He grabbed St. Clare by his shirt, and spinning him around, smashed his fist into St. Clare’s jaw.

Maggie covered her mouth to stifle a cry. But St. Clare didn’t appear to be hurt—not grievously.

Retaliating instantly, he struck Fred once, twice, and then—by the simple expedience of one well-delivered boot to the chest—quite literally kicked Fred out the door of the tavern.

The crowd went mad. “Hell’s teeth!” one of the men exclaimed. “Did you see that?”

“He’s Jim’s lad, all right!” another cried.

But the fight wasn’t over.

St. Clare followed Fred into the yard, and the two of them picked up straight where they’d left off.

Maggie ran after them, along with the rest of the rabble. “Stop!” she cried. “That’s enough!”

St. Clare and Fred circled each other, both of them panting, deaf to her pleas. And then, Fred lunged at St. Clare again—a staggering, unsteady assault. The two of them grappled with each other, exchanging imprecise blows.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Maggie wished she had a bucket of water to throw over them. She looked desperately around the yard. Her eyes lit on their hired carriage. It stood in the same place they’d left it. Except now…

It was completely unattended.

Worse than that. It no longer appeared to be attached to the horses.

A jolt of alarm went through her. Abandoning her place at the front of the crowd, she ran to the carriage only to discover that the traces had been cut. Panic rose in her breast. “Enzo?” she called. “Enzo, where are you?”

“Here!” a faint voice answered.

She almost didn’t hear it over the roar of the crowd. It was a tiny sliver of sound, emanating from the only other carriage in the yard.

Fred’s carriage.

Mr. Beresford, his valet, and the coachman stood alongside it, well out of the way of the fight and ready to make their escape. The valet was holding Fred’s pistol.

Maggie fixed the trio with a glare. “I beg your pardon, is that my servant I hear inside your cab?”

Mr. Beresford smiled. “Just obeying orders, Miss Honeywell.”

“Whose orders?”

“Mr. Burton-Smythe’s, naturally.”

“He has no authority over my tiger,” she said. “Let the boy out at once.”

“Can’t do,” Mr. Beresford said.

“Oh you can’t, can you?” Her temper flared.

“Not unless it’s on Mr. Burton-Smythe’s say-so. And, as you can see, he’s a trifle busy with my cousin at the moment.”

She moved to the door to try the handle, but the valet blocked her path. “Get out of my way!”

“This lad’s for the magistrate, ma’am,” Mr. Beresford said.

“Rubbish. He’s committed no crime. It’s you who I’ll have up before the magistrate if you don’t release him.”

He chuckled. “On what charge?”