The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London 4)

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.

Breathless pants filled the air.

A manic euphoria flooded his chest.

The wolfhound barked and bared its teeth.

One thug dragged Vane to his feet. “Hit him, Davy, and have done with it. That mangy mutt looks like it ain’t eaten for weeks.”

Davy looked nervous. Blood stained his lips. One eyelid had swollen to the size of a plum. And yet he found the strength to draw back and release his clenched fist.

The uppercut made contact with Vane’s chin, the power of it knocking his teeth together. His legs buckled, and he fell back, smacking his head hard on the ground. The thud echoed in his ears. Spots of light danced before his eyes. A fog of confusion clouded his mind. He couldn’t focus. The world swayed.

Loud voices and the clip of footsteps near the entrance caused both rogues to jump up and take flight. The hound chased after them, snapping at their heels.

Strange voices rent the air.

“Turn here, Mr Erstwhile. Turn here. This is Bedford Street. I’m convinced of it.”