Page 92 of A Treacherous Trade

“Good, I’ll tell him to report it to me, since you are ‘leaving it alone.’”

I congratulated myself for keeping my mouth shut, though I had a few choice things I wanted to say to him. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction in public.

He held open a door for me, so I opened the one next to it, letting myself out.

Though Croft was not a dramatic man, his sigh certainly was. “Are you going to tell me where you’re off to or not?”

“I fail to see how that is any of your—”

A large shoulder bumped Croft’s in the causeway, and he ricocheted into me.

“Oi!” His hands closed around my shoulders, stabilizing me as he called after the discourteous man marching toward the hospital.

“Sorry ’bout that, mate,” the chap called over his shoulder.

That. Voice.

I whirled, recognizing the ogre at once. “It’s him!” I pointed, jostling Croft. “That’s the man who attacked me in the alley!”

My assailant looked back at me first, and recognition sparked in his gaze before he moved on, locking eyes with Croft.

Violence shimmered in the air for the time it took to take a breath.

Then both exploded into action.

ChapterTwenty

Icouldn’t say what the man saw in Croft’s eyes that made him turn tail and flee.

Even I’d underestimated his bulk in the dark of the alley, and it was evident now that he had a stone on Croft at the very least. And I knew he was capable of violence.

The second his muscle twitched, the inspector was after him like a hound let off its lead, his dark coat flaring behind his legs. He barked his credentials and ordered everyone out of the way, but it didn’t stop the pursued man from bowling over a few smoking gentlemen like a gather of ninepins.

Making much slower progress in my skirts and heeled boots on the slippery walk, I noted the gentlemen were helping each other up once I reached them, so I followed as fast as I was able.

Before they reached the hedge, beyond which a bustling street might have been an optimal place to lose one in a chase, Croft dove at the blackguard’s legs, felling him like an ancient oak.

By the time I caught them up, the man was secured with his hands behind his back and was mewling like a child caught beneath a school yard bully.

“I did no’fing!” he cried, more for the onlookers’ benefit than ours. “I’m a gravely injured man.”

“You’re about to be,” Croft snarled, standing so he could turn the man onto his side, presumably to pull him to his feet. “A gravely injured man doesn’t run like that.”

“Wait,” I said. “If he’s the right man, he would be telling the truth.” Certain he was, I still couldn’t help myself from poking at his shoulder with the point of my unused umbrella.

His yowl of pain was confirmation to us both. I’d stabbed this man two nights ago, and I still bore the marks of his brutality.

“I want my knife back,” I demanded, staring down into features only frightening because of their ugliness. Pale eyes placed too close together over a potato-pocked nose gave him the appearance of a wombat I’d seen at the zoo once.

Later, I realized the comparison was a dreadful insult to adorable wombats everywhere.

He spat at me, but his pain and lack of breath hindered his aim, and he only hit the hem of my dress.

Croft cuffed him, and he moaned, most of his body going slack.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“John Johnson,” he said, his lip curled back in a hateful leer. It was a farce of an answer, and everyone knew it.