CHAPTER 1
N arrow house frontages, darkened with years of neglect and grime, spindled down seven dark passages coated with slippery, malodorous filth. With one wrong turn along a shadowed alley, Fitzwilliam Darcy would be easy prey for the drunken thieves and villains who called Seven Dials their home. He was fortunate to still have possession of his threadbare coat and patched boots.
In the center where a sundial had once marked the hour, Darcy struggled to maintain his firm stare at the ragged woman grinning up at him from the other side of her market table. Her smile was as tender as a grandmother’s, but her soft cheeks concealed wolfish eyes sharpened by decades surviving in London’s most forsaken rookery. She would take him for every last sovereign in his pocket unless he could gain the upper hand .
It was a losing battle, and he knew it. So did the woman.
Already she had extracted an exploitive amount from him for a pair of alabaster-handled scissors for which he had no use. She knew her power over him, sensed the depth of his pockets, and she pressed her advantage. Darcy took comfort knowing that the old woman would be well-fed for a considerable time, but he had lingered too long. The perceptive vendor would not be the only one to see through his disguise.
He must encourage her to give him the information he sought, and quickly. This marché ouvert was his final lead.
“You have a painting”—he held his hands up, a foot apart—“about this size, a landscape with a river flowing under a stone bridge.”
Her eyes gleamed greedily. “Two fishermen in a boat? A storm brewing in the clouds?”
She knew the painting! It was here! Darcy’s pulse thrummed so strongly he was certain the woman would notice. Finally the hunt was over, and he could take his heartbroken sister home to Pemberley.
Taking a leisurely breath, as though this were not the culmination of months of dedicated searching, he shrugged. “I believe so.”
She crossed her arms and widened her stance, clearly in no hurry. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.”
Darcy had neither the time nor patience for her to play coy. It was not a bargain he sought but a masterpiece to recover. Reaching inside his coat, he extracted a heavy pouch and handed it to her.
Her eyes darted about as she made quick work of concealing her prize in her stained apron. She leaned closer. “I had the painting.”
Had? His stomach sank. “Where is it now?”
“I sold it yesterday.”
Darcy’s head spun. He leaned against the stall table, gut-punched. He had missed the precious painting by one day. One wretched day. “Do you have a name?” he groaned.
“I never ask, and he didn’t say.”
A man, then. “What can you tell me of his appearance?”
“He had silver hair. Average height. Average man except for the eyes.”
“What was remarkable about them?”
She paused for a moment. “He wore spectacles, but his eyes were young and clever. They… laughed. He were a sharp one, but not mean.”
Darcy softened toward the woman once again. She would not have experienced much kindness in this place.
She shoved a bronze statue toward him. “Twenty pounds! It’s a bargain!”
He was not that soft. Nor did he have any money left after the pouch he had just handed over to her. “What of the man’s clothing?” he pressed. When she turned away indifferently, he added, “Was there anything noteworthy about his dress?”
No response.
“Was he a gentleman?” He winced at the note of despair in his tone.
She released her hold on the statue and considered him at some length. Darcy held her gaze, meeting her eye confidently, if not comfortably. “If he were a gentleman, his pockets weren’t as deep as yours. His coat was worn, but it weren’t borrowed.” She looked about again. “You’d best get out of here, young man. It’s not safe for the likes of you.”
“How much did he pay?” He should not have asked—the answer was certain to add burning coals to his flaming frustration—but he had to know.
A sly spark brightened her eyes, and she looked side to side once more before leaning forward and motioning for him to do the same. Darcy held his breath. If she bathed once a week, she must certainly be due. “Fifty pounds,” she proudly whispered into his ear.
Darcy felt sick. To miss such a valuable work of art by one miserable day was grievous enough, but to learn that it had sold for fifty meager pounds was an insult!
Lightheaded and nauseated, he was ill-prepared to act appropriately when the old woman cried out and ducked under her table.
Darcy spun around just as a fist connected with his chin. It struck him like a brick, blurring his vision and throwing him off balance.
Reacting on instinct, he lashed out before the target could move. Knuckles stinging, lip swelling, he squared his feet, steadying himself as his vision focused and he saw his assailant—a burly man with a neck as thick as his blockish head and a waist as wide as his shoulders. There was a chill in the early morning air, but the man sauntered in front of his gang in a sleeveless shirt, blustering threats and warming up his limbs in anticipation of combat.
Darcy sighed and looked heavenward. What had he done to deserve this? True, he ought to have heeded the merchant’s warning and departed sooner. He had allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. But he had met nothing but obstacles since he had saved his sister from the clutches of that greedy rake, George Wickham. Did honor deserve so much punishment?
Four other men joined the loud bully. There were certainly more hiding in the shadows and wishing for some entertainment at no cost to their own persons. They would be of no assistance to Darcy. Flight was out of the question. Reason and sense? Darcy doubted the ruffians possessed any to appeal to. He would have to fight. Drat it all, he was neck-deep in trouble in a neighborhood where he had no allies. This was the very situation he had hoped to avoid.
Praying for a miracle, alert to seize any advantage to come his way, Darcy tucked his arms against his ribs and raised his fists with a lip-splitting smile. Five against one was not ideal, but neither was it impossible.
As he had hoped, his tooth-baring grin gave his assailants pause. Let them think him a fool. He would only be able to land a few blows before they learned otherwise.
All at once, they attacked. Darcy put his imagination to work. In his mind, each opponent became the rotten cad who had stolen Georgiana’s inheritance and nearly ruined her. He put his weight behind every thrust of his fist, jab of his elbow, and kick of his feet.
Sweat stung Darcy’s eyes, and he took as many hits as he gave, but four months of suppressed anger and surging frustration lent him alarming strength. When he took a kick square on the shin, the pain did not prevent him from swooping his throbbing leg around to knock two of his assailants off their feet.
If he could make the leader surrender, the rest would leave him alone and he could return to Mayfair with only a split lip as visible evidence of his activities… an injury easily explained away by a visit to Jackson’s salon. Georgiana would not question him.
The two men Darcy had knocked down stayed down, rubbing their bums and bickering with each other. Another man, upon seeing them, decided that he had been pummeled enough and ran away.
That left two men: the ringleader and one loyal lackey. Much better odds. Confident that he would leave Seven Dials (mostly) unscathed, Darcy charged at the block-headed brute.
“Cousin!” The shout came from a voice he knew well.
In the split second his eyes darted toward the call, Darcy took a hit to his cheek that vibrated through him like a bell struck with a clapper.