“Admit defeat and be on your way. No hard feelings.”
“No thanks, mate, reckon as we’ll have your purse as well.”
With a growl, both felons closed in, leaving Huntley with nowhere to go.
Unexpectedly, the toothless felon crumpled to the ground. What Huntley could see, but the villain couldn’t, was that the woman had revived sufficiently to grasp her valise and swing it at the back of the man’s knees. Seizing the moment of surprise, Huntley lunged and slashed the remaining felon viciously across the cheek.
The man yelped like a struck dog. “Scarper. She ain’t worth it!”
He scrambled to his feet, pausing only to grab the valise. Both men took to their heels. The toothless man jeered over his shoulder, waving a reticule in the air.
“Thanks for the gift, sweetheart.”
With a gasp, the woman’s hand shot to her waist.
“Give it back!” she sobbed. “In the name of mercy, please give it back.”
Hands on knees, breathing heavily, Huntley regarded the woman with interest.
“Madam?”
Her face was pale as the moon, with large dark eyes brimming with tears. His heart sank. Just what he needed! An over-emotional woman.
“Madam, are you hurt?”
“A bit bruised. More injured pride than anything.” She managed a shaky smile. Shrouded in a travelling cloak, he couldn’t make out her features, but she had the voice of a young woman.
“Good.” Huntley straightened, with any luck he could be on his way in minutes. His expression brightened. This might even work out in his favor. What better excuse for being late than rescuing a damsel in distress? He glanced up and down the road. “So where is your chaperone? I assume he went for help?”
The woman hung her head. “I am alone. There is no one.”
Huntley glared. Well-spoken with a country accent, she was hardly a woman of the street and yet behaved like one. “Are you mad? What on earth possessed you?”
She tilted her chin, dark eyes bright with pride. “I had no choice. Now, I thank you most sincerely for your assistance.” She brushed distractedly at the mud on her cloak. “I make no further call on your time.”
Huntley frowned. Was he being dismissed, and after all that he had done? “But, you’re not detaining me.”
“I think I am.”
Bemused, Huntley watched her dust down her cloak, preparing to go. She seemed a determined chit. “Wait! You’ve been attacked once already tonight. On my conscience, I cannot let you proceed alone.”
She stopped.
“Where are you heading?”
Slowly, her wide bright eyes lifted to meet his and his heart leapt in his chest.
“Sir, perchance you know of a lodging house here-about?”
He pushed away baser thoughts and concentrated on the business in hand.
“You’ve been robbed. Have you sufficient funds?”
Silence.
“I…I…” She started to sway. “I feel a little faint…”
In a heartbeat, Huntley was at her side to catch her as she fell. As he scooped her up, cradling her limp form against his broad chest, a strange possessiveness engulfed him. She weighed no more than a child and her hair smelt of herbs. She seemed fragile, and yet so vibrant and alive. Shaken, he made for the steps and sat, nursing her head against his shoulder. He was surprised by the soft silkiness of her hair and suddenly felt undone, a sharp ache twisting through his chest.
She stirred. “Oh. What happened?”
“Easy now. You’ve had a shock.” His heart jumped protectively.
A small sigh escaped her softly parted lips and he felt the urge to kiss them. Appalled by his reaction, Huntley carefully set her down on the steps and stood. “Here,” he pulled out a silver hipflask. “This will help.”
“What is it?”
“Brandy.”
Reluctantly, regarding him with suspicion, she took a sip and spluttered. “Oh my.”
“No more arguments, I’m escorting you and there’s an end to it.”
“My papers…everything I value…gone!” She looked up at him with glassy eyes. Huntley hesitated.
“Then the sooner we get you amongst friends the better.”
“But you don’t understand. I am lost!”
“Then I will help you.”
“But I don’t even know your name,” she objected weakly.
“How remiss!” He held out a gloved hand. “Mr. Jack Huntley, at your service.”
