by Darcy Burke
The Runner didn’t appear convinced. He edged forward slowly, tentatively.
When the Runner drew close, Ethan kicked him in the knee. The Runner went down, colliding with the pimp who’d been shaking off the remains of the broken crate. They landed together in a tangle of wood pieces and flailing limbs.
Ethan lunged forward. He snatched the truncheon from the dazed Runner and waved it in his face. “I’m going now, and you’re letting me.”
“Jagger, hold.” Teague had finally gotten free of the hissing prostitute. He held the woman by the hair.
“Ye go on then, Jagger,” she said, gritting her teeth as Teague tugged at her scalp. “Don’t worry none ’bout me. I can take care o’ meself.”
Given her spitfire demeanor, Ethan didn’t doubt it. But he wouldn’t leave her to Teague.
Ethan skipped back several steps, lest the downed Runner or the pimp decide to reach out for his ankles. “Let her go. Then let me go and I’ll get Gin Jimmy for you.”
That had been his original goal: Take down the man who would ensure Ethan never broke free of his past. However, he had no idea how he’d manage that when tonight’s plan had been a total pissing failure. Still, he had to try. It was the only chance he had.
Teague took a step forward, dragging the woman along with him. “I’d be much obliged, but that doesn’t erase what you’ve done. You’ll answer for your crimes, Jagger.”
“Which ones?” There were far too many to count. Far too many that Ethan would just as soon forget.
Teague’s glare was menacing. “Murdering Wolverton. Conspiring to kill Lady Aldridge.”
“Is that all?” Ethan drawled, injecting a false carelessness into his tone.
“For now.”
In a fluid movement surely born of years of practice, the prostitute turned toward Teague and kneed him square in the bollocks. Teague released her as he crumpled to the cobblestones. She cast a glance back at Ethan. “Run, Jagger!” Then she took off herself.
Ethan didn’t need further urging. He turned to go, but a hand wrapped around his ankle. The pimp had disentangled himself from the other Runner. His meaty fingers grasped at Ethan’s boot. Ethan brought the truncheon down on the man’s wrist. The pimp howled with pain and withdrew his hand. Ethan sped from the alley as if the very devil were licking at his heels.
And he supposed he was.
Ethan had eluded the law for more than a decade, and he only needed to do it a little while longer. Until he could get out from under Gin Jimmy and get on with the life he’d begun to taste. A life where he could be Ethan Locke—better yet, Ethan Lockwood—and hold his head up as a member of the precious ton, even on its fringes. Not because he cared about them, but because he wanted to stay close to his brother.
As Ethan raced up the new Regent Street, he looked back to see if any of the men were pursuing him. Nothing yet. Still, he kept up his pace until he was panting and his side began to ache.
A few moments later, he turned onto Conduit Street and the energy that had dulled the pain in his arm began to ebb. His steps were flagging, and the burn in his bicep reached a crescendo. Wincing, he reluctantly slowed to a fast walk. He looked behind him, ever aware that the Runners or even the pimp were likely chasing him. He should have taken a less traveled path, but he was desperate to get to Berkley Square—and to his stash of money—as quickly as possible.
That thought spurred him on. He dug deep, searching for the perseverance that had guided his survival for over a decade, and picked up speed again. He had to navigate traffic to get across New Bond Street, but it was late and he was lucky. With his goal nearly in sight, he pressed himself even faster, so that by the time he cut into the Berkley mews, his entire body was thrumming with exertion and pain.
It took every ounce of strength he had left to vault the wall into the garden where he’d hidden his money. He slumped back against the stone, its coldness seeping through his layers of clothing and offering a slight respite from the heat of his activity.
The garden was dark, but pale light flickered in a few of the windows of the house. No matter, as no one would notice a shadowy figure climbing a tree. The fucking tree. Climbing that was going to hurt.
Inhaling a shuddering breath, Ethan pushed himself away from the wall and put one foot in front of the other. He just had to get his money and then he could be on his way. A much-needed rest—maybe even inside the house—for an hour or so tempted him, but he wasn’t sure he dared. At the very least, however, he should find something to bind his wound.
