To her right, she saw two thugs closing the distance, but to her left the way was clear. Nash grunted, jumping halfway up the fence, struggling to keep up with her. She was free.
“So long, sailor boy,” she grinned, winked at Nash, and dashed around the corner before the thugs could catch her.
“I'll ruddy kill you! Doxy! Cit!” Nash spat, ran his mouth, and watched her disappear.
As Leah came soaring around the corner, a tall nobleman exited his carriage with a slight hop. The unusual movement for someone so well dressed threw Leah off balance, and she half expected him to turn and lay her out flat.
He was finely dressed, as only the truly rich were, but his physique was not that of the far-too-scrawny, or far-too-heavy royal frame that she was used to seeing.
He had broad shoulders that seemed they could carry the weight of the world. His face had the brief glimpse of curiosity, rather than anger, at her appearance, and Leah was thrown off guard.
She nearly knocked the man over, colliding with one of his shoulders, but she regained her footing with a grunt. Pain shot again through her ankle, but she could not linger on it.
Leah pushed past him over the cobblestones as the rain started to come down again in its random spurts. As she limped away, she cursed herself.
I could have had his pocket book.
* * *
Kenneth Wilson, the Duke of Worthington, brushed away the impact mark on his greatcoat as the lad shoved past him. He was about to be received by his guest atop the stairs, in the entrance to the Assembly Rooms, but instead he had been run into by some lad in a hurry.
Kenneth followed the runner with his eyes for a moment before turning his gaze back to the large nobleman atop the stairs. He raised his shoulders in a half-hearted gesture as if to say, “Well what was all that about?”
His host, who had been appalled to see such an encounter, took Kenneth's good nature as an indicator on how he should behave.
“My,” the nobleman huffed. “in a hurry, isn't he?”
“It would seem.” Kenneth replied. He checked his coat once more, and satisfied with its appearance, began to walk up the stairs towards his host. “Perhaps on account of this weather.” Kenneth gestured upwards to the turbulent sky with the handle of his cane.
“Most likely,” his host grunted. “come in, come in, we were just discussing your bill – ”
But he was cut short by the shouting of seven men, all in varying states of distress. They conglomerated just beyond Kenneth's carriage, and pointed excitedly towards the lad that had run into him, limping down the street.
“I say.” the Marquess huffed. “What is this?”
“There she is!” Nash shouted. “Come on lads!” The pack tore after her like hounds on the hunt.
“Criminals!” the Marquess gasped. “Call the constables!”
“She...” Kenneth muttered, watching them run down the street. His eyes moved up their trajectory, past the gaggles of people clustered beneath business and porch awnings. There he was. The limping lad. Then came a gust of air that caused Kenneth to brace in his greatcoat, and he saw the hood fall from the runner's head.
It was no lad, but a woman, that Kenneth could see now. Long, flowing tresses streamed behind her as she ran, and she glanced back in terror at those chasing her.
“It is a woman.” Kenneth said abruptly, turning away from the stairs as it began to rain again.
He watched as she kept her breathing even and looking straight ahead. The sheer determination in her eyes was palpable.
Kenneth did not hesitate. He handed his cane and top hat to the Marquess and took off down the street after them, much to the flabbergasted dismay of his would-be host.
Of course, if anyone from the House of Lords would be seen chasing hoodlums down the block, it would be Kenneth Wilson.
Since he was a boy, he had cultivated a reputation among the nobility as the daring, adventurous type. A young man of seven and twenty, Kenneth had already seen his fair share of danger. During the invasion of France in 1812, he had enlisted not as a captain or lieutenant, but as an ensign, and he had shared the hardships of the ground with his tight, cohesive unit. The army had loved him for it, but the Lords hated him for earning the respect of the men. From France, he had gone to America to fight the colonists, and from New England he had gone back to France, to fight at Waterloo.
Upon retiring from the army at the rank of captain, Kenneth had turned his eye towards London's poor. Abroad, he had seen the harshness of the world beyond his gated grounds. He had seen the chain reaction of poverty, war, and crime. He had seen the cycle of children turned into thieves, thieves turned into killers, and killers turned into corpses play itself out time and time again.
There were issues that fellows of his prestige chose to ignore, for it played no part in their world of embroidery and brandy. It was no secret that Kenneth wanted to focus the efforts of his affluence on the poor; naturally, his work had fallen prey to the artfully well-mannered mocking of his present company.
So, it was well understood to the Marquess on his steps why the Duke of Worthington might dash off down the block to save some rain-soaked lad from a beating. Nevertheless, he, like anyone else present, found Kenneth's actions abrupt and out of place.
The young woman turned down a darkened street with the men on her heels. No woman of respect would be seen on St. James’s Street, much less unaccompanied by a husband or chaperone. Now that her disguise was forfeit, she was an easy mark for the gaggle of goons behind her.
The sound of boots thundering in the streets ricocheted off the buildings, mixing with the splash of overflowing rain gutters. Kenneth followed their trail at a jog for several blocks until the sounds came to a sudden halt. They were close.
