Page 7 of Doxy for the Ton
The man snatched the watch. “Pickings for all, this one has, Bill,” he said. “What else has he got?”
“I’ve given you enough,” Alexander said. “Let me pass.”
“Hark at him!Let me pass, indeed!” The man held up the knife, the curved blade gleaming like a sinister smile. “It’s finished when wesayit’s finished.”
Alexander curled his hands into fists, then lunged at the first man, but he dodged to one side.
“Oh no you don’t, fancy-man!” He rushed forward, and Alexander caught a blur of movement, then pain exploded in his face and he reeled back.
Pondering on what cursed bad luck it was to be struck twice in the same place on a single night, Alexander crumpled to the ground. The stench of waste intensified, but at least oblivion, when it came, would give him respite from the odor.
Then he let out a bitter laugh as the world slipped sideways. Perhaps his friends—and that street whore—would see their wishes fulfilled tonight. For if anyone deserved to be murdered in the gutter, it was him.
Two shapes advanced, then were joined by a third, and Alexander braced himself for the final blow.
But it never came. Instead, he heard a deep grunt, followed by a curse.
“Bleedin’ hell, woman—keep yer nose out and bugger off.”
“Bugger off yerself!”
He struggled to his feet, but another strike sent him reeling and he fell forward into the ditch. He reached out with his hand, grimacing at the notion of crawling about in the waste, then he felt a blow to the head and the world went black.
*
Alexander opened hiseyes to a blurred world, filled with softened shapes and a dull yellow light. He winced as pain sliced through his head, and closed his eyes again.
A sharp odor filled his nostrils, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
Then the memory thrust into his mind: the street near the docks, two men coming at him with a knife, beating him to the ground.
Forcing his eyes open, Alexander lifted his head, then yelped at the stab of pain in his neck. He blinked until his vision cleared, and focused on familiar items: the fireplace with the clock on the mantelshelf, the bureau, the washstand and basin—and the table by the sash window bearing a half-empty decanter and four beveled glasses, their facets twinkling in the candlelight.
He was in his bedchamber.
In fact, he was in his bed, and…
He lifted the bedsheet.
He was as naked as the day he was born.
Had the encounter by the docks been a dream?
No, the memory was too sharp—the painted face with the scarlet lips, the sign swinging in the breeze depicting a red-faced sailor, and the knife…
He shuddered at the fear that had gripped him at the curved blade, which matched the curved, gap-toothed smiles of his assailants. He’d been at their mercy. And then…
And then nothing.
In which case, how the blazes had he survived, let alone ended up in his bedchamber?
Devil’s breeches—how much did I drink?
The door creaked open, and soft footsteps approached. Alexander’s valet knew his constitution—at least after having drunk a skinful—well enough to avoid making sudden noises.
Alexander gestured toward the table. “Fetch me a brandy, would you?”
“Fetch it yourself,” a voice—afemalevoice—replied.
