Her feet started in the direction of the pub—reckless, as her choices often were. Sense wasn’t her strong suit. Had she more sense, she would not be here like this, a random caller with a recitation of browraising goals.
Instead, if she visited this particular house at all, it would be because the respectably married noble-woman she should have been had met Stuart Somerset at some soirée or another and decided to make him her piece on the side. She’d be fascinated by his unusual childhood and beg him to tell her titillating particulars—Had there been rats as big as cats in his house? Had he been illiterate? How had it felt to be hungry and poor?—then she’d whisper what details she’d gathered to her friends, tittering and perhaps shuddering delicately.
She made herself stop and turn around. Even the best neighborhoods in London were not entirely safe at night. She must leave now, or she’d be asking for trouble—her third stop at the pub had generated more than a few speculative looks, some from men she wouldn’t want within fifty feet of her.
She’d walked no more than two minutes when she heard footsteps behind her—a man, approaching her fast. She spun around. Could it be Stuart Somerset, home at last and…coming after her? Of course it wasn’t. She recognized the man—medium height, spindly, with bloodshot eyes and the smell of too much beer and inadequate soap. All night he’d loitered outside the pub with another man, the two of them raking her with interested stares, that interest multiplying each time she returned and left.
The man was surprised by her sudden about-face. They stared at each other. His hands shot out toward her reticule. Without thinking, she clenched her fingers together, drew her right hand back, and socked him in the face.
In the side of his neck, rather, as he jerked his head away. It was still a solid hit. The man staggered a step, she noted with panicky satisfaction. She might be dressed the part of a lady tonight, but she was far stronger than any gentlewoman: She could lift stockpots half her height and carry a whole side of beef if necessary.
He swore and grabbed for her reticule again. He was not going to have it—her money was in her shoes, but in her reticule was the only photograph she had of her parents, brought along for luck.
She swung the reticule at him. Another solid hit. She’d stopped at a bookseller’s and bought a Mary Elizabeth Braddon novel for her return trip. She hoped the book had wonderfully sharp corners.
“Bitch!” groaned the man, and seized her wrists.
She sank the heel of her right boot hard into his in-step. He howled and slapped her. She barely felt the burning of her cheek and the snap of her neck, only the satisfaction of his next howl as she stomped his in-step with her heel again, harder.
Her free hand spread open. She poked her fingers at the man’s eyes. He screamed. She turned to run, hoping she’d hurt him enough to discourage him altogether—only to come face-to-face with his friend, an even more malodorous man.
“Get away.” Her lips moved and words came out. “My husband will be here any minute.”
The second man cackled. “You ain’t ’ave a ’usband any more than you ’ave a willy.”
A hand grabbed her hair from behind and yanked her head back. She kicked the shin of the man behind her and tried to brain the man in front of her with Mrs. Braddon’s book. But she wasn’t so lucky this time. He knocked her reticule aside. Then he caught her arm and twisted hard.
She yelped in pain and kicked his shin. He grunted and let go of her arm. She rammed her elbow into his rib cage. The other man pulled her toward him by her midsection, lifted her up in the air, and then threw her down. One of them jumped atop her; she was no longer sure who was who.
“Let’s jus’ take the bag an’ go,” the man standing to the side implored. “There be coppers soon eno’.”
“I’ll teach ’er a lesson first.”
An enormous fist came at her. She shut her eyes and braced for the skull-shattering pain—and the loss of the only connection she had left to her former life.
Stuart walked. It had been a long sitting in the House of Commons this day. He had the cabdriver drop him off some distance from his house, so he could have a little exercise.
He was tired. But the day wasn’t over yet—he had an invitation to a ball. And not just any ball, the Duchess of Arlington’s ball.
His medals of valor, his new inheritance, his stature as one of the youngest members of Parliament—he’d won his seat in a by-election two months ago—those all counted. But the Arlingtons’ ball tonight, the social event of the year, would cement his acceptance by Society, and stamp him with that particular cachet dispensed only by matrons of the highest standing.