The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(2)

“And yet you’re always there when I need you.”

Wickett tipped his hat. “Let’s hope you’re in need of my services long after tonight.”

“Indeed.”

The coachman would continue to complain until Vane returned unscathed.

Squaring his shoulders and cracking his neck, Vane strode towards the narrow passage, pulled by an invisible rope. One thing was certain. Regardless of what happened in the next fifteen minutes, he was guaranteed to feel something.

Vane paused at the entrance.

He strained his eyes and peered through the white mass swirling in ominous shapes towards him.

Danger lurked within.

He could feel it, smell it, taste it.

Like a panther on the prowl, he honed his senses. Three long, sleek steps and he noted movement. Dull, grey shadows drifted into his field of vision. The stench of the streets wafted over him: grime and sweat and stale tobacco. The choking bitter scent of fog.

His heart raced as the need for vengeance coursed through his veins.

Footsteps shuffled closer. The faint shadow before him grew in height and breadth.

“What ’ave we ’ere then?” The rough, gravelly voice echoed in the confined space. “You seem to ’ave lost yer way, guv’nor.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Vane noted another figure push out from a doorway to his right and skirt around to stand behind him. Excellent. Two made for a more satisfying challenge.

“Oh, I’m not lost.” Vane clenched his fists at his sides. “I know exactly where I am.” Arrogance dripped from every word.

“Happen you know what’s coming then.”

The man stepped forward with the confident swagger of someone who’d grappled on the streets many times before. Upon witnessing the rogue’s slender frame, some men might breathe a sigh of relief. But this thug would be light on his feet, fast with his fists.

“And I would wager twenty guineas you don’t have the first clue what’s coming.” Vane enjoyed taunting them. Despite offering himself as bait, he refused to throw the first punch.

The rogue flexed his bristled jaw. A line of spittle flew from his mouth to land on Vane’s boot.

“Give us yer watch, seal and coin purse, and then you can be on yer way.”

A firm hand from behind gripped Vane’s shoulder. “Do as ’e says and you might get to keep them shiny boots.”

Vane snorted with contempt. “If you want anything from me, you’ll have to take it by force. And I suggest you tell your accomplice to remove his hand else I’m liable to break his fingers.”

Both rogues chuckled.

“This swell cove has a tongue what would whip the shirt off yer back, make no mistake.”

Vane firmed his jaw. When it came, the jab would be quick. “I am simply giving you a choice.” Estelle Darcy had not afforded him the same courtesy. She had struck his heart without warning. A blow so swift and sudden he had not seen it coming. “Step aside, or raise your fists.”

“This ain’t one of yer fancy fighting clubs.”

“And this is not the first time I’ve brawled in an alley.”

“Prancing about in stockings and slippers ain’t brawling. There ain’t no rules on the street.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

A growl signalled the first punch.

Vane dropped his weight, elbowed the man standing behind hard in the stomach, driving him back in order to miss the hit from the rogue in front.

The man behind crumpled to the ground with a groan. Vane dodged another flying fist and followed it with one of his own, a solid smack to the rogue’s cheek that whipped the fool’s head back.

Damn, it felt good.

The other man scrambled to his feet, swung his arm wide and caught Vane just below the ear. The dull thud rang through his head causing a momentary loss of balance.

Vane’s mocking laugh sliced through the air.

This was what he wanted, what he needed. Pain. Physical suffering. Emotional torment. Hot blood awakened every fibre of his being.

God, he had never felt more alive.

“Come on!” Vane cried, beckoning the rogues to take their best shot. “You can do better than that.” The burning need for satisfaction proved overwhelming.

The scrawny one took a swipe. Vane ducked and threw all his weight into a hard uppercut just below the ribs, robbing the ruffian of breath.

“Why, you filthy—” The other man jumped on his back, and Vane reached behind, grabbed the miscreant’s neck and flipped him over his shoulder to land on the ground.

Vane could have ploughed into them, finished it there and then. But he wanted his fifteen minutes’ worth and so padded lightly on the balls of his feet while he waited for them to recover. Men of their ilk did not walk away.

They gathered themselves, but then a growl from behind forced Vane to glance back over his shoulder. Black eyes appeared through the mist, eyes partially obscured by grey fur. Another growl brought a flash of pointed teeth. A wolf — a hound of sorts — stalked closer.

Both rogues took advantage of the distraction. They lunged forward, tackled Vane to the ground, their jabs lacking skill and precision. Delivering one blow after another, he fought back. The crack of bones reached his ears. Blood dripped from one man’s nose onto Vane’s cheek.