Hesitantly, the woman bowed her head and shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Huntley. My name is Miss Eulogy Foster.”
“Well then, Miss Foster, I suggest we leave before our ruffian friends, or the rain, return.”
She nodded.
Stiff, like a man unused to female company, he offered an elbow. As she threaded her arm threaded through, his blood fizzed inexplicably. He risked a glance at her face, partially obscured by shadows. Her features seemed regular and pleasing, with a snub nose and tilted eyes, but more than that he could not see.
“So tell me,” he ventured, “how a gently reared young woman comes to be wandering the city streets alone at night?”
Her fingers tensed on his arm.
“I arrived on the afternoon coach, only to find the acquaintance I was to lodge with not at home. I planned to rent lodgings…but then I was robbed.”
“Why on earth did your family let you travel alone? Why anything could, and did, happen.”
“They are dead,” she said. “Died of scarlet fever this past month. There is only me.”
Her composure rendered him speechless and shamed by his assumptions, he muttered, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
They had walked for a while in silence, until Huntley cleared his throat. “If I might make a suggestion?”
“Sir?”
“I have an acquaintance in the neighborhood, a woman of excellent character who, from time to time, takes in lodgers.”
“Most kind of you, but I cannot accept.”
“Why ever not?”
“You forget, sir, I am penniless.”
“Then Mrs. Parker will welcome you as my friend.”
“I couldn’t ask that.”
“Nonsense.” Huntley replied, finding her stubborn independence bothersome, clearly he needed to persuade her by other means. “Besides, I felt a spot of rain. You don’t want me to ruin a new cloak do you?” His voice held a challenge. “I suggest we hail a hackney.”
“Very well.” She agreed slowly. “I am most grateful for your help tonight. Then tomorrow, I’ll call again on my acquaintance.”
“In Grosvenor Square?”
Miss Foster nodded. “Lord Devlin’s residence.”
Huntley grunted. How, he wondered, had this come to pass? Not half an hour ago he was hurrying to an appointment, not a care in the world, and now this wastrel had become his responsibility. Life could be rum, he reflected, dashed rum. He had rescued no less than an acquaintance of his bitter enemy, so the sooner he absolved this particular burden the better.
Chapter Two
Taking two steps for each of Huntley’s loping strides, Eulogy struggled to keep pace as they left Grosvenor Square. Tall, loose-limbed and muscular, he exuded an air of confident arrogance. With a strong jaw, broad shoulders and domineering bearing, he appeared more warrior than gentleman, which given recent events, Eulogy was thankful for.
Huntley hailed a cab, which tracked back toward the Thames, crisscrossing squares and streets, before passing the malignant grey walls of the workhouse and entering Berkeley Square only to exit on the other side into a maze of red-brick terraces. As they clattered past a tavern and sounds of drunken carousing, Eulogy gripped the seat, hoping this was not their destination. But the carriage did indeed slow and grind to a halt halfway along the road.
After paying off the driver, Huntley helped Eulogy down. Despite her concerns about the tavern, she had to admit the street seemed respectable enough with a neat row of white-washed doorsteps disappearing into the distance and a freshly swept pavement, clear of ordure and mud.
Huntley made straight for a green door, his knock was answered by a freckle-faced maid.
“Good evening, Jones, is your mistress at home?”
The maid pouted and tipped her head. “Why no, sir, Mrs. Parker is out - due back within the hour.”
“Then may we wait inside?”
For the first time the maid noticed Eulogy behind him, and her bright smile faded. “Yes, Mr. Huntley, sir, of course.”
Huntley stood back, holding out his arm to let Eulogy cross the unassuming threshold into a rich, eruption of color. In the hallway, rich red walls glowed like a fiery sunset in the lamplight. A floor of black and white tiles stretched ahead like a chessboard set with aspidistra and side tablets. Eulogy bit her tongue, wondering if everything in London was so surprising.
