Page 3 of The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady
Nash was behind her. She could hear his heavy footfalls, his ragged gasping, and his mumbled curses.
I am faster than him. Prove it!
Leah vaulted over the fence, her ankle biting out in protest of her landing.
To her right, she saw two thugs closing the distance, but to her left the way was clear. Nash grunted, jumping halfway up the fence, struggling to keep up with her. She was free.
“So long, sailor boy,” she grinned, winked at Nash, and dashed around the corner before the thugs could catch her.
“I'll ruddy kill you! Doxy! Cit!” Nash spat, ran his mouth, and watched her disappear.
As Leah came soaring around the corner, a tall nobleman exited his carriage with a slight hop. The unusual movement for someone so well dressed threw Leah off balance, and she half expected him to turn and lay her out flat.
He was finely dressed, as only the truly rich were, but his physique was not that of the far-too-scrawny, or far-too-heavy royal frame that she was used to seeing.
He had broad shoulders that seemed they could carry the weight of the world. His face had the brief glimpse of curiosity, rather than anger, at her appearance, and Leah was thrown off guard.
She nearly knocked the man over, colliding with one of his shoulders, but she regained her footing with a grunt. Pain shot again through her ankle, but she could not linger on it.
Leah pushed past him over the cobblestones as the rain started to come down again in its random spurts. As she limped away, she cursed herself.
I could have had his pocket book.
* * *
Kenneth Wilson, the Duke of Worthington, brushed away the impact mark on his greatcoat as the lad shoved past him. He was about to be received by his guest atop the stairs, in the entrance to the Assembly Rooms, but instead he had been run into by some lad in a hurry.
Kenneth followed the runner with his eyes for a moment before turning his gaze back to the large nobleman atop the stairs. He raised his shoulders in a half-hearted gesture as if to say, “Well what was all that about?”
His host, who had been appalled to see such an encounter, took Kenneth's good nature as an indicator on how he should behave.
“My,” the nobleman huffed. “in a hurry, isn't he?”
“It would seem.” Kenneth replied. He checked his coat once more, and satisfied with its appearance, began to walk up the stairs towards his host. “Perhaps on account of this weather.” Kenneth gestured upwards to the turbulent sky with the handle of his cane.
“Most likely,” his host grunted. “come in, come in, we were just discussing your bill – ”
But he was cut short by the shouting of seven men, all in varying states of distress. They conglomerated just beyond Kenneth's carriage, and pointed excitedly towards the lad that had run into him, limping down the street.
“I say.” the Marquess huffed. “What is this?”
“There she is!” Nash shouted. “Come on lads!” The pack tore after her like hounds on the hunt.
“Criminals!” the Marquess gasped. “Call the constables!”
“She...” Kenneth muttered, watching them run down the street. His eyes moved up their trajectory, past the gaggles of people clustered beneath business and porch awnings. There he was. The limping lad. Then came a gust of air that caused Kenneth to brace in his greatcoat, and he saw the hood fall from the runner's head.
It was no lad, but a woman, that Kenneth could see now. Long, flowing tresses streamed behind her as she ran, and she glanced back in terror at those chasing her.
“It is a woman.” Kenneth said abruptly, turning away from the stairs as it began to rain again.
He watched as she kept her breathing even and looking straight ahead. The sheer determination in her eyes was palpable.
Kenneth did not hesitate. He handed his cane and top hat to the Marquess and took off down the street after them, much to the flabbergasted dismay of his would-be host.
Of course, if anyone from the House of Lords would be seen chasing hoodlums down the block, it would be Kenneth Wilson.
Since he was a boy, he had cultivated a reputation among the nobility as the daring, adventurous type. A young man of seven and twenty, Kenneth had already seen his fair share of danger. During the invasion of France in 1812, he had enlisted not as a captain or lieutenant, but as an ensign, and he had shared the hardships of the ground with his tight, cohesive unit. The army had loved him for it, but the Lords hated him for earning the respect of the men. From France, he had gone to America to fight the colonists, and from New England he had gone back to France, to fight at Waterloo.
