Simeon’s shaggy head appeared from inside the chaise. Benedict took a deep breath and reminded himself not to smash his fist into the boy’s face. It was bad form to hit a man with glasses. “Button it, Pettigrew. I don’t have time to deal with you now.”

Juliet returned, panting from her exertions. Her hands held a bulging reticule with a drawstring top. Part of a necklace peeked out, and Benedict recognized it with a pang as the one Georgie had worn at O’Meara’s, the one she’d tried to pass off as fake—a fortune in diamonds and emeralds. His stomach clenched. He had to get to her.

“Where are you supposed to take them?” Juliet asked.

“Rupert’s place in Hounslow. Your cousin said you’d know the direction.”

Juliet’s perfect forehead creased. “Uncle Rupert had a hunting box there. Father took us a few times when we were little.” She screwed up her face. “But that was years ago. I can barely remember how to get there. I never took much notice. All I remember is that it’s a few miles outside of the town, past a tavern called the Dog and Duck.” She glanced mournfully at the bag as she handed it over. “You’re not really going to give those to him, are you?”

“No. I’m going to beat him to a bloody pulp,” Benedict said. “And then I might just shoot him for good measure.”

Juliet raised her chin, a very unladylike spark of violence flashing in her blue eyes. “Well, good. If he’s done something horrid to Georgie, then he deserves everything you give him.”

Benedict remounted, and she placed her hand on his booted foot. “Please bring her back safe, Mr. Wylde.”

“I will.” He wheeled his horse and found Alex and Seb, both mounted, blocking the end of the street. He frowned at them. “Why aren’t you on your way to the docks?”

Alex shrugged. “We sent a message to Bow Street. Willis is going to watch the warehouse. We’re with you. If this woman’s important to you, she’s important to us.”

Ben swallowed a lump in his throat. Thank God for such friends. The bond he shared with Alex and Seb was so much stronger than blood. It had been forged in sweat and tears, in shared misery and elation. And countless instances of finding humor in the blackest of situations. “This isn’t your fight.”

Seb grinned. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course it is. Remember that time near Badajoz when you saved me from that sniper? I owe you. Your fight is our fight, remember?”

Alex chuckled. “Not to mention I’ve been praying for a decent scrap for months. London’s deadly dull when it comes to proper fighting.”

“All right,” Ben said gruffly. “Let’s go.”