He wrestled now with the attackers in rough, ugly combat. No art here, only the desire to hurt, and survive. In the darkness, they fought, threw punches, kicked. But the assailants did not have Leo’s motivation, for he fought not just for himself, but Anne. He punched one of the men in the side of the head. The attacker formed a dark lump as he crumpled to the ground.
Leaving Leo with two remaining opponents. He heard Anne’s angry curses as she continued to fight against one of the men.
He could not wait for the next attack. His hand brushed against a broken board lying on the pavement, and he grabbed it. Noting the sounds of his adversary’s shoes on the cobbles, he shot forward, swinging the board. It must have connected with the man’s stomach, for he made retching sounds. Using the noise as guidance, Leo struck the gagging man under the chin, knocking him backward. The board broke in Leo’s hands as the man groaned. He did not rise again.
Only one bastard left. The son of a bitch who had Anne. But Leo could not attack—he might hurt her in the process.
“Don’t know who you are, bloke,” the man sneered. “But I’m taking this here piece.”
“I’m the piece’s husband.” Leo’s old, coarse accent had returned but he did not give a damn.
The man chuckled. “Tonight she gets a new man.”
“No she bloody won’t,” Anne spat.
“Anne, with your free hand, grab his little finger,” commanded Leo.
By the sounds of the man’s grunting, Leo understood she had done what he asked.
“Now pull back. Hard.”
Her attacker yelped. “No—”
Anne did not hesitate. A sharp cracking sound filled the alley, followed immediately by the man’s scream.
“Get to the wall,” Leo directed.
“I’m there,” she said a moment later.
As soon as the words left her mouth, Leo attacked. He threw himself toward where he suspected the man would be. And he was not wrong. Finding him in the darkness, Leo rained punches down on him, mercilessly hammering at Anne’s would-be attacker. The injury to the man’s hand made him reckless and angry, and while his punches weren’t accurate, they packed a great deal of power. Leo lost his breath as he took a fist to the chest. He recovered, gasping, his own fury blazing.
He riddled the bastard with hits, until Leo felt his own hands wet with the other man’s blood. It wasn’t enough. Leo wanted more. He kept up his barrage. Finally, Leo heard the man fall to the ground. Leo continued his assault, the demand for more and more blood urging him on. Nothing would satisfy him but destruction. He picked the man’s head up, ready to smash it to the pavement.
Anne’s touch on his shoulder stopped him. “He’s not hitting back.”
“Don’t care.” Leo’s voice was rough in his throat, someone else’s voice.
She tugged on his coat. “The way is clear.”
Reluctant, he loosened his grip on the man’s head. Though he did not smash it on the cobbles, he did let it drop, and it hit the ground with a thick, meaty sound.
He straightened, his body screaming with demands for more violence. Only Anne’s arms around him kept the beast within at bay. She urged him toward the entry to the alley, stepping over the prone bodies of the other men.
At the entrance to the alley, Leo stopped. He heard one of the men stagger to his feet behind them. A metallic hissing echoed in the narrow space—the sound of a knife being drawn. And then footsteps rushed toward them. Leo whirled around.
A brief flash lit the alley, followed by the bark of a pistol. Powder scented the air. There was a groan, and then the sound of a body tumbling to the ground.
Leo lowered his pistol.
“Is he dead?” asked Anne.
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
A brief pause, then: “I don’t, either.”
Leo tucked his gun back into his coat. He threaded his fingers with Anne’s. Together, they ran off into the night.
Dawn lightened the sky to the color of ash. Leo watched the coming of day from a wing-backed chair in his study. He still wore his clothing from the night before, though there were tears at the shoulders and elbows. A gentleman’s finery was not cut for brawling. But despite the plush carpets at his feet or the morocco-bound books lining the shelves of his study, he was not and never would be a gentleman.
He was glad.
Curled into a ball in the other wing-backed chair, with a blanket tucked around her, dozed Anne. She had not changed out of her gown, either. In the half-light of morning, her face was pale, and her lashes formed dark fringes against her cheeks. At her feet tipped a half-empty glass of brandy, the same he had pressed on her as soon as they had returned home last night.
The flames in the fireplace burned bright and hot, casting warmth. Though she had fought bravely, she shivered the whole way back to Bloomsbury. Yet she refused to go to bed. So he tried to make her as comfortable as possible here, in the study, which meant a strong fire and brandy. He had moved her chair close to the fireplace so she might warm quickly. At least her shivering had stopped.
Leo studied the raw patches on his knuckles. His hand ached a little. He welcomed the ache, for it meant that he had done exactly what he needed to in order to secure Anne’s safety. He had not fought like a gentleman. He’d broken men’s faces and splattered their blood upon the ground. He had shot someone. Perhaps killed him. And left the scene without a blemish of concern on his heart. Not the actions of a man of genteel birth.
He did not care. All that mattered was that Anne was safe.
Leo pushed up from his chair. He stoked the fire, then strode to the window. He braced his hands on the inside casing and stared out at the approach of morning. There had been a time when he knew this hour of the day because it meant he was just coming home from his night’s revels. It had left him enough time to bolt down some coffee before heading back out again to the Exchange. Little reason to keep him home, for his house in Bloomsbury was costly but empty.
Never did he think he would be awake at this hour because he had battled through a riot.
He glanced over his shoulder. Anne still slept. Fitfully, but deep enough.
With no eyes on him, Leo at last gave in. His head hung down between his outstretched arms, and a shudder passed through him.
God. God. He had come so bloody close to losing her.
His mind reared back from the possibility. Thinking it felt like a cold knife cutting him into large, bleeding pieces.
And with Whit out there, somewhere, last night’s dangers were but a foretaste of possible disaster. He might have even been in the mob, waiting for his moment to strike, to steal her away.
Leo swung away from the window, lest he smash his fist through the glass.
A soft tap sounded on the door. Leo strode over and opened it, careful to keep his steps quiet.
The head footman, Munslow, stood in the hallway, and Leo moved out to meet him. “Brought a morning paper, as you asked, sir.”
Leo took the newspaper and scanned the front page. Wet ink smeared on his fingers, but he could still read it. Most shocking Violence and Disorder at Drury-Lane Theatre transpired yesterday evening, the Cause of which is yet Undetermined. Three Deaths are reported with greater numbers of Injury, including a Sergeant of His Majesty’s 15thRegiment of Light Dragoons. It is noted by the Author of this article that lately such grievous Events are occurring with greater and greater Frequency in this noble City ...
Reading on, Leo found an extensive list of localized disorders, from fights all around town to an increase in arson, theft, and even murder.
“What do you know of this?” He held the paper in front of Munslow, who peered at the type.
“Can’t say if that’s all true, sir.” The footman scratched beneath his wig. “But it has been rough out there. On his half-day, Davy Jenks, who waits for the gent across the street, he got beat by a gang with truncheons. And the fire brigade were summoned only two nights ago when someone tried to burn down Mrs. Lee’s pie shop on Smithy Street. Lately, seems like all of London’s become Bedlam. Don’t need to pay to see lunatics—not when everyone’s mad.”