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Authors: Juliana Gray
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and hauled her aching body upward.
Somerton turned to her. “What an unfortunate misadventure. Are you still whole?”
His voice was calm, almost icy. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his expression. Couldn’t tell if he were sympathetic or angry, or some mysterious emotion private to himself. His large black outline blocked out what little light shed upon the street: a shadow upon shadows. At his feet, the thief now seemed pitifully small.
“Still whole,” she said. She put a hand to the back of her head, which was throbbing but dry of blood. A small mercy.
Somerton’s face tilted downward. “Spoils of war,” he said, and in a quick motion of his long arm, he scooped up the watch and the ring that the thief had plucked from her pockets. “By God, it looks as if you’re not his first victim tonight. A damned fine ring. The watch is inferior, however. Is it yours?”
“Yes.” She held out her hand.
“There you are. My hackney is around the corner. We shall be home in half an hour. The housekeeper will see to your injury; I daresay a mere bandage will do. It’s stopped bleeding, at any rate.” He unfastened the first two buttons of his overcoat and slipped the ring into some hidden pocket next to his body.
In the presence of his matter-of-fact words, Luisa’s heart began to slow. She placed the watch and the broken chain into her waistcoat pocket and picked up her overcoat from the damp pavement. She willed her hands to stop shaking.
Somerton waited, without moving, as she buttoned her coat and settled her round bowler hat, now somewhat battered, back on her head. As if she’d simply stumbled and fallen while walking, instead of having nearly been murdered by a London street thief. As if this were all very ordinary.
For Somerton, it probably was.
“Can you walk?” he asked at last, when she was ready. He didn’t spare so much as a glance for the thief, who still lay on the pavement, issuing groans from time to time. He didn’t even wait for her reply; as soon as the question left his lips, he turned on his heel and began walking down the street, booted heels cracking smartly against the pavement, greatcoat swirling about his legs.
Luisa’s cheeks flushed hot against the cold air. She forced her bruised limbs into a run to catch up. “If I
can
walk, it’s no thanks to you!”
“I beg your pardon. I believe I just saved your life, young man.”
“The least you could do, after you arranged this entire absurd drama tonight.”
He turned the corner of Ponsonby Place onto Causton Street. Ahead, a hackney sat patiently by the curb. “I apologize for the austerity of the conveyance. A crested carriage is something of an inconvenience on such errands.”
“Errands? This was an errand to you?”
“Tut-tut. All’s well that ends well.” He reached the hackney and rapped upon the side. The driver started, nearly losing his hat, and sprang open the doors. “After you,” said Somerton, with an absence of flourish.
For an instant, Luisa considered delivering a parting shot and stalking off down the street.
“For God’s sake, Markham. Don’t be such a woman.” Somerton pulled his gloves from the pocket of his overcoat—he had evidently removed them in the struggle—and tugged each one over his hands.
Luisa cast him her haughtiest glance and climbed into the hackney.
He swung in behind her at once, making the vehicle stagger under his weight. The doors clanged shut, the whip twitched briskly, the driver spoke. With a weary sigh, the horse leaned forward in his harness and started off from the curb.
“I see you’re not going to apologize,” said Luisa, after a moment’s damp silence.
“Apologize?” The earl’s voice was genuinely incredulous. “For what?”
“For nearly having me killed!”
“You were never in any danger.”
“And yet there is a great deal of blood on my collar, my head hurts like the devil, and I daresay I shall carry a multitude of bruises well
Somerton turned to her. “What an unfortunate misadventure. Are you still whole?”
His voice was calm, almost icy. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his expression. Couldn’t tell if he were sympathetic or angry, or some mysterious emotion private to himself. His large black outline blocked out what little light shed upon the street: a shadow upon shadows. At his feet, the thief now seemed pitifully small.
“Still whole,” she said. She put a hand to the back of her head, which was throbbing but dry of blood. A small mercy.
Somerton’s face tilted downward. “Spoils of war,” he said, and in a quick motion of his long arm, he scooped up the watch and the ring that the thief had plucked from her pockets. “By God, it looks as if you’re not his first victim tonight. A damned fine ring. The watch is inferior, however. Is it yours?”
“Yes.” She held out her hand.
“There you are. My hackney is around the corner. We shall be home in half an hour. The housekeeper will see to your injury; I daresay a mere bandage will do. It’s stopped bleeding, at any rate.” He unfastened the first two buttons of his overcoat and slipped the ring into some hidden pocket next to his body.
In the presence of his matter-of-fact words, Luisa’s heart began to slow. She placed the watch and the broken chain into her waistcoat pocket and picked up her overcoat from the damp pavement. She willed her hands to stop shaking.
Somerton waited, without moving, as she buttoned her coat and settled her round bowler hat, now somewhat battered, back on her head. As if she’d simply stumbled and fallen while walking, instead of having nearly been murdered by a London street thief. As if this were all very ordinary.
For Somerton, it probably was.
“Can you walk?” he asked at last, when she was ready. He didn’t spare so much as a glance for the thief, who still lay on the pavement, issuing groans from time to time. He didn’t even wait for her reply; as soon as the question left his lips, he turned on his heel and began walking down the street, booted heels cracking smartly against the pavement, greatcoat swirling about his legs.
Luisa’s cheeks flushed hot against the cold air. She forced her bruised limbs into a run to catch up. “If I
can
walk, it’s no thanks to you!”
“I beg your pardon. I believe I just saved your life, young man.”
“The least you could do, after you arranged this entire absurd drama tonight.”
He turned the corner of Ponsonby Place onto Causton Street. Ahead, a hackney sat patiently by the curb. “I apologize for the austerity of the conveyance. A crested carriage is something of an inconvenience on such errands.”
“Errands? This was an errand to you?”
“Tut-tut. All’s well that ends well.” He reached the hackney and rapped upon the side. The driver started, nearly losing his hat, and sprang open the doors. “After you,” said Somerton, with an absence of flourish.
For an instant, Luisa considered delivering a parting shot and stalking off down the street.
“For God’s sake, Markham. Don’t be such a woman.” Somerton pulled his gloves from the pocket of his overcoat—he had evidently removed them in the struggle—and tugged each one over his hands.
Luisa cast him her haughtiest glance and climbed into the hackney.
He swung in behind her at once, making the vehicle stagger under his weight. The doors clanged shut, the whip twitched briskly, the driver spoke. With a weary sigh, the horse leaned forward in his harness and started off from the curb.
“I see you’re not going to apologize,” said Luisa, after a moment’s damp silence.
“Apologize?” The earl’s voice was genuinely incredulous. “For what?”
“For nearly having me killed!”
“You were never in any danger.”
“And yet there is a great deal of blood on my collar, my head hurts like the devil, and I daresay I shall carry a multitude of bruises well
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