At the base of the tree, he set the Runner’s truncheon on the ground. He winced as pain radiated from his sliced arm. How the hell was he supposed to pull himself up? Damn Gin Jimmy to hell and back.
Heaving out a frustrated breath, he reached up with his left hand and found a handhold. At least Jimmy hadn’t wounded his stronger arm.
Ethan pulled himself up and flinched as pain sparked anew. He stepped up into a vee and exhaled. He couldn’t use his right hand to climb, so he put his left up again and slowly made his way to the hollow where he’d stashed a bag of money the last time he’d gone up the tree. He nearly smiled at the recollection.
His gaze flicked up a few feet to where he’d entered the house on two other occasions. He’d climbed in Miss Audrey Cheswick’s window for secret waltzing lessons. He shook his head at how ridiculously normal that sounded—save the secret part. How he yearned for such simplicity as dancing lessons or paying court to some young woman. Not that he’d courted Miss Cheswick. He was in no position to court anyone. And he wasn’t even sure he wanted to.
He pulled the bag from the hollow and cradled it in his left arm. Though he was content with its weight, he opened it and stuck his hand inside to feel the notes and coin within. Relief and comfort at having his hard-earned money, however, didn’t take the edge off the pain shooting up his arm. Definitely time to find some sort of bandage. Once inside, he’d also nick a bottle of brandy or whisky or whatever the hell he could lay his hands on.
Cinching the bag tight, he tucked it back in the tree. There was no way he could carry it and climb, so he’d have to fetch it on the way down. He gritted his teeth for the final ascent. It was only a few feet, but he had to stretch to reach the window. He only hoped the sash wasn’t locked.
He pulled himself up to the branch and thought about which hand to use to hold on to the tree and which hand to extend for the sash. However, before he could make up his mind, a pale face appeared in the window. He nearly fell out of the tree.
The sash came open and the stricken expression of Miss Audrey Cheswick sent a shaft of fear straight to his gut.
“Mr. Locke,” she said. “Thank goodness you’ve come. There are men in the house!”
Shit. “What sort of men?”
“I can’t say, but they don’t mean well. There was a tussle in the foyer.” Her eyes were wide with fright. “I’m afraid for our butler.”
Men in her house on this night of all nights couldn’t be a coincidence. But why? They hadn’t trailed him here unbeknownst to him, had they? But no, it wouldn’t be Bow Street. They would’ve treated the occupants of this house, including the retainers, with respect. These had to be men of a different sort.
He leaned forward with his right arm because he didn’t trust it to hold on to the tree. “Help me.”
She took his hand and pulled. Then gasped. “There’s blood on your arm!”
“I know.” He clutched the window ledge. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he took his hand from the tree while keeping his feet braced on the branch. Then he hauled himself up over the ledge and into the room.
He sank down to the floor. His breath came in deep pants as he closed his eyes in sheer agony.
“I hear them in the corridor,” she whispered.
Ethan opened his eyes. There’d be time to nurse his pains later. God, he hoped there’d be time.
He pushed himself up with his left hand. He touched her shoulder, and she turned her
head back to look at him. The coals burning low in the grate cast a faint glow over her frightened features, made her eyes glimmer like aquamarines. Ethan put his finger to his lips, then crept past her toward the door.
Pausing with his ear against the wood, he listened intently. Low voices. Footsteps. Two men. One large, one not as large. Something shattered, like glass or pottery. A man swore.
“Watch yerself,” a voice hissed. “Which room do ye s’pose is ’ers?”
They were here for her. Why?
Sweet Christ. This was an entanglement he didn’t need right now.
Miss Cheswick thrust a pistol into his hand.
He stared at her. Especially when he realized she was holding one too. “Where in the hell . . .” he mouthed, then shook his head. It didn’t matter where she’d gotten them. “Do you know how to use that?”
She nodded.
It seemed the fairer sex was bent on saving his arse tonight.
