When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,118

other to attain the unattainable. His auctions were as exclusive as they were legendary, and he needed to ensure preparations at his estate had been completed.

Yet he remained right where he was.

The woman started up the alley toward him, her steps unhurried and graceful, with the same efficiency of movement she had demonstrated in combat. She was outwardly beautiful, yes, but that was not what intrigued him. A fair face was never a good measure of motives and convictions, or principles and provocations, and it was these attributes that interested King, man or woman. He did not fool himself into believing he knew all of London’s underbelly, but a woman such as this should have caught his attention or that of others long before now—

“Enjoy the entertainment?”

The woman had stopped just shy of him, not looking in his direction nor looking back at the carnage she had left behind. Instead her eyes were scanning the gloomy, sodden street.

“I didn’t wish to interfere,” he replied. “There was nothing I could do that you hadn’t already done.”

“Mmm.” She looked at him then, studying his face in the waning light. Up close, she was even more extraordinary than he had thought. Skin the color of dark honey, cool silver eyes, and hair like spun midnight woven in a simple plait down her back. “You have my gratitude for that.”

“Your gratitude?”

“For not interfering.” Her voice was husky, and traces of an indiscernible accent floated around each syllable. “I did not require your help.”

“No,” he agreed as he considered her. “You expected a fight.”

“Residential hazard.”

King glanced at the half-rotting sign swinging from its bracket over the door of the building edging the alley. Four crudely carved cockerels strutted across the graying boards, and King knew the gin to be abysmal inside, the lodgings worse yet. “An odd choice of accommodations for someone new to London,” he said.

“New to London?” she repeated. “A bold assumption.”

“Not an assumption,” he lied.

She lifted a shoulder almost imperceptibly. “The Four Cocks is convenient for my purposes.”

“May I ask the nature of those purposes?” He was aware she hadn’t confirmed anything yet.

“You may ask. You’re a man used to doing as he likes anyway.” She was scanning the street beyond them again, her gloved hand resting lightly on the hilt of her rapier. “But I am not required to answer.”

King’s own fingers drummed on the silver handle of his walking stick as he considered her words. He glanced back down the alley to where her attackers still lay in whimpering piles of agony. “You know who I am?” he asked idly.

The dark angel returned her attention to his face, her gaze impenetrable. “Does it matter?”

His fingers stopped. “That depends.”

She smiled at him then, in what looked like genuine amusement. An answering flutter of pleasure stirred within him even as disquiet slid through his veins. He shoved both emotions back down with ruthless efficiency. Emotion had no place anywhere in his world. If one could not detach sentiment and passion from strategy and control, one generally ended up like the three mongrels bleeding in the alley behind them.

Instead King forced himself to consider the utter insouciance she had displayed since he had first set eyes on her. It wasn’t fearlessness that she wielded with an icy calm, because he’d always equated fearlessness with stupidity, and only a fool would think this woman stupid. Those who professed themselves fearless had nothing to lose and, thus, nothing of value worth preserving. No true ambition or purpose.

Those individuals had their uses, of course, but they were generally dull-witted and predictable. Nothing like the woman who stood before him. Perhaps it was ambition, then, that this angel wielded with such expertise. Which made her dangerous as well as intriguing.

“Depends on what?” she asked.

“On what it is you came to London for. On what you might require.” The need to know who this woman was and why she was here was starting to prick like a sliver that couldn’t easily be removed. Insignificant in the larger picture but quickly becoming all-consuming.

“What would ever give you the idea that I require something?” She moved her hand from the rapier’s hilt and smoothed her palm over the unadorned lapel of her coat. King had never appreciated men’s garments on women, yet these layers that clung to smooth curves seemed to suit her.

“Everyone needs something.”

“They do, don’t they?” she murmured. “Yet need is a weakness that can be exploited. In the wrong hands, need, more often than not, ultimately leads