The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,110

strides felt like freedom to him. He extended his stride even further, until he felt like a stilt racer at a country fair. Ten hours in a musty, damp cell had cramped his muscles beyond what even a day in a carriage would do. It was a maddening kind of confinement, made all the more frightening because he didn’t want to die there.

The streets became more crowded as he left St. James. He couldn’t shake the feeling that people were looking at him. As if they could have any idea he was on this street due only to the donation of one hundred guineas and the benefit of his own recognizance.

It was ridiculous to think that. No one could possibly know.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. He turned down an alley, wishing to get away from the prickly discomfort of having a target on his back, and nearly blacked out when something long and confoundingly hard clobbered him in the back of the head.

The sudden blow knocked white lights into his eyes. Immediately, he felt sick and doubled over, but whoever had perpetrated the blow came around and kicked him in the forehead. His head snapped back. His arms flailed and a second attacker swooped beefy arms under Con’s shoulders, effectively locking him against the man’s bulk of a chest.

And the smell. Oh, God. The smell.

Con hardly had time to open his eyes to see the pug-like face of his attacker before another fist sailed into his cheek. New pain eclipsed the throbbing in his head. He forced his eyes open to get a better look at the man pounding his face in. His attacker was stocky, with two meaty fists and a conspicuously fine greatcoat that hung too long on his short frame. His pudgy bottom lip protruded and deep folds creased over his small eyes. He didn’t waste a second before sending both of his fists into Con’s belly.

Con’s breath whooshed out of him, taking with it any chance of calling for help. He struggled feebly for release. For his trouble, his arms were yanked back cruelly. He didn’t even have the breath to yelp in pain.

“Get ’im in ’is pretty face again,” the man pinning him upright egged. “’E won’t be spending ’is nights at the table wi’ ’is nose all bashed in.”

Table? Con could barely think through the blinking lights and nausea spinning his head, but even in his savaged state he realized they’d confused him for Darius. “I’m not—”

“Stop yammering!” Whack. The sickening crack was followed by a rush of blood into his mouth. Not his nose.

“We told you last time. You owe us. Shoulda killed you then.”

Two more blows to his stomach. Con could barely breathe through the agony.

“It’s not that much blunt,” the man behind him taunted into his ear. His fetid breath caused Con to gag. In response the man pulled Con more upright, using Con’s arms like puppet strings. “We know you ’ave it. You’ve always ’ad it before.”

Con’s voice wheezed from him. “Wrong. Man.”

The little villain before him laughed. “You always say that. ‘Wasn’t me, was my brother.’ Gets old, scarin’ me an’ Billy here into thinking we’re ’urting some poor fella who ain’t got a clue.” He brandished a knife.

Con kicked out with his booted foot but only succeeded in losing more of his weight to the man holding him up. “I am,” he panted, “Lord Constantine.”

“A fancy-pants lord? You ’ear that, Billy? Maybe we should just forget this whole thing about ’im owing us eight thousand fecking quid.” His eyes turned hard and beady. “Or we can give ’im something to make sure ’e don’t forget.”

Before Con could even worry what that might mean, the man rushed forward and jabbed the knife into Con’s stomach. Agony radiated through him. This time, he managed to yell. But it was barely loud enough to ricochet through the alley, let alone draw attention on the street.

The pull of the blade leaving him almost caused him to lose consciousness. He wished he had.

Oh, God. He was going to die. Here. In this dirty alley. All alone.

The man holding him suddenly dropped him and Con buckled to his knees. His captor started kicking him: in his head, his side, his legs, his shoulders, until he collapsed onto his elbows and then onto his side, shielding his face with his arm as best he could while holding onto his bleeding wound. The man who’d stabbed him laughed and dropped to