“What the devil’s going on here?” came a loud booming voice. Not one of the invaders.
Ethan pressed against the door as she crashed into his back, presumably in an effort to get around him.
“Grandfather!”
There went their advantage. She reached around him and wrenched open the door. The sound of a body hitting the floor greeted them as they rushed into the corridor. Light from a sconce illuminated two burly thugs standing over an elderly gentleman in his nightclothes.
“Grandfather!” Miss Cheswick tried to rush forward. Ethan moved in front of her to block her progress.
But it didn’t matter. It turned out she could shoot a man just fine right where she was.
Audrey gaped at the fallen man for a brief moment before recalling the reason she’d shot the bounder in the first place: her grandfather. Her intent to rush forward was blocked by Mr. Locke tackling her to the floor. They landed in a tangle of limbs, his face a mere inch from hers. Then he rotated his body so that he was on top of her. The sound of a bullet lodging in the wall behind them eradicated any outrage she might’ve felt.
But then she didn’t actually feel any outrage. At least not toward Mr. Locke.
His gaze met hers, and his mouth was pressed into a grim line. Before she could ask if he was all right, he leapt up and launched himself toward the man who was still standing.
Audrey crawled over to her grandfather. His face was ashen, his eyes closed. Audrey clasped his hand—warm and alive. She exhaled and shot a glance at the second criminal, who was lying next to her grandfather.
The criminal’s eyelid crept up, revealing a bloodshot eyeball. His lip curled. Audrey screamed.
Mr. Locke spun toward her. He looked at Audrey, his features tight.
“He’s conscious!” She inclined her head toward the ruffian, who was now trying to right himself on the other side of her grandfather.
In a quick, superbly fluid move, Mr. Locke pivoted. His hand shot out and wrapped around the wrist of the criminal who was still on his feet. Mr. Locke shook the man’s hand, apparently trying to wrest the knife from the other man’s grip.
Wait, what had happened to the gun she’d given Mr. Locke?
Audrey glanced around frantically, finally seeing the weapon lying near the open door to her bedroom. Though loath to leave her grandfather’s side, she crawled over to it and grasped it firmly.
Mr. Locke was still fighting the other criminal. Meanwhile the one on the floor was trying to get up. Blood was visible on the shirt beneath his coat, spreading out from a wound on his right upper chest.
The knife clattered to the floor, and Locke’s opponent punched him squarely in the arm where he was wounded. Mr. Locke groaned, his knees bent, and for a quick, frightening second, she thought he was going to fall down. He staggered backward and managed to keep his footing.
Audrey didn’t hesitate. She leapt to her feet and stepped toward them, around her grandfather. “Stop!” She leveled the pistol at the criminal who was stalking Mr. Locke. “I’ll shoot you like I did your friend. Or, you can leave.”
“Letting them leave isn’t wise,” Mr. Locke said, sounding breathless.
Audrey’s toe came into contact with the knife the men had been fighting over. She kicked it toward Mr. Locke. Then she scooted toward him and addressed the criminal once more. “Help your friend up and get out.”
Mr. Locke swiped up the knife with his uninjured arm. “Miss Cheswick, shoot him. Please.”
Audrey hadn’t thought before firing earlier, but now that reason had returned, she couldn’t bring herself to do it again, not if there was a chance she could avoid it. Still, she kept her gaze fixed on the intruders. “I’d rather they just leave.”
“For Christ’s sake, they’re here to—” Mr. Locke stopped short. “Why are you here?” He asked the standing criminal, a stocky fellow with a grizzled face.
The man’s small, pale eyes, one of which was beginning to swell—a likely product of his quarrel with Mr. Locke—squinted. “I think ye know, Jagger.”
Audrey frowned. Who was Jagger?
Mr. Locke sidled toward her until their arms were nearly touching. “I didn’t think this was a simple robbery gone awry. You tell Gin Jimmy I’m a step ahead of him and I always will be.”
And who was Gin Jimmy? Audrey forced herself to focus on the moment, to keep her pistol trained on the criminal.
