All four were expensively but rakishly dressed. Their faces already bore the stamp of dissipation, along with lascivious sneers.

Their expressions openly and lecherously cruel, openly expectant, they moved into the room. She backed until her legs hit the end of the bed. She searched their faces and found no hope there; they’d been drinking but were very far from drunk. Then she looked into their eyes, and saw malice and a species of hate staring back at her.

She knew, then, that they fully intended the next hours to be worse than her worst nightmare.


The hackney driver hauled back on his reins; the carriage slowed.

Dillon was out of the door and on the cobbles before the horses came to a stamping halt. Rus tumbled out behind him.

The street was empty. “Which house?” Dillon looked up at the driver.

With his whip, the driver pointed to a narrow building on the opposite side of the street. “That’s Betsy Miller’s.”

Dillon raced for the door, Rus on his heels.

The black carriage that had followed them from Mayfair passed; it pulled up a little way along. Dillon didn’t spare it a glance. Reaching the door, he pounded on the panels.


Pleading wasn’t going to work. Neither was screaming; as she watched them eyeing her, smiling with anticipation, Pris sensed that they’d like that, that sobbing and crying would only spur them on.

She’d backed as far as she could; there was nowhere she could run. No better place to stand; at least she had space to either side and some support at her back.

They’d closed the door; now they doffed their coats, tossing them onto a rickety chair in a corner. Two of them started to roll up their sleeves.

“Well, now, Lady Priscilla.”

The lout she instinctively knew was the leader-the dominant one, the one most important to distract-approached, weight balanced, ready to catch her should she try to bolt.

Years of wrestling with her brothers came back to her. She shifted her weight, her mind racing, assessing.

Four-at least two too many. But…

“Lovely Lady Priscilla,” the leader sneered.

The others spread out, flanking him-and her. But it was the leader she watched.

He continued, his well-bred accent purring, “With that lovely mouth, and those luscious breasts, and those long, long legs, and that sweet little arse…my how you’re going to entertain us to night.”

His voice changed over the last sentence, giving her a second’s warning.

She braced as he and one other lunged and grabbed her arms; laughing at her attempts to resist, they effortlessly hoisted her up and back onto the bed.

Pris fought like a heathen, kicking and hitting-overconfident, they hadn’t bothered to secure her limbs. The thin coverlet on which they held her down, the reek that came off it, engulfing her like a cloud, acted like a potion; a strength she hadn’t known she possessed flooded her.

They cursed, exerted their strength. She bit one hand, kicked out on the other side-and felt the toe of her shoe sink into her target.

The leader howled, cupped himself, then collapsed. Her struggles shoved him off the bed; he landed with a thump.

The unexpected event transfixed the others for an instant. Pris took aim, and drove her fist up under the aristocratic nose of her second attacker.

He hadn’t seen the blow coming; he took the full brunt, shrieked in pain as blood spurted. He clapped his hand to his face, but immediately pulled it away, stared in horror at his bloodied palm, then his face blanched and his eyes rolled back. He fell-across Pris, pinning her as she struggled to lever up onto her elbows.

The remaining two snarled. Aggression was suddenly thick in the air.

Pris could taste it, feel it choking her as the other two seized her arms-this time holding them down as they clambered up on their knees on the bed, using their weight to subdue her.

She threshed, but they were aided by the body of their insensate comrade. They trapped her arms, trapped her legs, leaning on her to immobilize her before they pushed their unconscious friend away and fell on her.

She gasped, and struggled for all she was worth-shut her ears to their swearing, their lewd promises of what they intended to do-but she was losing the battle, losing her air as they leaned heavily on her, grabbing her legs through her rucked gown, forcing them apart-

Something crashed.

They didn’t hear. They pressed her more cruelly into the bed, their leering faces close-

Then they were gone. Flying through the air.

Pris turned her head in time to see one hit the wall. A similar thump from the opposite side of the room suggested the other had met a like fate.

She blinked, dragged much-needed air into her lungs, struggled up to her elbows, and managed to focus. On Rus, pummeling one of her attackers. She looked the other way, and found Dillon efficiently thrashing the other one.