Only Kenneth’s labored breathing could be heard in the chilling silence as the rain decided to let up. He slowed to a brisk walk, side stepping the massive puddles as to not make a noticeable sound. Kenneth peered into every crack and corner that he passed.
Perhaps they are gone. The thought discouraged him.
Imagining this unresolved conflict would rack at his brain. Who was she? Why was she running? Will she be alright?
Kenneth began to despair. It was a hard fact that still he labored to accept, even after the years he spent in war-torn countries; he could not help everyone.
As he was about to turn back, muffled voices reached his ears. I've got you.
“Quiet, pretty. We don’ want none of them highborns cuttin’ in on our little dance. You thought you could get away, proper ripe that is.”
* * *
Leah twisted her face away from Nash’s foul breath as he pinned her to the brick, spitting out his venomous words like an angered snake. The wall was wet with rain, and it soaked through the back of her jacket, finishing off any dry patch once and for all.
Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to allow Nash the privilege of seeing them spill.
They followed me through the square, she cursed to herself. She had gambled that their fear of Riphook's rage at their publicity would overpower their desire to provide him with her head. It seemed she had gambled wrong.
She was trapped now, stuck against the wall between four sour cutthroats. They had her restrained, but she could try to outsmart them. It was the only chance she had of escaping the knife at her belly.
“I’ve got quid comin’,” she squirmed her face a bit further from his. “I can offer a split, between you and your chums. No doubt more than what Rip’s offerin’ you, Nash. All yours, I don't even need a piece.”
Only laughter followed her offer. No one in Riphook’s crew would accept disloyalty within the ranks. It was said a ship was sinking when the rats jumped overboard. Riphook hated rats, and he would not tolerate them one iota.
Despite what the highborn or any oblivious outsider might assume about the underworld, the new leaders of the underground had a code of honor that was strictly abided by. They also had an accord with the rover
s, the crooked clergy, and what remained of some pirates holed up on the French coast. No one would cross him it seemed, no one but her.
“I got papers. A list of names involved in a banned cargo trade with royal seals on them. Papers Rip will be wantin’ fierce. Take 'em and be off, eh? I'll still get you that quid.”
“One plumper after another, eh? I’d bet me own nutmeg you ain’t got no job in the works, nor no papers in your bosom,” Nash spat a fat glob onto the pavement, and it washed away in the resumed downpour. “After the stunt you pulled, you be lucky Rip didn’t come for you himself. Real bad sight that'd be, eh? You know how he be when he gets emotional. Thought you could just pack up and run without Rip sendin’ us to find you out?”
Leah attempted to pry a loose brick out of the wall behind her back, working at the grout with her fingernails, scrapping the skin from her fingertips. Nash saw this and slammed her back against the brick, forcing her arms outward, and restrained them above her head. “Naughty, naughty, little Leah! Still tryn'a get away!” His breath was hot and rancid. “I promised me mum I weren’t ever gon’ hit a girl. But you ain’t no girl, is you? You're a right spitting image of a man!” He drove his knee hard into her stomach, taking the air clean from her.
Leah gasped, collapsing to her knees in the rain, clutching at her stomach, trying to breath. The thugs around them chuckled at her pain. The rain began again.
“No, I won’t be killin’ you, little Leah. I want to see the fire leave your eyes first, like the bleedin' spitfire you are, so me and the boys is gon’ have us some fun before takin’ you back to Rip, ain't that right lads?”
Nash pressed his rusted blade to the sun-kissed column of Leah’s neck while the thugs picked her up and again pinned her to the wall. One of them gave her another blow to the stomach while she was held there, and she wheezed in pain.
Nash licked his lips like a salamander and smiled wickedly, showing off a rotted set of teeth that hung haphazardly about his gums. Leah started to realize that she wasn't getting out of this one. She was pinned, immobile, outnumbered, and there was a knife at her throat. The only thing she had left was defiance.
“Big word for you, ain't it? Emotional,” she sneered back into Nash's haunting face. “Wa’ the devil you been readin', Nash?”
“Shut it!” Nash pushed the knife against the old, crooked scar running down Leah's cheek, angling the edge into it. A thin line of blood sprouted and dripped slowly down the blade. “Should we open this up? See what daddy left us?”
Leah spit in Nash’s face, and one of the thugs must have struck her, for pain exploded suddenly through her jaw, vibrating up into her skull. The arms that were holding her in place gave way and she fell. Time seemed so slow to her then, and she gracefully slumped to the cobblestones as blood trickled from her mouth and cheek. Then it began.
The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth as they encircled her, striking out with their boots, again and again. She jerked back and forth with the blows, the rain pelting ever downward.
“You fight like a chambermaid,” she taunted, rolling over onto her back. Leah laughed upwards to Nash's face, challenging him with a twinkle of resistant fire in her eyes. She lay in a swelling puddle, and her vision danced back and forth as another kick came across her brow. “Poor little Nash,” she cackled against the pain as shock began to overpower it.,
“Shut up!” he screamed down at her, kicking again.
