Page 3 of Season of the Scoundrel
A pugilist lady friend had showed her how to throw a punch, strike where it hurt most, and get away if a man tried to overpower her. She didn’t fear the man as much as she feared for the child’s life if she couldn’t stop him.
“Put down the cane, sir,” she said, trying for a calm tone. “Let us settle this civilly.”
He still held the cane aloft, as if ready to strike. Then he jerked forward, winding his arm back. He swiped the cane down an inch from her left arm, and the hiss as it arced through the air made breath quicken.
Ivy flinched, and his grimace transformed into a sickly grin.
“That’ll teach you, little meddling bitch.” The lout seemed to enjoy intimidating her. Or trying to.
Ivy knew if he she could stand her ground and let him draw nearer, he’d be close enough to knee him in the bollocks. But rather than lurch closer, he shocked her by reaching an arm out, pushing her folio away, and groping at her chest.
Ivy backed away quickly, praying she wouldn’t trip over the child. But her momentum ended immediately as she slammed into a hard, muscled wall of heat. She almost lost her footing, but an arm wrapped around her middle, steadying her. Reaching down, she intended to push out of the man’s hold, but the look on the face of the cane-wielding thug stopped her.
He gaped at a spot above her head, lowered his cane, and backed away as if he’d seen the devil himself. Once he’d rushed off, Ivy shoved at the arm around her waist and spun to look up into the face that had so terrified the bully.
He didn’t look like the devil. The man’s face was shocking only in its rugged beauty. Two dark brows were drawn together in a frown above hooded blue eyes, a sharp nose, full lips, and a perfectly square jaw.
“That was bloody reckless,” he said, his voice low and rough.
Irritation rose in Ivy. Ignoring the Adonis in front of her, she searched for the child. She rushed over to the shopfront where he stood waiting for her, just as she’d asked him to.
“Did he hurt you badly?” she queried as she knelt down. To her surprise, it was immediately apparent the child was a girl with her hair cropped short and wearing the tattered clothing of a boy.
“A few bruises, miss. That’s all. I took nothin’. I swear it.”
“I believe you. Shall we send for a constable to report what the man did to you?”
The girl’s eyes widened, and she shook her head vigorously.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him before he struck you.” Ivy dug into her pocket for a few coins. “Take these.”
The girl hesitated, then cupped her hand. “Thank ye, miss.”
“Take this too.” Ivy withdrew one of her calling cards. “If you need me to attest to what I saw, I shall.”
The girl nodded, and Ivy stood. She looked across the street and spotted her sister’s carriage. Though she’d insisted Lilyneedn’t wait, she had a feeling she’d see the ducal carriage nearby after she left her meeting.
“Can I escort you home?” she asked, looking back to the girl.
But she was gone. She’d slipped away so deftly, Ivy hadn’t heard a sound. She scanned the street, but the child was nowhere to be seen.
The dark-haired man, however, remained on the pavement opposite her.
Her breath caught in her throat. He was so striking, she found it difficult to look away. He stood taller than all the men around him, was clean-shaven when most were bearded, and wore no hat in a sea of bowlers and top hats, leaving his dark hair tousled by the wind. He took a step as if he might stride through traffic and approach her again.
“Ivy?” Lily’s voice carried on the breeze.
Ivy turned to wave at her sister. When she looked back, her strapping, blue-eyed Samaritan had turned and begun striding farther down the street.
“How much of that did you see?” Ivy asked as she walked toward the ducal carriage.
“How much of what?” Lily asked. “Henshaw only just pulled around a moment ago.”
“Then never mind.” Ivy climbed up into the carriage, settling on the plush squabs.
“That is quite cryptic,” Lily said, gaze narrowed. “Your color is high, but your eyes tell a different story,” she said after a sisterly assessment. “What happened with Mr. Smythe?”
Ivy exhaled a deep sigh. “He wants me to write of social events and soirees.” She couldn’t keep the hollowness from her voice. “I know you’ll say I should be grateful for the opportunity.”
