholas reached up and yanked the handkerchief off the man’s face, revealing snarling lips and even, white teeth.

The man’s eyes widened, and he fumbled to pull the handkerchief back up over his nose and mouth.

Nicholas seized the hand that held the knife and twisted the man’s wrist as hard as he could, at the same time throwing his opponent to the ground and then rolling over on top of him. The knife fell from his loosened grip as the man cried out in pain. Nicholas pinned his foe’s wrists to the ground.

Shuffling footsteps were coming toward him. A boot slammed into his ribs and then shoved him onto his back.

The first man, breathing hard and with sweat pouring down his forehead, stood over Nicholas. Before Nicholas could move out of the way, the second man brought his foot down on Nicholas’s wounded left shoulder, digging in with his heel.

Nicholas cried out. The pain sent his vision spinning and growing black as the man continued to press into the very spot where the bullet had penetrated his shoulder.

Nicholas’s cry of pain turned into a roar of anger. He grabbed the man’s foot and pushed up with all his might. But as he raised his good shoulder off the ground, the second man squatted beside him and slammed him back down. He reached inside Nicholas’s coat, into his breast pocket. Then the two of them ran away.

The attack was over as suddenly as it had begun.

Nicholas lay on his back in the alley, breathless with pain. He felt inside his breast pocket with his right hand.

The diary was gone.

Nicholas’s head pounded, and his shoulder felt as if he’d been shot all over again, but his arms and legs still worked. He clenched his fists, staring down the alley the men had run down. There was no sign of them. No doubt they were long gone.

Nicholas must get out of the filthy alleyway. He raised his shoulders off the ground, but the sharp pain in his shoulder caused him to gasp. He ignored the pain and sat up.

“Sir, are you hurt?” A man hurried toward him. “I saw the whole thing from my apothecary shop across the street. Those filthy beggars. Who should think such foul fellows could be lurking around this part of London?”

Nicholas accepted the stranger’s offer to help him get to his feet. The pain in his shoulder was intense, like a fiery poker stabbing him. Had all the mending in his shoulder been undone? He suspected if he looked inside his coat he’d see the wound open and bleeding again.

It was as if the miscreants had known of his shoulder wound and had purposely attacked him there. But how could they have known? And how did they know about the diary? Stealing the diary was obviously the object of their attack. They hadn’t demanded money, and they could have killed him if they’d wanted to.

“If you can make it across the street to my shop, you can rest yourself there awhile.” The man fetched Nicholas’s hat and handed it to him.

Nicholas took a few steps. “I am very grateful for your help. I think I am well enough now, and I have an appointment that I must keep. But thank you for your kind offer.” Nicholas looked him in the eye. “May I have your name?”

“Adam Brewer, apothecary. That is my shop there”—he pointed across the street—“where my son is my apprentice.”

“Nicholas Langdon.”

“Imagine, a gentleman being attacked in the streets of London. What is this country coming to, I ask you? A crying shame, it is. If my son were here, he’d help you look for the brigands, but I sent him on an errand not ten minutes ago.”

Nicholas smiled at the man’s good-natured fussing. “It would be fruitless to try to catch my assailants now. I must see to my business. Good day, Mr. Brewer. And thank you again.”

“Most readily, most readily. I shall keep a sharp eye out for those blighters, you can be sure!”

Nicholas went on his way, but his stomach sank at the thought of having to tell McDowell at the War Office that he had lost the diary. If only Beechum had told him how important the book was. But the only thing he had said was, “Give this to Garrison Greenfield at the Horse Guards . . . Whitehall, London.” Those were his last words. After he’d handed Nicholas the diary, he had slipped into unconsciousness and died a few hours later.

When Nicholas reached the War Office, his shoulder still burned ferociously and his head throbbed. But he forced himself to concentrate on his task. This had now become a more serious matter than he had imagined.

He was taken to McDowell’s office, where the young man, near Nicholas’s age, stood and greeted him. Philip McDowell had always been an amiable, but not overly talkative, gentleman. He had sharp blue eyes, which Nicholas remembered, and a trim, reddish-brown beard, which was new.