Whatever the case, it was clear that I, and more to the point Samuel, could no longer afford the pretense of ignorance. It would have to be the truth now. Or at least a version of the truth. “I have not seen Lord Evan Belford in three weeks. As far as I know, he is on his way to Jamaica. That is all I know. Now, release my man and step out of my way.”

Mulholland tilted his head, assessing me with keen eyes. “I think there is more.”

“My lady does not have to answer to the likes of you,” Samuel threw out valiantly, earning himself another blow. I winced at his pained grunt.

“There is no more,” I said crisply.

Mulholland lunged, his hand closing around my forearm, the pain of it shooting through flesh and bone. I was suddenly off-balance, wrenched forward, my injured shoulder slamming into the hard muscle of Mulholland’s chest. The old ache shuddered through me into new agony. Something torn? I gasped, my breath a staccato of panting pain.

“Like it rough, do you, my lady?” He held me tightly to the length of his body, his mouth close to my ear, his breath a fetid mix of bad teeth and beer. “Where is Belford, you old cat?” he whispered, the soft question more threatening than if he had shouted it.

I wrenched my arm in his grasp but could not shift his brutal hold. “Do not touch me!” I rammed my body weight against his chest, making no impact upon his immovable bulk. “You cannot touch me in this way!”

He laughed. “Seems I can.” He grabbed my breast, pushing the bones of my stays hard against the soft flesh. I strained back as he dug in his fingers. “Is this what Belford does? Knead your saggy dugs for yer? Where is he, woman?”

For a second my mind roared, an icy vise of horror and disgust that held me frozen. A man had never touched me in this manner.

Never!

“He is gone,” I hissed and slammed my bootheel down onto the top of his foot. He flinched, enough for me to haul my arm from his grip and stumble back, out of reach. I crouched, ready to strike, scratch, even spit, but he did not follow, merely watching me with a curl of disdain upon his thin lips.

“I shall report you to Bow Street!” I said, pressing my hand against my abused chest. “You may be hired by them, but they will not stand for this violence against someone of rank.”

Mulholland sniffed. “Go ahead. Report me. Nothin’ will come of it.” He gave an elaborate bow. “Even for someone of your rank.” He turned his attention to his man. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”

Pritchard released Samuel, giving him one last vicious gut punch. My footman sagged against the wall, gulping for breath.