Page 4 of The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady
Upon retiring from the army at the rank of captain, Kenneth had turned his eye towards London's poor. Abroad, he had seen the harshness of the world beyond his gated grounds. He had seen the chain reaction of poverty, war, and crime. He had seen the cycle of children turned into thieves, thieves turned into killers, and killers turned into corpses play itself out time and time again.
There were issues that fellows of his prestige chose to ignore, for it played no part in their world of embroidery and brandy. It was no secret that Kenneth wanted to focus the efforts of his affluence on the poor; naturally, his work had fallen prey to the artfully well-mannered mocking of his present company.
So, it was well understood to the Marquess on his steps why the Duke of Worthington might dash off down the block to save some rain-soaked lad from a beating. Nevertheless, he, like anyone else present, found Kenneth's actions abrupt and out of place.
The young woman turned down a darkened street with the men on her heels. No woman of respect would be seen on St. James’s Street, much less unaccompanied by a husband or chaperone. Now that her disguise was forfeit, she was an easy mark for the gaggle of goons behind her.
The sound of boots thundering in the streets ricocheted off the buildings, mixing with the splash of overflowing rain gutters. Kenneth followed their trail at a jog for several blocks until the sounds came to a sudden halt. They were close.
Only Kenneth’s labored breathing could be heard in the chilling silence as the rain decided to let up. He slowed to a brisk walk, side stepping the massive puddles as to not make a noticeable sound. Kenneth peered into every crack and corner that he passed.
Perhaps they are gone. The thought discouraged him.
Imagining this unresolved conflict would rack at his brain.Who was she? Why was she running? Will she be alright?
Kenneth began to despair. It was a hard fact that still he labored to accept, even after the years he spent in war-torn countries; he could not help everyone.
As he was about to turn back, muffled voices reached his ears.I've got you.
“Quiet, pretty. We don’ want none of them highborns cuttin’ in on our little dance. You thought you could get away, proper ripe that is.”
* * *
Leah twisted her face away from Nash’s foul breath as he pinned her to the brick, spitting out his venomous words like an angered snake. The wall was wet with rain, and it soaked through the back of her jacket, finishing off any dry patch once and for all.
Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to allow Nash the privilege of seeing them spill.
They followed me through the square,she cursed to herself. She had gambled that their fear of Riphook's rage at their publicity would overpower their desire to provide him with her head. It seemed she had gambled wrong.
She was trapped now, stuck against the wall between four sour cutthroats. They had her restrained, but she could try to outsmart them. It was the only chance she had of escaping the knife at her belly.
“I’ve got quid comin’,” she squirmed her face a bit further from his. “I can offer a split, between you and your chums. No doubt more than what Rip’s offerin’ you, Nash. All yours, I don't even need a piece.”
Only laughter followed her offer. No one in Riphook’s crew would accept disloyalty within the ranks. It was said a ship was sinking when the rats jumped overboard. Riphook hated rats, and he would not tolerate them one iota.
Despite what the highborn or any oblivious outsider might assume about the underworld, the new leaders of the underground had a code of honor that was strictly abided by. They also had an accord with the rovers, the crooked clergy, and what remained of some pirates holed up on the French coast. No one would cross him it seemed, no one but her.
“I got papers. A list of names involved in a banned cargo trade with royal seals on them. Papers Rip will be wantin’ fierce. Take 'em and be off, eh? I'll still get you that quid.”
“One plumper after another, eh? I’d bet me own nutmeg you ain’t got no job in the works, nor no papers in your bosom,” Nash spat a fat glob onto the pavement, and it washed away in the resumed downpour. “After the stunt you pulled, you be lucky Rip didn’t come for you himself. Real bad sight that'd be, eh? You know how he be when he gets emotional. Thought you could just pack up and run without Rip sendin’ us to find you out?”
Leah attempted to pry a loose brick out of the wall behind her back, working at the grout with her fingernails, scrapping the skin from her fingertips. Nash saw this and slammed her back against the brick, forcing her arms outward, and restrained them above her head. “Naughty, naughty, little Leah! Still tryn'a get away!” His breath was hot and rancid. “I promised me mum I weren’t ever gon’ hit a girl. But you ain’t no girl, is you? You're a right spitting image of a man!” He drove his knee hard into her stomach, taking the air clean from her.
Leah gasped, collapsing to her knees in the rain, clutching at her stomach, trying to breath. The thugs around them chuckled at her pain. The rain began again.
“No, I won’t be killin’ you, little Leah. I want to see the fire leave your eyes first, like the bleedin' spitfire you are, so me and the boys is gon’ have us some fun before takin’ you back to Rip, ain't that right lads?”
Nash pressed his rusted blade to the sun-kissed column of Leah’s neck while the thugs picked her up and again pinned her to the wall. One of them gave her another blow to the stomach while she was held there, and she wheezed in pain.
Nash licked his lips like a salamander and smiled wickedly, showing off a rotted set of teeth that hung haphazardly about his gums. Leah started to realize that she wasn't getting out of this one. She was pinned, immobile, outnumbered, and there was a knife at her throat. The only thing she had left was defiance.
“Big word for you, ain't it? Emotional,” she sneered back into Nash's haunting face. “Wa’ the devil you been readin', Nash?”
“Shut it!” Nash pushed the knife against the old, crooked scar running down Leah's cheek, angling the edge into it. A thin line of blood sprouted and dripped slowly down the blade. “Should we open this up? See what daddy left us?”
Leah spit in Nash’s face, and one of the thugs must have struck her, for pain exploded suddenly through her jaw, vibrating up into her skull. The arms that were holding her in place gave way and she fell. Time seemed so slow to her then, and she gracefully slumped to the cobblestones as blood trickled from her mouth and cheek. Then it began.
The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth as they encircled her, striking out with their boots, again and again. She jerked back and forth with the blows, the rain pelting ever downward.