“Where's your wife, Nash?” She laughed up at him. It seemed to her she would die as his boot stuck her. Something changed then, with that strike. This had gone from a beating to a killing, and she could feel the difference in her ribs. “Run off with your brother, hasn't she?” she croaked up through her split lips. If she was going to die, at least she would haunt the bastard in his dreams.
“Time to die, cit!” Nash raised the rusty blade.
“Go to Hell, Nash,” Leah looked up at his raging face. It was a horrible last thing to look at.
“Stop! You there!” It was a man's voice that caused them to turn together. A voice that belonged to nobody in the group. A voice that meant their cover had been blown, a voice that brought with it a witness, and thus the murder could not take place.
A thug who had been minding the end of the alley stepped up to challenge the newcomer. Leah could not be sure of what she was seeing as another set of blows rained down on her, but from what she could tell the man cast the thug aside as if he were merely a sack of flour with a snap from his elbow.
“Split!” one of the thugs shouted, and they were everywhere at once, barreling away from the silhouette at the end of the alleyway.
“Hold there!” the voice challenged, and the man began running towards them. “Give pause, bastards!” he called, charging on ahead.
Nash spat down, gave Leah one final kick, and dashed off. The final blow sent her reeling, jarring her back against the wall, and everything swam circles in her head. It was a bright, warm feeling, radiating from the back of her head that enveloped her then. A great lightness, as if she were among the clouds and free as a bird. She moved to stand, but she could not, and she collapsed into a heap.
The shouts of Nash and the other men drifted off into the distance. The warmness overtook her, washing white the slate of her vision. For a moment, she thought she saw the glimmer of finely-polished shoes enter her line of sight.
What a fine buckle that is, and then darkness consumed her.
Chapter 2
Kenneth smashed the thug in front of him hard with his elbow and moved past the collapsing man towards the woman. She lay in a crumpled ball, being whaled upon by these animals, and he was set on saving her.
“Split!” one of them shouted, and they began to scurry about.
“Bugger off,” the one identified as Nash turned, and snapped at him. “She belongs to us!”
Kenneth sprinted the distance to Nash with speed that shocked everyone present and threw him against the same wall he had pinned the young woman to. The force of the movement caused Nash to drop his blade, and it spun off into a puddle.
For a brief moment, Kenneth was able to take proper stock of the man. Scars crisscrossing his right shoulder seemed to tally the innocent people who’d lost their lives, and their fortunes to this man. There was a deep-set hatred in his eyes, one that could be directed towards whatever or whoever caused him ill. Kenneth knew this type well; Nash represented exactly what he was working towards eliminating in England.
“There be lots more pain comin’ her way ‘cause of you. No one to protect her when you leave, puppy. You may as well gut her yourself,” Nash cackled into Kenneth's face, spitting beads into his cheeks. “You don't know who you're dealing with.”
“I could say the same to you,” Kenneth said through his teeth, holding fast on Nash's shirt. “You will answer for this!”
Then one of the thugs struck Kenneth across his back, and he was forced to release Nash with a grunt. Kenneth whirled about and struck the man responsible hard in the abdomen, forcing him to double over. When he spun back, Nash was gone.
Kenneth looked down the alley to see the criminal disappearing around the corner. Turning around once more revealed that the man who had just struck him was gone as well out the other end of the alleyway. Even the one he had struck in the nose had vanished.
All was suddenly silent, and Kenneth turned towards the wounded woman on the ground. She was badly beaten, he could clearly see. Her face was terribly swollen, and she curled in a way that indicated broken ribs and terrible pain. Kenneth had seen plenty of injuries, and he knew within a few moments of looking at her that she would live. She would be terribly sore for weeks, but she would live.
Kenneth knelt beside the girl and brushed aside a lock of silken, chestnut hair from her battered forehead. His breath caught at the sight of her bloodied lips and bruised cheeks. He had not seen injuries of this magnitude since his time in the army. Beneath her right eye, his attention was caught by a long, pale scar that ran down h
er face.
Although the scar was a blatant feature of her face, it did not detract from her somewhat angelic appearance. Her cheek bones rested gently around her thin lips. She looked to be at the age of consent to marry, which begged the question of her guardian’s whereabouts; however, as Kenneth observed the young woman’s appearance, he noticed the dirt beneath her fingernails and the calloused palms of a hard worker. Those factors, coupled with her beaten body, indicated a curious set of circumstances.
She wore ill-fitted gentleman’s clothing and her body was covered in more dirt than the ground beneath her, but there was no mistaking her for anything other than female. Kenneth checked her over for any severe injuries but kept his eyes and ears sharp in case the gang decided to return.
There was no doubt in his mind that she was meddling in something dangerous and drowning in more danger than she was capable of handling, but something within compelled him to lift her from the wet ground. He brushed his fingers gently across her soft, honeyed complexion. Her small frame was so different in comparison to his solid build, and he marveled at her ability to withstand the gang's assault.
The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 2