“Come on.” Del hurried Deliah down the steps, opened the hackney’s door and helped her in, then followed and sat beside her. Raising his arm, he pushed up the hatch. “Grillon’s, Albemarle Street.”
“Aye, sir. Quite a lot of traffic, so don’t worry if we’re a bit slow.”
Letting the hatch fall, Del sat back. Nothing had occurred. Perhaps the Black Cobra wasn’t watching as closely as he’d feared.
“That was lucky.” Deliah looked out of the window. “It looks like it’s been pouring, although it’s easing up now.”
She then launched into an enthusiastic analysis of the performance, waxing lyrical over the first violin’s solo and the artistry displayed by the principal cellist. Del inwardly smiled, closed his eyes, and let her words roll over him. She was safe and happy, ergo so was he. The evening had gone without a hitch, providing distraction for them both, filling the hours safely.
They would return to the suite, perhaps share a drink-tea for her-then they would retire, in amity with the world, to their respective beds.
All safe.
Deliah’s fingers closed about his wrist. He realized she’d stopped speaking, had been silent for a few minutes. He opened his eyes.
She was staring out into the night, then, her fingers tightening warningly, she leaned close, murmured, “This is not the way to Albemarle Street.”
He looked out of the hackney window. It took a moment to see enough through the drizzle to get his bearings, then he softly swore. They were on the Strand heading deeper into the City, the opposite of the direction in which they should have gone. No matter the traffic-and the carriage was stopping and starting, barely crawling-there was no sense at all in the jarvey taking this route.
Del took Deliah’s hand in a firm grip. Through the shadows he whispered, “Be ready to jump out behind me.”
She squeezed his fingers in reply, shifted to the edge of the seat.
He waited until the next snarl of traffic forced the hackney to a rocking halt. Silently opening the door, he slipped out onto the pavement, turned and smoothly lifted her down, then quietly shut the door just as the carriage jerked forward again. His concentration fixed ahead, the jarvey hadn’t noticed his lighter load.
Taking Deliah’s hand, Del strode quickly back the way they had come. Courtesy of the rain, there were few people on the streets, no cover as they hurried back along the Strand. If the jarvey looked around…
Passing the third hackney lined up behind theirs, Del glanced at the carriage-and saw two pale faces staring out at them.
Surprised. Shocked.
“Damn!” He clutched Deliah’s hand tighter. “Run!”
He dragged her on with him, hauled her alongside, glanced back as a “Hoi!” rang out.
Two-no, three-burly men jumped out of the hackney and started pounding along the pavement after them.
Deliah had taken a quick glance, too. Catching up her skirts, she started to run in earnest. “Come on.”
The slick, wet pavements made running dangerous, but they had no choice. With her gown, two petticoats and the skirts of her heavy pelisse swinging about her legs, her reticule banging against one knee, she raced as best she could along the thankfully level flagstone pavement of the Strand.
Del’s hold on her hand helped steady her, yet even without looking she knew their pursuers were closing the distance.
“Now I remember why I always preferred breeches in situations such as this.”
“Sadly, there’s no time to change.”
“No breeches, either.”
“That, too.”
A silly exchange, but it confirmed how desperate their straits truly were. From the sublime to the horrendous had taken mere minutes; her mind had yet to catch up. But it was long after ten o’clock on a wet winter’s night. Although there was plenty of carriage traffic still about, there was almost no one on foot. No support, no succor, and nowhere to make a stand.
Del suddenly changed direction, urging her up a side street heading away from the river. She agreed with the sentiment-the river wasn’t a wise destination-but for a moment she worried the lane they’d taken would prove to be a dead end.
But no. The murk ahead was cut by a beam of light, then they heard the rattle as a carriage rumbled along the street at the upper end of the lane.
“Thank God.” Deliah looked down and put her mind to keeping up, and not slipping on the wet paving stones as Del raced them up the lane.
Neither she nor he could resist a glance back.
The three men were too close, and gaining rapidly. They were all hulking brutes. One was carrying a club.
They were more than two-thirds up the lane, but with the men closing ever more rapidly, ever more determinedly, they weren’t going to reach the street beyond.
A pace ahead of her, Del abruptly stopped, hauled her up to him, then pushed her on. “Go! As fast as you can, then to the left. I’ll catch up.”
Releasing Deliah, Del swung to face the men.
They grinned, and fanned out as they came on.
Behind him, he heard Deliah’s retreating footsteps. At least she was away; if either of them were going to fall into the clutches of the Black Cobra, he’d much rather it was he.
The bruiser in the middle was the one with the club. He slowed, smiled evilly, then stepped in and swung the club at Del’s head.
Wondering who had taught the man to fight, Del stepped inside the swing, grabbed the man’s arm with one hand, his throat with the other, and used the man’s own momentum to heave him into the man on his right.
They both went down heavily in a tangle of limbs, heads cracking against the stone gutter.
Del swiveled to face the third man-and found himself instinctively leaping back from a knife.
Cursing his own stupidity in coming out unarmed, he shifted, backing, assessing his opponent and the long-handled blade he held. A distraction was what he needed.
He’d reached that conclusion when he saw a shadow shift behind the man.
His blood turned to ice as he saw Deliah creeping up behind the man-he’d told the damn woman to run!
Quickly he looked back at the man-leapt back from another swipe.
Deliah rose behind the lout and clouted him over the head with her reticule.
Caught totally by surprise, the man yelped and instinctively ducked.
Del stepped in, seized the hand with the knife, then smashed his boot into the side of the man’s knee.
There was a vicious crack and the man went down, howling and clutching his leg.
Del glanced at the other two. They were groggily trying to get to their feet. They didn’t appear to be able to focus yet.
He didn’t dare take them on with Deliah there.
Turning, he grabbed her hand and tore up the lane. She struggled to keep up, but did, without complaint.
In the mood he was in, that was just as well.
They weren’t out of the woods yet.
They reached the end of the lane and stepped into a wider street. Looking left, he saw the spires of St. Martin-in-the-Fields rising through the low-hanging fog, and thanked heaven for a military man’s sense of direction.
He glanced back down the lane, then pulled Deliah on toward the church.
Assessing the possibilities.
The two bruisers he’d left mobile were up and heading their way, in a very much grimmer mood. And he and Deliah were still too far away from the church precincts to trust in reaching them safely.
They needed a place to hide, and they needed it now-before the two chasing them reached the street and saw them. The place didn’t need to be perfect, just somewhere the two brutes wouldn’t think to look…
Ahead, a row of hackney carriages materialized through the murk. If they took one…they risked their pursuers catching up with them in the traffic crawling around Trafalgar Square and all the way to Grillon’s.
With renewed urgency, he hurried Deliah along, scanning the buildings they raced past. Praying they would reach the carriages in time.