“There’s a fire in the parlor, sir,” Jones offered, whilst eyeing Eulogy’s muddy boots disapprovingly.
“Thank you, Jones, we can find our own way.”
“Can I take your things, Miss?”
“Thank you.” Having lost everything, Eulogy would rather have kept her cloak, but shrugged it off for forms sake.
“And yours, sir?”
With a grunt, Huntley swung the heavy opera cloak from his shoulders and winced.
“Oh, sir!” Jones’ voice trailed off. Puzzled, Eulogy followed the maid’s gaze to the stain, blooming on Huntley’s neck cloth. Mystified, he touched a hand to his shoulder and stared at his blood stained fingers.
“That devil cut me! Can you credit it?”
“Oh my giddy aunt!” the maid wailed.
“Control yourself,” Eulogy commanded, feeling useful at last. “Fetch hot water, freshly boiled, mind you, and clean cotton rags. Quickly now!”
“Yes, Miss.” The maid curtseyed automatically.
“Then, run for the doctor. Do you hear?” There was steel in Eulogy’s tone that brooked no argument.
“Yes, Miss. Right away, Miss.” With a terse nod she was gone.
“Please sit, Mr. Huntley,” Miss Foster ordered, “and unbutton your waistcoat.”
Huntley sank to the sofa and loosened his neck cloth.
“And I’d be obliged if you’d remove your shirt.”
His dark brow arched. “Keen, aren’t you?”
“I wish to examine the injury.”
“What on earth…?”
“Do you want the wound to get infected?”
“No…” Resignedly, Huntley slumped against the delicate blue settle. “But it hardly seems proper.”
“My guardian was a doctor and I assisted him.” A mischievous smile played across her lips. “And besides, I didn’t have you marked as the shy type.”
Her challenge did the trick. With a grunt, Huntley shed his waistcoat, pulled the shirt from his breeches and tugged it over his head. His eyes met hers, hypnotic, deep and sensual, and momentarily she faltered.
“Good,” she said brusquely.
From her nursing duties Eulogy was familiar with the male torso, but never a more perfect specimen than Jack Huntley as her insides quaked in a most distracting way. His sculpted chest narrowed to a ridged stomach, flat and tight, and in the firelight his skin glowed like marble. His mouth twitched as her gaze lingered a fraction too long on the sculpted planes of his chest. Their eyes locked again as Huntley’s glittered with devilment.
“The wound?”
Eulogy gritted her teeth against the shivery tingles coursing across her skin. “Try to relax.”
“I’m not tense…you are.”
She frowned. “Lift your chin, please.”
Suddenly uncomfortably hot, she examined the ugly gash on his right shoulder.
“Well?”
With heightened awareness she caught her breath, forcing herself to concentrate, convinced that recent events had disordered her mind.
“The cut is deep but clean.” She leant closer and suddenly the parlor seemed unbearably cramped as Huntley filled her senses. She tried to distract herself by noticing his strong fingers, only to imagine them playing across her skin. She turned away, just as the maid made a nosy entry, bumping the door open with her foot. Her hands occupied with both a bowl and towels.
At the sight of Mr. Huntley state of undress, Jones’ eyes widened and she almost dropped the water.
“Oh my!”
“Set the basin on the table.”
“I’ll run fo’ doctor.” Jones picked up her skirts and fled the room.
“Mr. Huntley, I’m going to bathe the wound. I will be gentle, but it may sting a little.”
“Go ahead.” His eyes were hooded, and his tone a low, insinuating growl. “Things can’t be any more ironic.”
“Meaning?”
“The woman I rescue turns out to be more than just a pretty face.”
With a humph, she soaked a rag in the hot water and, studiously ignoring her leaping pulse, she touched his hot skin to wipe away the dried blood.
“You are lucky.” Eulogy avoided looking into the hypnotic depths of his dark eyes. “The cut has missed vital vessels by an inch. The bleeding has stopped with pressure and the wound should stitch well.”