Oh, for the love of all that is good. This night has gone on long enough already. Blythe stepped forward.
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CHAPTER
TWO
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"And six, and six, and six again, the pot goes to Demon Tom."
Thomas Martin, the Marquess of Amory, leaned forward in his chair and swept the purse containing the winnings into his pocket.
"Well done, eh, lads?" he said with a wink. The other men at his table looked less than pleased. Two of them looked philosophical about their losses, but the third glared at him with murder in his eyes.
"Check the dice," he said loudly. "No one gets that lucky, not three times in a row. Check the damned dice. The bastard loaded his own on the table."
"Careful, my friend," said Thomas, a smile still on his face. "Those are dueling words, and I'm even luckier there than I am at the tables."
The house dealer started to say something soothing, but the angry man slammed his fist down on the felt-covered table.
"I want to see the dice!"
The dealer handed the small carved dice over, and with a scowl, the man tossed the dice twice. The second time, they rolled up two twos and a one, and Thomas laughed.
"Unlucky even when trying to make a point. Here, my friend, let me buy you a drink. Surely, you can't be unlucky when you are trying some Madeira sack, right?"
The man's temper, already frayed, seemed to snap with a nearly audible sound. He thrust the table aside, standing up and reaching for Thomas, who stood up to meet him. As the man threw the first hard punch toward Thomas’ face, Thomas simply side-stepped, grabbing the man's arm and pulling in the direction he was going anyway.
The man went sprawling, but he gathered his feet underneath him before he hit the ground. He was ready to turn around and try again when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
"Come on, don't take on like that," said Thomas’ long-suffering best friend, Robert Gordon, the Earl of Dellfield, reasonably. "Don't give him an excuse. I've always got to be his second in duels. Tom's a good shot, and when he misses, those shots go fatal rather than wide, if you get me."
The man may or may not have been convinced about Thomas’ prowess with pistols, but he clearly didn't like two against one odds. He snarled something foul and stalked off toward the bar, where the bartender would have to deal with him.
Thomas grinned at his dark-haired friend, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good old Robert. Did my father send you to look after me?"
"If your father knew you were anywhere close to Seven Dials, he would send me to shoot you. What the hell are you doing here?"
"Having some fun, getting some of the wickedness out of my spirit before my Aunt Matilda decides it’s time to trot me past the Society girls at Almack's again. Come on, you're not going to kick about me standing you a drink, are you?"
Robert shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Tom. Look, I came to see the sights and to throw a few dice, but I've been listening a bit. You ought to get out of here."
Thomas bridled a little at that. "Why in the world should I?"
"Because you have won rather a lot of money, rather fast. Your damned reputation sops up some of it, but there are plenty of people who don't like losing money, and plenty more who wouldn't mind having that cash fall into their own pockets."
A dangerous glint came into Thomas’ eye. "Well, if they think they can take it from me, they're welcome to try."
At twenty-nine, Thomas was tall and strong and nearly demonically fast with both pistol and rapier. With honey-blond hair and clear gray eyes, the Duke of Southerly's heir might look like an angel, but his quick temper and famous luck had well-earned him the name of Demon Tom in the London stews.
"As I said, I came to throw some dice and have a drink. I did not come to get into a brawl or to stand up at godawful o'clock in the morning at one of your duels. Please, as a favor to me."
Thomas grinned, shrugging. "All right, my friend. I'll get the house master to fetch a hack for me, and I'll head out.”
"Good, thank you. And be careful, please. The fog's coming up out there. Who knows what's going to come out of it?"
Thomas was sorry to see his night at the tables come to an end prematurely, but he hadn't any intention of going home. There were other gambling hells to visit, ones that took his reputation less seriously, and there were wrestling bouts going on even farther south. No reason for the night to end yet.
Walking out into the chilly night air, Thomas was only slightly surprised when he was grabbed. With a man grabbing either arm, and the third getting ready to strike him a great blow to the head, Thomas went limp, disrupting the balance of those holding him. The moment their grips loosened, Thomas twisted hard, sending one blundering into the man getting ready to hit him.
He had one arm free, and that was enough to drive a hard punch into the face of the one who was still holding him, dropping him to the ground. This wouldn't have been a terrible time to return to the gambling club, or even to run, but Thomas had never liked running from a fight.
"Come on, if you're coming," he said. Not giving either of the men in front of him time to answer, he stepped into the fray.
One man ran off immediately, but the second tried to grapple Thomas and get him on the ground. Thomas managed to swing him hard into the iron fence, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him on the pavement.
He was just thinking that this night wasn't going to be so much of a waste after all when he heard a thud from behind him.
Thomas turned around just in time to see the first man he had struck tumbling down to the ground like a poleaxed steer, a thin knife clattering from his hand.
Standing behind the man was a slender girl in a missionary's gray dress, a heavy bag in her hands, and a vicious expression on her face. Behind her was a beautiful blonde girl wrapped in an unbecoming brown shawl, who looked as if she were getting ready to cry.
