“Toffs.” The street slang for a noble became an insult in his mouth. Not speaking further, he opted to lunge forward.
Obviously, the two had worked together before as their attack was coordinated, the fair one coming at Elijah first to engage him while the dark-haired one waited a moment longer to take advantage of his distraction. On someone else, it might have worked, but from the time he was a boy, Elijah had trained for being outnumbered, and his brothers were far better at coordinated attacks than these two thugs.
Swinging his blade back around, he twisted slightly, accepting another shallow slice—this one along his ribs—to change his position. Now, the darker-haired one was slightly behind the fair one, hindering his movement, and Elijah took swift advantage of the momentary reprieve of having to guard against them both. The swordstick flashed through the air, gleaming in the moonlight and slicing through the fair one’s arm. Unlike when he hit Elijah, this was no mere flesh wound. Elijah felt the impact all the way up to his own shoulder as the sharp steel cut through to the bone.
The man screamed, dropping his knife and jerking back, sending him straight into his companion, who cursed and shoved him aside. While they might be working together, evidently, money was the critical factor rather than fellow feeling. The dark-haired one did not even look when his companion dropped to his knees, holding his hand over his arm to try to staunch the flow of blood. His fingers were splayed out, no longer able to grip the knife he had been holding.
Elijah could not rejoice for long because the dark-haired one slashed at him, far more adept than the first villain. They parried several blows, Elijah working hard to keep his back to the wall in case there was a third party waiting to rush in.
Another cut to his arm, deeper than the first, and he grit his teeth against the pain. Seeing a small opening, he took it and knocked the knife from his opponent’s hands but came too close to his first adversary. The villain tripped Elijah, cut arm cradled uselessly in front of him, but going by his angry expression, he was not going to let that stop him.
Now on his back, Elijah was at a severe disadvantage, and for the first time, fear gripped his heart. He was outmatched, and he knew it, even as he rolled away from the dark-haired one, who was still standing. He tried to get some space between them so he could get back on his feet, to no avail. He kicked out, but the other man dodged nimbly, taking his time coming in, a triumphant gleam in his eye.
“Time to die, Durham.” The man’s use of Elijah’s formal title confirmed this was no random mugging. They had been bought and paid for, sent for Elijah specifically.
A group of men stumbling out of a nearby building, drunk, loud, and rambunctious, drew the villain’s attention just long enough for Elijah to jerk upward and thrust his swordstick through the man’s ribs. The sickening feeling of steel sliding through flesh and the man’s gurgling moan as he fell would stay with Elijah for a long after. It was not the first time he had killed, but it never got any easier.
The other man scrambled away and disappeared down one of the alleys, still cradling his arm. Elijah did not bother to chase after him. His own heart was still pounding at his close call.
The drunken revelers down the street did not even notice him kneeling there, next to a body, as they moved away. Elijah did not know whether to feel relieved or disgusted.
Heaving himself onto his feet, he picked up the cane sheath and slid the sword back into it. He needed the cane to help him get home.
Now completely alert, he noticed every tiny sound, every small movement, his head constantly whipping around to check his progress. Not until he reached Mayfair was he was able to marginally relax. The cuts on his arms and torso stung and throbbed worse with every step, but they also helped keep him focused. He would not be caught unaware again.
Now, he would have to figure out how to deal with the distraction that was his wife.
Chapter 22
Josie
Pacing back and forth across her room, Josie muttered deprecations under her breath. The hour grew later and later, and simultaneously, she grew more worried and angrier. Where the devil was her husband?
Uncle Oliver had been unconcerned at Elijah’s absence before he turned in for the night, Adam was out gallivanting, and Joseph was who knows where, and she truly did not care. If Uncle Oliver were still awake, he might have been more concerned now that it was half-past three, and Elijah was still nowhere in sight. Or perhaps he would assume Elijah was off with another woman.
Josie was sure he would not do that. He had agreed it was to be the two of them working together.
Hadn’t he?
Or was she the only one who had taken their discussion at Lady Greywood’s to mean that? Josie’s frown deepened. They would definitely be having another discussion when he finally deigned to appear.
Her head tilted to the side. Was that a noise next door? In Elijah’s room?
She rushed to the adjoining door, not bothering to press her ear against it, and jerked it open. If no one was there, then no one to see her making a fool of herself.
She had not been wrong—he had returned. The carefully prepared lecture she’d formulated in her mind during her long wait flew out of her head when she got a good look at his bloodied torso and arms. His white shirt, hanging from his waist, was stained with blood, and the red was streaked across his skin as well. She shrieked and launched herself toward him, hands out in front of her. She drew back at the last moment, not quite touching him as her eyes darted over his body, looking for injuries.
“What happened?!” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded impossibly shrill, making Elijah wince.
“Hush.” For once, Josie did not take offense at his admonition because it was not said with authority but rather like a little boy trying not to draw attention to himself. They had their own wing of the house, but he had not called any of the servants to him or gone to his father or brothers for help. He had snuck into his room and was trying to tend to his wounds himself.
The twit.
Pressing her lips together, Josie shook her head at him as he ineffectually dabbed the injury on his side with a damp cloth. The water in the wash bin next to him was already tinged pink with his blood.
“You need a doctor.” She took the cloth from him and rubbed it over the wound, making him hiss. Looking at the laceration, she made a face. “Though it is not too deep, a stitch or two would not go amiss.” Silence met her words, and she glanced up to look at him. He was staring down at her with an expression she had never seen on his face.
“A stitch or two?” He echoed her words as if he could not believe he had heard them.