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for a gently bred and innocent lady. He considered taking Miss Brotherton home, abandoning the disreputable, albeit appealing, Mrs. Townsend, to her fate.
    She was smiling at the fellow, letting him hold her hand! If this was an example of the kind of man she admired, it confirmed every poor impression he’d gained of her. Ignoring his inconvenient attraction would be easy.
    Then something changed. She was trying to get away. The blackguard had the nerve to lay his fingers on the curves of her bosom, the flawless skin that he, Thomas, was far too much of a gentleman to touch, however much he might wish to. Crimson rage flooded his brain and took possession of his body. The gently bred and innocent Miss Brotherton was abandoned without a thought. He charged, knocking over a few drunken oafs along the way, grabbed the oversized striped collar of that ridiculous coat and tore the villain from his prey.
    Whatever his name was, he had no chance to put up a fight. Thomas spun him around and smashed fist into jaw, not as flush as he would have liked given the constraints of the crowd, but hard enough to send the striped body flying into a group of revelers.
    At that point, things got a little interesting. The fellows he’d floored in his initial charge bore in, giving Thomas no chance to explain he’d been motivated by chivalry. Quickly deciding there wasn’t any point reasoning with inebriated riffraff, he raised his fists and found himself in a fight.
    Outnumbered three to one, he had the advantage of size and sobriety. One went down with a single blow, and he was parrying the attack of the others when he became aware of help from an unexpected quarter. Caro Townsend, swinging her reticule about her, managed to knock down one of the assailants. Whatever she had in the cloth bag must be quite heavy, confirmed when she nearly hit him over the head with it.
    â€œCareful,” he cried, as it glanced off his shoulder.
    â€œSorry,” Caro said, whacking a husky giant in the chest just as the new combatant charged Thomas. Her intervention very likely saved him from being felled.
    He would have ordered her to safety, but he was too busy with a foe who, with no regard for the rules of pugilism, grabbed him by the neckcloth and had to be dislodged. Boxing his ears, also not an approved technique, did the trick.
    The brawl spread, with men who neither knew nor cared about the cause of the fight joining the fray. Thomas found himself back-to-back with Caro, she swinging her lethal accessory, he wielding his fists. Someone succeeded in landing a punch in his eye, but he ignored the pain. “Are you all right?” he yelled at his unlikely second.
    â€œSplendid!” she shouted back. “How are we going to get out of here?”
    â€œI have no idea.” And he didn’t. He should be worried, for the situation looked to be developing into a full-blown riot. Instead, he felt exhilarated, blood coursing through his veins in the excitement of combat. He couldn’t attribute it to the martial spirit of his Fitzcharles ancestors, for they had none. His brain had never felt keener or more attuned to the actions of his limbs: disarming the powerful but unscientific sally of a man with the physique of an oversized hauler by the expedient of kicking the man’s ankle so he lost his balance and crashed to the floor; parrying the attack of a costumed cavalier by twisting his wig and rendering him blind. He discovered he possessed the low cunning that his ancestress Mary Swinburne, the darling of Drury Lane, must have used to capture a monarch and dispose of half a dozen rivals.
    The screech of whistles pierced his senses, but his sights were set on Caro’s stripe-clad debaucher, who had rallied (or bribed) a beefy bruiser as his companion in a new offensive. He kept his fists up and shook off a restraining feminine hand on his shoulder.
    â€œCastleton!” His name, Caro’s voice.