God, Bronwyn hoped there weren’t any rats in the cellar she was hiding in. She could think of nothing more horrible than one of them crawling up her leg. She blinked, remembering what had brought her here in the first place. Never mind, capture by Carl and Ralphie would be much worse. After a few minutes, their voices got fainter, and with no small amount of relief, Bronwyn realized they were walking away. And then a shout made her freeze.

“Oy, he was in the tavern!”

“A rich toff by the looks of him. At least we won’t go home empty-handed.”

The sounds of a scuffle reached her ears, punctuated by dull thwacks and grunts. What sounded like a moan pierced the air. She couldn’t tell if it had come from her two pursuers or whatever poor sod had happened upon them by accident.

It’s none of your business, Bronwyn. Stay hidden.

There were more out there, including the brutish lout from the tavern, who she knew would want a personal reckoning after she’d upended a table at him. But she couldn’t stay hidden, not when some innocent soul was getting mugged by those two unpleasant criminals. Carefully, she eased upward, cringing when more gravel skittered beneath her feet. She pushed the door upward, hoping that the hinges would not be old and rusty and loud. Thankfully, they weren’t. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw three shadowy, grappling figures taking center stage.

One bearded redhead lay groaning on the ground, while a man—a tall, well-dressed, hatless man with a cap of light-brown curls—kicked a knife out of his hands that went skating halfway across the courtyard. The other man ran at him from behind, and she couldn’t help it, she shouted out a warning. But it was too late. The man looked directly at her and Bronwyn shuddered with the wallop of recognition just as the knife in the second man’s hand came down.

The Duke of Thornbury was here.

With unearthly, catlike speed for a man of his size, he dodged the brunt of the strike and slammed upward with his own fist right into the man’s throat. Crimson welled over his neckline, spotting his white cravat with red, and Bronwyn realized with a cry that the assailant’s knife had found his skin after all. He’d avoided a killing blow, but gotten carved from chin to collarbone in the process. The sight of that blood did something to her.

“Valentine!”

“Stay there,” he growled. “Don’t move.”

It was in slow motion that she saw the fallen man pulling a gun from his boot. Bronwyn didn’t think; she pulled the pistol from her pocket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the man right in the thigh, but it was enough for him to drop the weapon and collapse.

***