The criminal on the floor groaned and reached for his cohort. “Help me.”
“Shoot him!” Mr. Locke’s elbow grazed her arm.
“No!” The standing criminal held up his hand. “We’ll go.” He grabbed the other’s collar and pulled him up.
The wounded man wobbled to his feet. “We can’t jes’ go, Jimmy wants ’er.”
Mr. Locke’s hand covered hers and before she knew it had snatched the pistol from her. He aimed and fired, but his movement had given the men enough time to throw themselves out of the way. Rather, for the one criminal to throw himself to the floor and pull the other one back down with him.
“Go! Go!” The stocky ruffian shoved his cohort toward the stairs.
Mr. Locke moved toward them, his knife raised.
Audrey grabbed his arm and pulled. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Let them go. We need to help my grandfather.” She glanced at his bleeding arm. “And you.”
He tugged his arm free of her grasp. “I can’t let them escape. You heard what he said about you.”
She lunged toward him and wrapped her hand around his arm again. This time she thrust her body forward into his path too. “Just what do you plan to do, kill them?”
Mr. Locke blinked at her, his long, inky lashes very briefly shuttering the gray of his eyes. He sealed his lips together, but she couldn’t tell if it was due to his wound. He had to be in an enormous amount of pain after the way he’d just exerted himself.
The criminals scrambled down the corridor, their awkward movements making a clamor. Mr. Locke tried to push past her, but she held her ground. “Let them go, please.”
He muttered something that sounded like a curse. He stopped trying to move past her, his body slumping.
She tightened her hold on him. “You need to sit down. Go on back to my room.” She took a step and tried to guide him.
He straightened slightly. “I’m fine.”
As he staggered toward her bedchamber, Audrey rushed to her grandfather, who was still unconscious on the floor. She kneeled and touched his neck. He was warm, his pulse strong. The opening and closing of drawers sounded from her bedchamber.
She stood and hurried inside to find Mr. Locke going through her dresser. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for bandages and liquor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t keep those things in my bedchamber.”
He looked sideways at her. “Why not? You kept a pair of pistols in here.”
Heat crept up her neck. “You need to sit.” She hurried toward him and perched him on the edge of her bed. The entire situation was beyond scandalous, but
Audrey didn’t let such nonsense bother her. She went into the small dressing chamber adjoining her room and came back with a length of toweling, which she used to dab at his wound.
She couldn’t see the actual wound beneath the layers of his coat and shirt. He was going to need to take his clothing off. The heat that had crept up to her face a moment ago now snaked its way much, much lower. She gently shook her head to eradicate such trifle. “How did you learn to fight like that? You don’t belong to Lord Sevrin’s fighting club, do you?”
Mr. Locke gaped at her. “How do you know about that? First pistols—and you’re a damn fine shot—and now this. Are you trying to shock me tonight?” He gasped, which she took to mean that her ministrations had probed a particularly painful spot.
She flashed him a weak, regretful smile. “Sorry. Here, press this on your arm while I go find supplies.” She turned to go, a dozen tasks running through her mind, but he clasped her elbow with his good hand.
His gaze was blisteringly intense. “Find something here. I need to leave.”
She frowned at him; his face had gone a bit ashen. “That’s absurd. You need care and rest. Furthermore, I need to see what happened to our butler and other staff, check on my grandfather, and send someone to fetch Bow Street—” She stopped talking because he got up from the bed and made his way, somewhat erratically, toward the window.
A groan from the hallway drew their attention. Audrey rushed to the door and could hear Mr. Locke following. She hastened to her grandfather’s side as his eyes fluttered open.
“Audrey, dear?” His voice was rough.
“Grandfather, are you all right?”
“My head.” He groaned, and his eyes closed for a long moment.
Audrey wiped a hand over his brow. “Grandfather?”
His eyes opened again. “I’m here, gel, I’m here.” His brown gaze fixed on her and then moved past her. “Who the devil is that? The brigand who hit me?”
