Page 2 of Earl of St. Seville

Desmond wasn’t certain how the finely dressed man had wandered down this particular street, but a thief had obviously set upon him. Perhaps he’d been visiting one of the various gaming hells situated several streets over.

The ruffian threw another jab, catching the larger man in the mouth.

The gentleman needed assistance. Despite Desmond’s age and frailty, he was the man’s only option this far into the alley, no longer in view of Desmond’s carriage and driver. If the earl screamed for help, would his driver come running? Desmond would never forgive himself if injury came to his servant as a direct result of his call for help.

Glancing around, Desmond spotted a long, wooden handle, likely discarded when the hammer portion broke from the end, making the tool useless except as fire kindling.

It would do the job needing done. He only needed to create enough of a distraction for the gentleman—and himself—to escape the alley and flee to the waiting coach.

Desmond took hold of the wooden rod and advanced farther into the dim alley as the ruffian, his trousers as threadbare as his tunic, swiftly jabbed his fist, pummeling the other man in the chest. The fighters shuffled their feet, clench fists raised as they hopped in a tight circle, each looking for another opportunity to strike out at the other.

It was a scene Desmond was all too familiar with.

The exact occurrence that Patience’s painstakingly crafted pamphlets hoped to discourage.

Desmond inched closer and bided his time. He waited for the men to move so that he could club the lout with enough force to halt the attack. If Desmond struck at the correct time, he and the other gentleman could depart the alley without further confrontation.

Finally, the moment presented itself, and Desmond swung the thick stick with enough force to nick the man’s shoulder and send him reeling to the muck-strewn dirt.

The Corinthian paused, his eyes darting to Desmond and back to his assailant as he moved to regain his feet.

“I think it best we leave,” Desmond called, discarding the club against the alley wall out of reach of the ruffian, the sound echoing in the alley. “Let us be off.”

When the gentleman made no move to follow him, Desmond wondered if he’d made a grave mistake by assuming that the henchman was the aggressor in the situation.

The smaller man regained his footing quicker than Desmond anticipated, though only grabbed the gentleman’s coat where he’d discarded it on a stack of crates against the alley wall. He fled deeper into the dark passageway, disappearing from sight, his footfalls echoing in the wake of his escape.

Neither Desmond nor the other man moved in pursuit.

“My carriage is down the street,” Desmond said, nodding toward the mouth of the alley. “Your lip is split and may need stitches to mend properly. Come, I will have my personal physician tend to your wounds.”

“The chap stole my overcoat,” the man breathed, his hands resting on his hips as he sucked air in deep, wincing slightly. The cut on his lip most certainly stung when the night air hit it.

Desmond wanted to chuckle. “At least you are escaping with your life and no new holes on your person.”

He remembered being young and impulsive—exhilarated at the thought of a skilled match against an accomplished pugilist.

Again, Desmond wondered if the man needed saving to begin with.

In that moment, Patience came to mind; her single-minded determination to warn fighters about the peril they faced when they accepted the challenge of a worthy competitor. Lost memories, unending bouts of lethargy, headaches, and vision impairment.

His Ivory Bess, once a prized pugilist in her own right, had suffered more than most with all those ailments.

Desmond narrowed his glare at the man, tilting his chin up to focus on the gentleman’s face and not his chest. “We should go, in case the man decides to return.”

“I can find my own way back to my lodging.”

“I’m not certain you even know where you are, my friend,” Desmond retorted. The maze of alleyways and lanes that crisscrossed London were difficult to navigate, and even more daunting in the dark.

Candles extinguished as the residents of the building overlooking the alley lost interest in the scene below. With their departure, the meager light that had shone down on the filthy passageway disappeared, shrouding Desmond in shadows as unease rose the hairs on the back of his neck.

Desmond turned, waving for the man to follow. “My coach is this way.”

Exiting the alleyway, the earl curved right and was reassured to see his coach and driver waiting. A sharp whistle garnered the driver’s attention, and his servant leapt down from his perch and whisked the door open, not bothering to set down the steps.

Desmond took the forward-facing seat, surprised to note that the stranger alighted directly after him, taking the seat across from him.

“My townhouse,” he called as his driver closed the door.