Page 26

“The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.”

—Blaise Pascal, Pensées

C harity barely had time to understand what was happening. A squat, meaty man had seized her upper arm and yanked her away from Peregrine with brutal force, dragging her deeper along the path. Another heavyset figure surged forward, cutting Peregrine off before he could so much as reach for her.

"Perry!" she cried, heart pounding. He was still recovering, and facing down a man of that size was hardly fair odds.

But she had no time to see more. Her captor set off at a rapid march, his grip vice-like on her arm, forcing her into an awkward half-trot to keep up. She twisted in his grasp, trying to look back, heels digging into the path, but he was far too strong.

The darkness of Vauxhall Gardens closed in around her, thick and oppressive. The few scattered lanterns flickered wildly, casting restless shadows. Even the gravel beneath her feet felt treacherous, shifting maliciously with every hurried step .

Behind her came the dull sounds of a struggle—grunts, the thud of blows—and her stomach threatened to rise into her throat. Distracted and off balance, she lost her footing on the loose surface. Pain flared as her ankle turned sharply beneath her, sending her stumbling.

As they jerked to a halt, Charity flung her head backwards, glimpsing flashes of movement. Peregrine was battling furiously, but she could not tell who had the upper hand. Her captor gave her a vicious jerk forward to make her move, and agony ripped through her shoulder as well.

The pain made her shriek, and behind her, Peregrine shouted her name.

The brute hauled her upright and shoved her into the arms of a third man. Taller, foul-smelling, reeking of beer and unwashed skin. Her new abductor wrapped one thick arm around her waist and half-carried, half-dragged her deeper into the Long Walk.

Pinned awkwardly against his chest, Charity twisted enough to look back. She caught a glimpse of Peregrine breaking free from the man who had intercepted him. He was sprinting toward her, despite his pursuer still at his heels.

And behind them all, barely visible in the shifting lamplight, she thought she saw a fourth figure moving. Fast, silent. A ghost sliding through the dark.

It was not the man he had been fighting. Someone else?

Between the stench of the man holding her, the jolting grip, and her rising fear, Charity could scarcely draw breath.

Her heart galloped, each frantic beat tightening the invisible bands wound around her chest. The night pressed in on all sides, thick and airless, and a lightheaded dizziness began to overtake her.

Peregrine paid no heed to the beefy man who had passed her off. That man had melted into the shadows, waiting for Peregrine to come closer, tightening his hand on a stout branch he held like a club .

“Come out, then, milord,” he said in a quiet, mocking voice that she only barely caught.

Charity opened her mouth to call a warning to Peregrine, but nothing emerged from her lips.

Her lungs refused to draw air. Cold, suffocating panic surged up her throat. Her limbs trembled; her chest burned. Darkness crowded her vision, and she began to list sideways, consciousness slipping like water through her fingers.

The tall man cursed and shoved her away in disgust. She fell hard into a shallow niche along the path, landing against a wooden bench with a jolt that stole what little air remained in her chest.

But the hard landing broke the spell, forcing her to suck her breath in from surprise. She gasped, and the gardens began to waver back into focus. From her position at the tall man’s feet, she looked up to see him glancing from her to Peregrine, uncertain whether he would be needed.

Move away, her mind screamed at her. Move now!

And then Peregrine rounded the corner at full tilt.

"Watch out!" came a shout from a man she did not recognise.

The thug with the branch swung hard, but the warning came in time. Peregrine twisted mid-stride, the heavy blow slicing past him through empty air. He barely broke pace, pivoting at once and throwing himself into a desperate fight against the armed thug and the man who had caught back up with him.

Shaking so violently she could scarcely move, Charity began to crawl, dragging herself away from the flurry of limbs and weapons crashing around her.

The memory of that windowless room and the feel of airless walls closing in threatened to seize her entirely.

Her body refused her, sluggish and insensible, even as she tried to force it to stand. To be useful.

If only she were brave, like Grace.

Just a few feet away, chaos reigned. Peregrine was now being forced back on the defensive. Trying to get to her, he had been careless of his own safety.

Everyone knows how they can harm me. I finally have a fatal weakness, Charity—and it’s you.

