Margaret McPhee - The Regency Season - Gentleman Rogues - The Gentleman Rogue / The Lost Gentleman

He laughed. ‘You’re a feisty one and no mistake. But I like a challenge.’ His hand returned, more insistent this time, grabbing her buttock and squeezing as he hauled her close. ‘Just as much as I like that fancy rich accent of yours. Makes you sound like a real lady it does. And I’ve never had a lady. Come on, darlin’, I’ll make it worth your while.’ The stench of ale and rotten teeth was overpowering. His friends around the table cheered and sniggered.

Emma fixed him with a cynical and steely stare. ‘Hard though it is to believe, I must decline. Now unhand me and let me get on with my work or you will have a bar full of thirsty, hungry men waiting to be served to contend with.’

Black-Hair’s grin broadened. He pulled her to him, wrenching the tray from her hand, and dropping it to clatter on the floor. ‘The other wench can see to them. You can see to me, darlin’.’

Oh, Lord! She realised with a sinking heart and impending dread that he was not going to release her with nothing worse than a slap to the bottom. He was one of those that would pull her down on his lap and start fondling her. Or worse.

‘I will see to nothing. Release me before Nancy sees your game and bars you.’

She was only dimly aware of the shadow of the figure passing at close quarters. She was too busy trying to deal with the black-haired man and extricate herself from his grip. So when the deluge of beer tipped like an almighty cascade of brown rain over the lout’s head she was as shocked as he.

Black-Hair’s grin was wiped. Emma was forgotten in an instant. He released her, giving an almighty roar of a curse.

Emma didn’t need an invitation. Making the most of her opportunity, she grabbed her tray and backed clear of the danger.

Black-Hair was spluttering and wiping beer from screwed-up eyes with great rough tattooed hands. His hair was sodden and glistening with beer. It ran in rivulets down his cheeks and over his chin to drip its tea-coloured stain on to the grubby white of the shirt that covered his barrel chest. The shoulders of his shabby brown-woollen jacket were dark as rain-soaked earth. Even the front of his grey trousers was dark with it. He stank like a brewery.

His small bloodshot eyes swivelled to the perpetrator.

The hubbub of chatter and laughter and clank of glasses had ceased. There was curiosity and a whispered hush as everyone watched.

Emma shifted her gaze to follow that of the black-haired lout and saw the subject of her earlier covert study standing there. Tall, still, calm.

‘Sorry about that. Slip of the hand.’ The words might have offered apology, but the way the man said them suggested otherwise. His voice was the same East End accent as theirs, but low in tone, clear in volume, quietly menacing in its delivery.

‘Oh, you’ll be damn sorry all right!’ Black-Hair’s chair legs scraped loud against the wooden floorboards as he got to his feet. ‘You’ll be pissing yourself, mate, by the time I’ve finished with you.’

The man let his gaze drop pointedly to the dark sodden front of Black-Hair’s trousers, then rose again to meet his eyes. There was a glimmer of hard amusement in them. He raised the eyebrow with the scar running through it, the one that Emma thought made him look like a handsome rogue. ‘Looks like you got there first.’

The crowd sniggered at that.

Black-Hair’s face flushed puce. His little piggy eyes narrowed on the man like an enraged bull. He cracked his knuckles as he made a fist.

By some unspoken command Black-Hair’s four friends got to their feet, making their involvement clear. Any trace of curiosity and amusement fled the room’s atmosphere. It was suddenly sharp-edged with threat.

The hush spread. Every man in the chop-house was riveted on what was unfolding before Emma.

The nape of her neck prickled.

‘Settle down, boys,’ said Nancy. ‘There’s no harm done. Sit down and drink your pints before they get warm.’

But not one of the men moved. They all stayed put, stood where they were, eyeing each other like dogs with their hackles raised.

‘We don’t want no trouble in here. You got a disagreement, you take it outside.’ Nancy tried to come closer, but two men stepped into her path to stop her progress, murmuring advice—two regulars intent on keeping her safe.

No one heeded her anyway. Not the black-haired villain and his cronies. And not the man.

In the background Paulette’s face, like every other, was lit with excited and wary anticipation.

The man’s expression was implacable. He looked almost amused.

‘I’m going to kill you,’ said Black-Hair.

‘And there was me thinking you were offering to buy me a replacement porter,’ said the man.

‘You ain’t gonna be able to hold a pint of porter, let alone drink one, I swear.’

Emma’s blood ran cold. She knew what men like this in Whitechapel did to one another. This was not the first fight she had seen and the prospect of what was coming made her feel queasy.

The man smiled again, a smile that went nowhere near those cool blue eyes. ‘You really want to do this?’ he asked with a hint of disbelief and perplexity.

‘Too late to start grovelling now,’ said Black-Hair.

‘That’s a shame.’

There was not one sound in the whole of the chop-house. The silence hissed. No one moved. All eyes were on the man, Emma’s included. Staring with fascinated horror. Five ruffians against one man. The outcome was certain.

The black-haired man stepped closer to the man, squaring up to him, violent intent spilling from every pore.

She swallowed. Felt a shiver chase over her skin.

The man did not seem to feel the same. He smiled. It was a cold, hard smile. His eyes showed nothing of softness, not one hint of fear. Indeed, he looked as if he welcomed what would come. The blood. The violence. Five men against one. Maybe he really did have a death wish after all.

‘Someone stop them. Please,’ she said, but it was a plea that had no hope of being answered.

An old man pulled her back. ‘Ain’t no one going to stop them now, girl.’

He was right. She knew it and so did every single person in that taproom.

The black-haired brute cracked his knuckles and stretched his massive bull neck, ready to dispense punishment.

Emma held her breath. Her fingers were balled, her nails cutting into her palms.

The man’s movement was so fast and unexpected. One minute he was standing there. The next, he had landed a head butt against the lout’s nose. There was a sickening crunch. And blood. A lot of blood. Black-Hair doubled over as if bending in to meet the man’s knee that hit his face. The speed and suddenness of it shocked her. It shocked the men in there, too. She could tell by the look on their faces as they watched the black-haired giant go down. The ruffian was blinking and gasping with the shock of it as he lay there.

Emma watched in disbelief. Every muscle in her body tensed with shock. She held her breath for what would happen next.

‘Too late to start grovelling,’ the man said.

Leaning one hand on the floor, Black-Hair spat a bloody globule to land on the toe of the man’s boot and reached for a nearby chair.

‘But if you insist...’ The man stepped closer to Black-Hair, his bloodied boot treading on the giant’s splayed fingers, his hand catching hold of the villain’s outstretched hand as if he meant to help him to his feet. But it was not help he offered. He gave the wrist a short sharp twist, the resulting crack of which made Emma and the rest of the audience wince.

Black-Hair’s face went ashen. He made not one sound, just fainted into a crumpled heap and did not move.

In the stunned amazement that followed no one else moved either. There was not a sound.