"Go right inside, and have them call you a hack," she said imperiously. "And perhaps have them call for the constables, if they'll come out to this neighborhood."
"They won't," Thomas said with a shrug. "And unfortunately, I think that these men are the hack the house called for. I may have been a little too pleased with my winnings."
"So, you haven't the sense to win graciously?" asked the young missionary with an irritated expression. "Well, perhaps you've learned better for next time. Honey, come on. We're going."
"What are you two doing on the streets this time of night? Do you need an escort?" Thomas asked curiously. The missionary might have kept going, but the blonde girl paused, looking at him shyly.
"Miss Blythe's helping me get to a safe place, sir. She says, well..."
"Honey, we do not need to talk to him," interrupted the missionary.
"Maybe not," Thomas said, "but I hope you know where you are going."
"Of course I do!"
"Then you know how bad it might be for two young unaccompanied women to walk through these streets. So, even if a man is walking alongside them without necessarily being with them, it can save them from some trouble, can't it?"
The missionary—Miss Blythe?—stiffened a little. "If you will excuse me, sir, I hardly think you are the man to be standing next to if we want to avoid trouble."
"That little scuffle? Just a part of an evening's fun."
"Miss Blythe, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad? And we wouldn't have to hide in the alleys and could just walk." Honey looked hopeful enough to melt the hardest of hearts, and it was clear that Blythe didn't have one of those.
"All right, but at the first sign of trouble from you..." Blythe shook her heavy bag at him.
Thomas restrained a smile. Though perhaps, really, he ought not be too sanguine about it. He had seen her club a full-grown man to the ground, as slender as she was. "Of c
ourse. Well, I am Thomas, and what can I call you?"
"I'm Honey Wilkins, sir, and this is Blythe Dennings."
"A pleasure, Miss Wilkins, Miss Dennings. Shall we continue?"
Thomas wasn't wrong about the neighborhood. It was a nasty one, and he wondered all over again what two women were doing walking alone so late. Miss Dennings didn't look like she was going to give him an answer, and Miss Wilkins looked so tired he couldn't bring himself to ask, so he simply followed along. His presence did turn off some people in the alleys, and both women relaxed a little as they walked.
After a half hour or so, Miss Dennings turned off the main thoroughfare to walk down a twisting alley. The only light came from a few lanterns hung here and there, and Thomas was beginning to get nervous about where they were actually headed when she stopped and rapped on a door.
"Who is it?"
"It's Blythe. I have Honey with me, and... a dissolute brawler as well."
Thomas raised an eyebrow at that, but they were all three ushered into a plain room lit with cheap and flickering lights that nonetheless showed him a plain but meticulously tidy sitting room.
"You have come," said a grave grandfatherly man in plain clothes. "My child, we were so worried. And this is Honey?"
Honey stepped forward, looking suddenly very young and frightened. Without hesitation, the man took her hand and squeezed it warmly.
"We will do everything we can to help you, Honey. Here, my wife and daughter will feed you, and, after you rest, we can talk about what you want."
Honey shot a worried look at Blythe.
Blythe nodded encouragingly at her and handed her a slip of paper. "The Abeggs will take good care of you, Honey, but if you need anything, you can contact me at the address there. It is a box I check every week."
Honey hugged Blythe tightly, and when Blythe's face softened, Thomas felt something in his chest tighten. Honey was by far the more beautiful of the two, but Blythe, with her gamine features, had a strange elfin beauty of her own, all unexpected.
"Thank you, Blythe. Thank you so much."
"You're so welcome, Honey. And Mr. Abegg, thank you as well."
"Of course, Blythe. It is the duty of the Society of Friends to alleviate what suffering it can."
Thomas blinked. "You're Quakers!"
Blythe shot him a withering look. "I am not so lucky as to be a Quaker, and thus, I have no compunctions about bloodying your nose if you are going to be terrible about it."
"Stop thinking the worst of me."
"I met you in a street brawl. I'm justified."
Before Thomas could think of a rejoinder for that, she turned to Mr. Abegg.
"I should go before I am missed," she said. "Again, thank you. I wouldn't have known where to turn if you hadn't offered up space and help."
"We will always help where we can. Walk safely, Blythe."
Blythe went out the door before Thomas could stop her. He started after her, then stopped and turned back to Mr. Abegg. "Here," he said, digging in his jacket. "Take this. For Honey."
He handed over his winnings from the night as the Quaker patriarch blinked at him, and then he was out the door. For a moment, he thought he had lost Blythe, but then he saw her small form heading up the alley, and he hurried after her.
"Are you going far?"
"Is that what you consider an appropriate thing to say to a woman on her own at night?"
"Maybe not, but you don't strike me as any kind of appropriate woman."
She glared up at him. "I have to say, I do not think much of your ideas of womanhood."
Thomas had to grin at that. She was small, but there was a spirit to her that seemed ten times as large as she really was. "You're not afraid at all, are you?"