Grief swelled sharp in her throat, bitter and choking, as she understood at last the fury behind the words he had thrown at her. He had not lied. And now she was going to watch him fall for it.

Not like this, she begged silently. Please—not like this.

The one who smelled of beer and unwashed flesh spotted her dragging herself backward and lunged, hauling her bodily away from the fray. She did not struggle. There was no point. She let him take her, watching Peregrine with grim finality, her emotions lodged somewhere betwixt terror and despair.

Then her captor jolted, a strangled noise escaping his throat. His grip slackened. And in the next instant, she was torn from his arms.

She found herself held fast, pressed against someone else. Turning her face upward, she saw a man she did not recognise: dusky-skinned, black-haired, his features half-swallowed by the shadows.

But this stranger wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the tall brute collapse.

In one swift motion, the stranger spun with her pressed tightly to his side as he scanned the remaining fight. Peregrine was still locked in bloody combat. The stranger did not hesitate. He raised the knife in his hand and let it fly… straight into the back of one of the thugs.

Charity squeaked in horror as the man crumpled, just as Peregrine’s fist cracked against the jaw of the final attacker, felling him brutally.

Peregrine whipped his attention towards the stranger holding her, wearing an expression that made him look like Death itself .

“Please,” she murmured, as Peregrine ripped the stranger’s dagger free and strode towards them.

Every line of his body was coiled, ready to kill. It was only the three of them now—Charity, Peregrine, and this unknown man. But the stillness crackled with potential violence, and Charity feared it might soon be only two.

The stranger didn’t flinch. He waited until Peregrine was almost upon him.

Then, without a word, he thrust her forward.

She stumbled into Peregrine, and both his arms closed around her in an instant. The dagger slipped from his hand, striking the gravel with a faint metallic clink. For a breathless moment, there was only silence, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing.

"I’ve got you. I’ve got you," Peregrine whispered into her hair, his voice rough with spent fury and relief.

Still unsteady, Charity buried her face against Peregrine’s chest, drawing in the familiar scent of him and the hard staccato rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek.

She remained there a moment, catching her breath, then forced herself to lift her head in time to see a silent battle of wills playing out between him and their unlikely saviour.

Peregrine eased her behind him with deliberate care.

His gaze never left the other man’s. The two regarded one another with the stillness of predators, each measuring the other, weighing friend against threat.

Charity, her hands resting lightly against Peregrine’s back, could feel the tension simmering beneath his skin like a storm held barely in check.

"I shall leave you in peace, Lord Fitzroy," the stranger said at last, his tone faintly amused. "But I should like my dagger returned. It is a good blade, you understand."

His accent was nearly flawless. Only the faintest Hindustani lilt curled through his words .

At the sound of it, something clicked into place.

He had been the one to call out the warning that saved Peregrine from the blow.

Peregrine must have come to the same conclusion, for his posture shifted, some tautness easing from his frame.

Without a word, he nudged the fallen dagger forward with the toe of his boot.

Peeking past Peregrine’s shoulder, Charity studied the stranger more closely as he stooped to retrieve the weapon.

He was of middling height, perhaps in his forties, dressed in a suit of decent but unremarkable cut.

With quiet precision, he wiped the blade on his handkerchief, slid it back into its sheath, and then placed one hand against his chest in a small, graceful bow.

It was the deliberateness of the gesture that caught her eye. His left hand, splayed across the lighter fabric of his shirt. She could see it bore six fingers.

“Mr Xavier, I presume,” Peregrine rumbled. “The Order’s spy.”

Xavier met Peregrine’s gaze evenly, his lips parting in a thin crescent of white teeth. “So. Lady Normanby did indeed share more than she ought to with an outsider. I suspected as much the moment I glimpsed you at the Scarlet Jack following her... detainment.”

Charity felt Peregrine’s arm shift, his hand sliding back to grip her hip, pressing her more firmly behind him.

"I had nothing to do with the marchioness’s situation," he said flatly.

"That, I believe. Now." Xavier folded his hands before him, his manner almost courteous. "After I saw you leave with the Regent’s little magpie to redirect the tide of scandal."

Charity’s breath caught. He knew—about the newspaper, the story, the diversion. Peregrine’s grip told her he knew it too.