The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(37)
Mr Hungerford did not sound at all like himself. He possessed the courage of a drunken sot and yet hadn’t had so much as a sip of coffee. But then his self-assured grin faded and his eyes grew wide, fearful.
The atmosphere changed.
A dark and dangerous energy pervaded the narrow space.
The rogue gasped and then a choking gurgle resonated in his throat.
“May I offer another suggestion?” Ross’ charismatic voice drifted towards her. “Release the lady now else I shall cut your throat from ear to ear.”
The clatter of metal hitting the ground gave Estelle the strength to rush forward. Once safely out of arm’s reach, she whipped around to see her hero dressed head-to-toe in black. He stood behind the rogue, his expression as menacing as the Devil. A trickle of blood ran from where Ross pressed his knife against the rogue’s throat. Rain lashed down upon them. Droplets dripped from the lock of hair hanging rakishly over Ross’ brow.
“Let me at him,” Mr Hungerford suddenly cried. “It is my honour he called into question.”
“This is not about restoring honour,” Ross chided. “What are you going to do? Challenge him to a duel?”
Hungerford slid the sword back into the sheath and handed the cane to Estelle. “I shall challenge him to a fistfight for the insult he has shown to Miss Brown.”
“Good God, man, he dug a knife into her back. Bow Street is the only place for him. After we’ve had a little scuffle, of course, where I will be forced to break his nose.”
“Non! Please, Monsieur,” the rogue blurted. “It is not my fault. I did not—”
“Be quiet, you devil.” In a shocking and highly uncharacteristic move, Mr Hungerford darted forward and slapped the rogue about the face. “We have no interest in anything you have to say.”
Ross dropped his hand and stepped back. “Then have at him if it eases your conscience.” The rogue raised his fists but then turned on his heels and fled the alley. A muttered string of curses left Ross’ lips. “Damnation. Now I’ve no choice but to chase after him.”
“I shall go. This is my fault after all.” Mr Hungerford snatched back his cane and darted off in pursuit before Estelle could catch her breath.
Estelle stared at Ross for a moment. From the frown marring his brow, he appeared equally confused by Mr Hungerford’s odd behaviour. “Were you following me?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” He slipped his blade back into the sheath tucked into his boot, brushed the wet lock of hair back off his brow and came towards her. “No doubt you’re rather glad I did.”
“I have never been more pleased to see you.” Her bonnet shielded her eyes from the rain, but water dripped from the tip of her nose.
He cupped her cheek with his bare hand, used the pad of his thumb to wipe the rain from her chin. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. The rogue wanted money that’s all.”
“Perhaps.”
“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
A satisfied smile played on his lips. He looked so sinfully handsome. Lord help her. Would she ever be able to look at him and not feel love in her heart, or lust in her loins?
“So you did not see me stalking you?”
In truth, she had been so focused on avoiding the subject of marriage she had thought of nothing else. “No, I did not see you.”
They stared at each other, ignoring the rain. She wondered what he was thinking, wondered why he had come.
“I should get you home before you catch your death of cold.” Ross gestured to a point beyond the mist. “My carriage is waiting on Castle Street.”
“But what about Mr Hungerford? We cannot leave him.” It suddenly occurred to her that the poor fellow might have caught the Frenchman. “What if he’s lying injured in the gutter?”
“I can assure you he will return unharmed.”
Ross sounded so confident. Perhaps he knew something she didn’t. Perhaps Mr Hungerford was more skilled with a sword than she’d given him credit.
As if on cue, the clip of booted footsteps reached her ears. Mr Hungerford appeared at the entrance to the alley. He stopped, gripped the wall and bent his head as if all the air was spent from his lungs.
“Mr Hungerford.” Estelle rushed to his side. “Are you well? Did you catch the rogue?”
“I … I’m afraid not,” he gasped. His cheeks were berry-red, and his chest heaved at far too rapid a rate. “The scoundrel was too … too light on his feet, although I whacked him on the back with my cane.”
“You hit him with your stick?” Ross mocked. “How brave.”
“He was too quick for me. The man is skilled in the art of fleeing a crime.”
Ross folded his arms across his broad chest. “Perhaps we should visit Bow Street, recount the event and describe the culprit.”
With a quizzical expression, Mr Hungerford inhaled deeply and said, “I cannot remember much about him. All thieves look the same. Besides, Miss Brown is soaked to the skin. I should see her home before she catches a chill.”
“I shall escort Miss Brown home,” Ross insisted.
“I would not be a gentleman if I neglected in my duty to deliver Miss Brown directly to her front door.”