Page 6 of Doxy for the Ton
“Sir, you’re hurt.” She reached for his arm, and he shoved her aside.
“Get away from me,” he snarled. “I’ve come here to drink cheap liquor, not rut cheap sluts.”
Hurt flickered across her expression, then she threw her head back and let out a harsh laugh. When she caught his gaze again, her expression was filled with loathing.
“Fine words for a pretty lord lost in the slums,” she said. “I wish you joy of your evening, sir, and pray you get exactly what you deserve.”
One day, Sawbridge, you’ll get exactly what you deserve.
Unwittingly, she’d uttered the exact same words that his friends had said earlier that evening.
He deserved to be punished. After all, he’d caused the death of his best friend, Robert Staines—and not only Staines, but the finest doxy in England also. To kill a fellow wastrel required a few months of penitence, a pretty speech at a funeral, and several rounds of drinks at White’s to atone. But to kill the woman who’d given countless nights of pleasure to almost every member of White’s…
Some sins could never be forgiven.
Alexander opened his mouth to reply, but as he looked at the whore’s painted face, he saw only Danielle—the finest doxy in town, whose eyes had haunted his dreams from the moment he kneeled beside her broken body and watched the life drain out of her.
He drew in a sharp breath, then regretted it as the stench of the street filled his nostrils. Then he turned from the whore and stumbled along the street.
Coarse laughter echoed ahead, and he caught sight of a sign swinging in the breeze. Fueled by the prospect of liquor and oblivion, he increased the pace. Then two thick-set silhouettes appeared before him.
“Well, well—what do we ’ave ’ere?”
“I’m looking for an inn,” Alexander said, gesturing toward the building.
“An inn?” the man said, a mocking tone to his voice. “D’you hear that, Bill—an inn?” He approached, and the stench of waste mingled with another—stale sweat and equally stale ale. “What’s a fancy-arsed gent like yourself doin’ in a place like this?”
“Looking for a drink,” Alexander said.
“Them fancy clubs not good enough for you? Thought you’d save yourself a penny or two and come onto our street?”
The first man drew something out of his coat. At first it looked like a stick, until the moonlight picked out the edge of a blade.
Alexander stepped back, his stomach twisting. “Yourstreet?”
“Aye, that’s right, Mr. High and Mighty. You may think you rule the world, but it’s us that rule here. But we’re disposed to be kind, ain’t we, Bill?”
His companion nodded. “Aye—for the right price.”
Alexander thrust his hand into his pocket and fished out two coins. “There you go,” he said. “A sovereign each for your trouble.”
“A sovereign, eh?” the second man said. “How about that?”
“I’ll bet there’s plenty more where that came from.”
“Now, gentlemen,” Alexander said, “I think a sovereign’s quite enough…”
“Ha!” the first man cried. “Gentlemen! This nob thinks we’regentlemen?”
“Perhaps we would be, if we had the same fancy clothes.” The second man gestured toward Alexander. “That cloak must be worth a bit—it’d keep me warm all right.”
“You’ve got your Wilma and her cunny to keep you warm, Jack. Let me have the cloak, and you take his boots.”
Alexander drew out his fob watch. “Take this,” he said. “It’s a John Arnold.”
“A—what?”
Alexander flipped open the back of the watch. “John Arnold—see the inscription?”
