Flynn didn’t need to glance at the grey coat or the boots he wore to know exactly how expensive they looked or why he might have been mistaken for a rich toff. The coat was made of superfine, lined and tailored, the boots made of polished, supple leather with reinforced soles. He had bought them with the money from his first large commission because, for as long as he could remember, winter had meant bone-chilling misery, ragged garments, and broken shoes stuffed with paper no match for the incapacitating cold. The coat and the boots had cost him dearly, and they had been worth every penny.

“We’ll take yer boots and yer coat and whatever is in them pockets.” The bigger man lifted his hand, and Flynn could see that he held a knife.

“You don’t want to do this,” Flynn said.

The men were laughing at Flynn’s words. “I can assure ye, we do. Besides, a bloke like you can afford it.” They took a few steps closer. “Now give me yer coat. I don’t want to make you bleed all over it.”

“Get out of here, Beaumont,” Flynn ordered under his breath.

Beaumont’s head snapped around. “What?”

“Go. Run. They don’t want you. They want me. And I can handle myself.”

“I’m not running. I’m not leaving you alone.”

Flynn fought back a surge of frustration. “It wasn’t a request,” he snapped. “And you don’t want to see this. Go. Get help—”

The man with the knife sprang at him without warning, catching Flynn off guard, but Beaumont drove his shoulder into the man’s barrel chest, making the attacker stumble. Flynn thought he saw the knife flash in the dull light but he was already leaping forward, wrenching the man’s thick forearm back and to the side in practiced movements he had not had to use in a long time. He felt the man’s shoulder joint pop, heard him scream, and the knife dropped to the ground. Flynn delivered a punishing blow to the man’s kneecap with the heel of his boot, and he fell heavily, but not before Flynn had snatched up his knife.

The second man was much faster than his cohort. Flynn felt the air hiss as a blade narrowly missed the side of his face, and he danced back, adjusting his grip on his own weapon. It was clumsy, this knife, unbalanced and bulky, but it would do. Flynn had done more with less in the past. The smaller man shuffled around his writhing, groaning partner, looking for an advantage that Flynn wouldn’t give him. He couldn’t see Beaumont, and he hoped that the boy was long gone.

“You don’t want to do this,” Flynn said again.

The man only bared his teeth in response and lunged with his knife. Flynn sidestepped easily, his fingers once again flexing around the wooden handle of his own blade.