"Of course, I am. I am afraid that you are going to keep at me all night, and I will not be able to make it home before dawn."
"Well, then, we should keep walking, shouldn't we?"
She hesitated. "You're... offering to walk me home?"
"I would have offered, but then we started talking about womanhood. Perhaps we can talk and walk? I wouldn't mind getting back to my own bed."
She fidgeted with her large umbrella, and he wondered suddenly if the woman who had waded into a mugging with her bag flying might be shy. "And it's just... walking? You don't mean anything else?"
"On my honor," he said. "I may not need to take it as seriously as you, but I know these streets can be dangerous."
"They can be."
"Here, take my arm, and we'll fly right through them."
Thomas wondered why, when he could win hundreds of pounds on a single throw of the dice and beat three opponents in a brawl at once, it felt like such a victory when plain little Blythe took his arm.
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CHAPTER
THREE
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The London street dulled to a more serene quiet as Blythe and her new companion left the stews behind them. They were in the neighborhood owned by the tradesmen now, and they stood out in a different kind of way. She was a woman alone with a man not her husband, long after it was past a time for decent women to be in bed. Blythe reminded herself that she had gotten away with far worse in the past.
"Have you a name?" she asked her companion suddenly.
"One I'm willing to share with you? Of course. You may call me Thomas."
"Those men who set upon you, they called you something else."
"Demon Tom, yes. I don't mind it as much as I probably should. It carries some weight in the parts of town where I go."
Still arm in arm with him, Blythe gave Thomas a shrewd look. "Hm. But not where you're from or where you live, does it?"
"And what would you know about that, Blythe?"
She should stop him from calling her Blythe. She was related to the Carrows, after all, and if she had learned one thing from being raised by that clan, it was that no one was allowed to take liberties. The Quakers called her Blythe because they had no other name for her. Before her parents died, of course, they had as well. So did Ned and Tristan, but Ned was away being heroic somewhere in Spain, and Tristan...
Well, Tristan had changed since his father died and he had been invested with the title of Duke of Parrington, no longer the heir but the possessor of the vast wealth and privilege of the title.
At the bottom of it, she simply liked the way he said her name.
"Well, it's not so very hard to figure out, is it? I mean, your clothes are well-cut, and you are well-groomed. You take shocking liberties with people of all kinds, and you know no fear at all. I would not be surprised if you told me you were the son of a peer."
"Well, that is a very good eye you have on you, Blythe. May I return the favor?"
Blythe stiffened a little. If she still had possession of her arm, she would have walked faster. She called it her missionary's stride: her back utterly straight, her shoulders back, and her mouth pinched shut. In most circumstances, it was more than enough to get her through some of the worst situations. She did even better if she brought her prayer book along, clutching it tightly against her chest like some kind of shield.
She had none of that right now, and the entire night had left her feeling a little raw, more than a little exposed. "I hardly think it is appropriate for you to... to look at me and to inspect me as if I were some prize mare at Tattersall's."
"Is it not? Wasn't that what you were doing with me?" Thomas sounded supremely amused by the entire situation, and he showed no interest in dropping either the conversation or her arm.
"No! I was merely observing. I was certainly not inspecting you in any way, shape, or form."
"Yes, you were."
She glared at him. "Do you really make a habit out of contradicting ladies when they speak? Is this why you get set upon in the streets by thugs?"
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bsp; Thomas laughed softly, and Blythe firmly pushed down the warm feeling that rose in her over it. She did not like the way he laughed or his smile. That was ridiculous.
"Well, there's one thing. You're a lady. Or perhaps a lady's companion. I haven't quite decided."
"You haven't? And what's led you to these conclusions?"
"Well, I've found that the only people who really refer to ladies and their dignity are, well, ladies themselves or the people who are charged with defending their honor. You are not a self-righteous and protective older brother, so you are either a lady yourself, or a lady's companion."
Blythe shut her mouth and did her best not to look at Thomas. If she could just pretend that he was not next to her, she might be able to get home without revealing herself further.
"I still can't decide between lady or lady's companion. You certainly have the cool pride down pat, but then there is the way you are dressed."
"There's absolutely nothing wrong with the way I am dressed."
"Not a single thing! With your hat secured to your head like a ship at dock, every single hair scraped back from your face, and your dress the same color as a month of rainy Sundays, you look the perfect little missionary, the good woman come to minister to the poor and tell them they ought not be so poor."
She had to bite back a laugh. It was convenient to dress in her drabs for a number of reasons, both at home and on the streets of London, but in most cases, she had nothing to say to the actual missionaries and ladies doing good works in London. Thomas was right; too often their help was listening to their own voices and earnestly scolding people for things they could not change.
"And there's the rub," Thomas continued. "You look the part, but no good missionary, especially one who is well-born as I suspect you are, would be in the stews at four in the morning doing anything, let alone soiling her hands with a ruined girl."
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