The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London 4)

“I suppose you think me foolish.” Vane tugged his coat sleeves and flexed his fingers.

“It doesn’t matter what I think, my lord. I’ll never understand the minds of intelligent folk.”

Intelligent?

Only an imbecile would enter an alley in this part of town, at this time of night. But he’d rather partake in a fistfight than hover on the verge of consciousness in a laudanum-induced state. Besides, was a beating not a form of self-flagellation, punishment for his incompetence?

Through the thick, smothering cloud, Fate’s finger beckoned him, taunted him to step towards the alley.

“If I fail to appear in fifteen minute

s, I suggest you come and find me.”

Wickett turned his head and muttered something into the raised collar of his driving coat. “Fifteen minutes,” Wickett repeated. A weary sigh left the coachman’s lips, the white mist joining the thousands of other frustrated breaths that made up this foggy night. “But then I’ve never been good at telling the time.”

“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.”