Wriggling up, hauling her skirts out of the way, she got to her knees, and peered over the edge of the bed. The leader, still sobbing and wheezing, was writhing on the floor. She considered getting down and kicking him again. First, she clambered over to the other side and looked down. The one who’d fainted lay lifeless, still unconscious.

A condition now attained by the other two. Rus straightened as the man he’d been ministering to slid down the wall.

Pris glanced at Dillon; he’d already turned from his crumpled victim, his attention locked on her. His gaze raced over her. “Are you all right?”

She looked at him, saw the raw emotion in his face, in his eyes, and found she couldn’t speak. She nodded.

Then he was there, relief sweeping through him as he swept her into his arms and crushed her to him.

She hugged him back, equally wildly, equally unrestrained. “You got here in time.”

Not at any time had she doubted he would.

“I thought we wouldn’t…” He mumbled the words against her hair.

She heard the fear, nay, terror, in them. “But you did.” She hugged him again, then held out a hand to Rus, grabbed his fingers when they slid into hers. “You both got here in time.”

Rus returned her squeeze, then released her hand and stepped back to look down at the unconscious man by the bed.

A heavy sigh filled the room.

It came from the door.

Rus looked, and froze. Without shifting from his position facing the bed, shielding Pris kneeling on it, Dillon turned his head.

Pris, her arms still wrapped around him, peeked around his arm, ignoring his surreptitious attempts to ease her away.

“It is so difficult to find intelligent help these days.” Wallace stood in the doorway, his gaze burning with hatred, a pistol in one hand. “It appears, Lady Priscilla, that my revenge is to be commendably direct after all.”

Smoothly, he raised the pistol-and leveled it at Dillon.

Dillon let Pris go. He turned.

Rus launched himself across the room.

“No!” Pris flung herself at Dillon.

The pistol discharged.

Bearing Dillon down, Pris heard a familiar whirr whizz past her ear as the pistol’s report exploded through the room, loud as a cannon in the enclosed space. Dillon fell over the writhing man on the ground and hit the floor; in a tangle of arms, legs, bodies, and skirts, she landed on top of him.

Dillon caught her, lifted her-and saw Rus, hands locked on a second pistol, wrestling with Abercrombie-Wallace in the doorway. He swore, wedged Pris behind him, and fought to untangle his feet from the legs of the groaning man pinned beneath him.

He scrambled upright; over Rus’s shoulder, Abercrombie-Wallace saw him.

Wallace let go of the pistol, shoving it with all his might at Rus, rocking Rus back on his heels. Wallace stepped back into the corridor; recovering his balance, Rus lunged at him.

Reaching to the side, Wallace hauled a large, shrieking female across and threw her at Rus.

The female and Rus went down, blocking the doorway.

Rus swore volubly. Dillon reached him as he pushed the woman from him and struggled to his feet.

Rus went to leap over the woman and race after Wallace.

Dillon caught his arm. “No.”

The woman stopped shrieking. The clatter of Wallace’s footsteps descending the stairs faded, then they heard a door slam.

Dillon exhaled, and released Rus’s arm. “He’s made his choice. Let him flee into the arms of his just reward.”

Rus met his eyes, lowered his voice. “Those gentlemen in the black carriage?”

Dillon nodded. “Not that they’re gentlemen, not by any stretch of the word.”

Pris heard; she didn’t understand, but she’d question them later. Now…now she felt shaky, so relieved to see them both hale and whole, to know she needn’t fear the four “gentlemen” littering the floor.

Rising unsteadily to her knees, she put up a hand to push back the curls that had jarred loose to tumble about her face. She tucked them back; her hand brushed her ear-pain stabbed. Wincing, she felt dampness on her fingers. She looked at her hand.

At the blood streaking it.

Realized what that oddly familiar whirr had been.

She glanced up; both Dillon and Rus were helping the woman, wheezing, complaining, and protesting her innocence, to her feet. Quickly, Pris scrambled to hers, simultaneously fluffing her curls over her nicked ear. She surreptitiously wiped her hand on the crimson coverlet; at least the blood wouldn’t show.

Suggesting she retreat to her parlor for a restorative, Dillon pushed the large woman out and closed the door.

Rus had already turned to survey their assorted victims. He nudged the one he’d rendered senseless with the toe of his shoe. “What should we do with these?”