Lord Damion. Jack usually found them before any risk was posed to herself, but once she had come face-to-face with the new fox. He’d been looking for a nobleman, not a widow in mourning trying to get a start on the day’s errands, so he’d muttered a good morning while straining to see around her for the true object of his curiosity.
Mr. Stillman struck her as more grateful than curious, and she sensed he was eager to return to the safety of the hole where he had been hiding for over a week now. Malcolm’s men were likely seeking him, and she did not think he would take chances.
Sabrina kept her head down as she followed her feet out the south end of the alley, across the terrace and through another narrow walkway that would lead to the location where her unmarked carriage had been waiting for quarter of an hour. She was halfway down the corridor when she heard a scraping across the cobbles, like a dragging shoe.
She froze and then looked over both shoulders in turn. The walls of the buildings created an echo chamber that made it impossible to determine what direction the sound had come from. She pulled the hood of her cloak forward to hide her face, took a step, paused to listen again, and then took another. There was no good time of day for a woman to be alone in London, but outside of business hours was the most unsafe. She gripped the strap of the satchel concealed by her coat. She must not lose the satchel.
The unmistakable sound of a groan turned her around, and she scanned the barrels and crates stacked on one side of the alley.
The moan sounded again.
With another glance to make sure no one was watching her, she moved toward the barrels, then gasped when she saw a foot, or, rather, a boot, sticking out. As she moved around the pile of crates, she inhaled sharply when a man’s body came into view. His face was a patchwork of bruises and blood that made his hair look as black as hers in the shadows of the alley. Hurrying forward, she dropped to her knees beside him.
“Sir,” she said in a soft voice, leaning close to him. “Sir, can you hear me?”
He groaned again. His shoulder was set at an awkward angle, and she cringed; a dislocated shoulder was relatively simple to fix, though the very devil for pain. The wound on his forehead was no longer actively bleeding, so Sabrina ran her hands up and down the man’s arms first—no breaks—then his legs to check for additional injuries.
He tried to pull his right leg away when she attempted a tactile assessment, but she could already see the fabric of his trousers tight around his calf—possibly broken. The upper portion of his left leg was tender too. Could he have two broken legs? One upper and one lower? Other than having fallen from a great height, there was only one explanation for such injuries.
But it was an early Monday morning, not a late Saturday night when a man would have to be on his guard against a robbery. His clothing and boots marked him as a gentleman. What was he doing here this time of day? She tensed and looked about herself. Were his attackers nearby?
Sabrina felt a sudden urge to run for her carriage and get as far from here as she could, but she couldn’t leave him. She would fetch Jack! He could take over as the rescuer and call for a doctor.
She started to rise, but the man groaned, drawing her attention and her sympathy back to his poor battered face.
“Sir,” she said again, leaning closer so he could see her face if he opened his eyes—at least one eye did not look too swollen.
“Wha-what . . .”
He must be trying to ask what happened. It was a mercy that victims of such violence often did not remember it.
“I think you’ve been attacked. Robbed, perhaps.” She looked down the passageway to where Adam would be waiting with the carriage. So close, and yet he’d have to leave the carriage to help her if she chose to go to him for help instead of Jack. “Have you a family member I can contact on your behalf? Do you live nearby?”
“No one,” he said, the words slow and . . . sad. “P-please.” He opened his eye, and the blue of it stood out clear and bright amid