LONDON, ENGLAND
Hugh Fitzroy, the Duke of Kyle, did not want to die tonight, for three very good reasons.
It was half past midnight as he eyed the toughs slinking out of the shadows up ahead in the cold alley near Covent Garden. He switched the bottle of fine Viennese wine from his right arm to his left and drew his sword. He’d dined with the Austrian ambassador earlier and the wine was a gift.
One, Kit, his elder son—and, formally, the Earl of Staffin—was only seven. Far too young to inherit the dukedom.
Next to him was a linkboy with a lantern. The boy was frozen, his lantern a small pool of light in the alley. The youth’s eyes were wide and frightened. He couldn’t be more than fifteen. Hugh glanced behind them. Several men were at the entrance to the alley. He and the linkboy were trapped.
Two, Peter, his younger son, was still suffering nightmares from the death of his mother only six months before. What would his father’s death so soon after do to the boy?
They might be footpads. Unlikely, though. Footpads usually worked in smaller numbers, were not this organized, and were after money, not death.
Assassins, then.
And three, Hugh had recently been assigned an important job by His Majesty’s government: bring down the Lords of Chaos. On the whole, Hugh liked to finish his jobs. Brought a nice sense of completion at the end of the day, if nothing else.
Right, then.
“If you can, run,” Hugh said to the linkboy. “They’re after me, not you.”
He pivoted and attacked the men behind them. There were two men in front, another to their rear. The first raised a club.
Hugh slashed him across the throat. That one went down in a spray of scarlet. But the second was already bringing his club down in a bone-jarring blow against Hugh’s left shoulder.
He juggled the bottle of wine, just catching it again before kicking the man in the balls. The second man stumbled back against the man at his back.
There were running footsteps from behind Hugh.
He spun.
Caught the descending knife with his blade and slid his sword into the hand holding the knife.
A howling scream, and the knife clattered to the wet icy cobblestones in a splatter of blood.
The knifeman lowered his head and charged like an enraged bull.
Hugh flattened all six foot four inches of himself against the filthy alley wall, stuck out his foot, and tripped Charging Bull into the three men he’d already dealt with.
The linkboy, who had been cowering at the opposite wall, took the opportunity to squirm through the remaining three standing men and run away.
Which left them all in darkness, save for the light of the moon.
Hugh grinned.
He didn’t have to worry about hitting his compatriots in the dark.
He spun and rushed the man next in line after the Bull. They’d picked a nice alley, his attackers. No way out—save either end—but it did have one small advantage for Hugh: no matter how many men were against him, only two could fit abreast in the alley at a time. Any left over were simply bottled up behind the others, twiddling their thumbs.
Hugh slashed the next man and shouldered past him. Got a blow upside the head for his trouble and saw stars. Hugh shook his head and elbowed the next—hard—in the face, and kicked the third in the belly. Suddenly he could see the light at the end of the alley.
Hugh knew men who felt that gentlemen should never run from a fight. Of course many of these same gentlemen had never been in a real fight.
Besides, he had those three very good reasons.
Actually, now that he thought of it, there was a fourth reason he did not want to die tonight.
Hugh ran to the end of the alley, his bottle of fine Viennese wine cradled in the crook of his left arm, his sword in the other fist. The cobblestones were iced over and his momentum was such he slid into the lit street.
Where he found another half-dozen men bearing down on him from his left.
Bloody hell.
Four, he hadn’t had a woman in his bed in over nine months and to die in such a drought seemed a particularly unkind blow from fate, goddamn it.
Hugh nearly dropped the bloody wine as he scrambled to turn to the right. He could hear the men he’d left in the alley rallying even as he sprinted straight into the worst part of London: the stews of St Giles. They were right on his heels, a veritable army of assassins. The streets here were narrow, ill lit, and cobbled badly, if at all. If he fell because of ice or a missing cobblestone, he’d never get up again.
He turned down a smaller alley and then immediately down another.
Behind him he heard a shout. Christ, if they split up, they would corner him again.
He hadn’t enough of a lead, even if a man of his size could easily hide in a place like St Giles. Hugh glanced up as he entered a small courtyard. Overhead the moon was veiled in clouds, and it almost looked as if a boy were silhouetted, jumping from one rooftop to another…
Which…
Was insane.
Think. If he could circle and come back the way he’d entered St Giles, he could slip their noose.
Another courtyard.
Ah, Christ.
They were already here, blocking the two other exits of the courtyard.
Hugh spun, but the passage he’d just run out from was crowded with more men, perhaps a dozen in all.
Well.
He put his back to the only wall left to him and straightened.
He rather wished he’d tasted the wine. He was fond of Viennese wine.
A tall man in a ragged brown coat and a filthy red neckcloth stepped forward. Hugh half expected him to make some sort of speech. Instead he drew a knife the size of a man’s forearm, grinned, and licked the blade.
Hugh didn’t wait for whatever other disgusting preliminaries Knife Licker might feel were appropriate for the occasion. He stepped forward and smashed the bottle of very fine Viennese wine over the man’s head.
Then they were on him.
He slashed and felt the jolt to his arm as he hit flesh.
Swung and raked the sword across another’s face.
Staggered as he was slammed into by two men.
Another hit him hard in the jaw.
And then someone clubbed him behind the knees.
He fell to his knees on the icy ground, growling like a bleeding, baited bear.
Raised an arm to defend his head…
And…
Someone dropped from the sky right in front of him.
Darting, wheeling, spinning.
Defending him so gracefully.
With a sword.
Hugh staggered upright again, blinking blood out of his eyes—when had he been cut?
And saw a boy? No, a slight man in a half mask, and floppy hat, and boots, fighting with two swords. Hugh just had time to think: insane, before the man was thrown back against him.
Hugh caught the man and had another thought, which was: tits?
And then he set the woman—most definitely a woman although in a man’s clothing—on her feet and put his back to hers and fought as if their lives depended on it.
Which they did.
There were still eight or so of the attackers left and although they weren’t trained, they were determined. Hugh slashed and punched and kicked, while his feminine savior danced an elegant dance of death with her sword. When he smashed the butt of his sword into the skull of one of the last men, the remaining two looked at each other, picked up a third, and took to their heels.
Panting, Hugh glanced around the courtyard. It was strewn with groaning men, most still very much alive, though not dangerous at the moment.
He peered at the masked woman. She was tiny, barely reaching his shoulder. How was it she’d saved him from certain, ignoble death? But she had. She surely had.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice gruff. “I—”
She grinned, a quicksilver flash, and put her left hand on the back of his neck to pull his head down to her face to kiss him.
She might be a deadly sword fighter, but her lips were soft and spicy. He groaned and pushed closer.
But she laughed—a low, husky sound that went straight to his cock—and skipped away. She disappeared down one of the tiny alleys leading off the courtyard.
And as Hugh stared after her, he had but one thought: when had the Ghost of St Giles become a woman?