Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (6 page)

      
Sobriety had deserted him, but not luck. Were he in full possession of his faculties, Alex would never have chosen hazard, a game involving little skill. Nor would he have wagered so heavily.

      
A pert little doxy whose scarlet hair bore no resemblance to any color on nature's palette offered to blow on the dice for him. How could a gentleman refuse, even if she did work for the house? Alex nodded to the croupier seated opposite him across the large green baize expanse of the oval table. The burly man's nose was bent to the left, doubtless a mark of his previous profession—prizefighter. Many of the rougher gambling hells in the district were staffed by such bully boys. Bent Nose grinned, displaying what few yellowed teeth former opponents had left him.

      
"Well, now, gents, our young American cock o' th' game 'ere would like to try 'is 'and. 'Ere you be, gov. You're the caster."

      
Alex tossed a twenty-pound note into the betting circle. He knew it was not uncommon for a man to wager his coat, boots, even his breeches in shady places such as this. The redhead blew a kiss in the direction of the dice box for luck before he rolled the dice out onto the green felt.

      
Wagers on the game escalated all around him as he began a steady winning streak. Among the crowd was a small, dapper-looking young man faultlessly turned out comme Beau. Languidly he extracted a twenty-pound note and bet on Alex. Then he carefully removed an exquisite ivory inlaid snuff box from his jacket and took a precise pinch, placing it upon the back of a snowy white lace-cuffed wrist. As he waited for Alex to roll, he inhaled delicately.

      
Alex could hear the muttering from the shadows as side bets were placed. This was becoming very interesting. He could feel the dandy's cool green eyes on him, filled with lazy amusement while the doxy once more did her "kiss."

      
He shook the box and rolled, winning again.

      
The bent-nosed croupier's expression darkened ominously as the muted voices in the crowd began to rise.

      
At that point Chitchester stumbled up from the whist tables where he had succeeded in losing his last farthing. Making his way across the crowded room, he tried to elbow a path to view Alex's play, jostling the green-eyed dandy in the midst of another snuff taking. "I say, old chap, can't you make a bit of space for me?" he asked thickly.

      
Raising his thin blade of a nose, the dandy surveyed the crowded table. "Space would certainly have to be made since none exists," he drawled. A few of the better sort chuckled at the bon mot as the quipster shrugged and stepped over, allowing Chitchester to observe the ongoing contest.

      
The incredible streak of wins continued for Alex, as did the steady stream of gin the redhead considerately poured for him. The droll little dandy played against Alex for a few more of the escalating bets, then retired from the fray saying, "Dame Fortune, sir, is running high with you this night. I would be beetle-headed indeed to further provoke her."

      
When Alex nodded and resumed his roll, the dandy began placing wagers on Alex with other onlookers around the table. Inhaling snuff indolently, he observed the scene around him, seeming to enjoy the spectacle of drunken lordlings jostled by profane lightermen while deft-fingered cutpurses lifted what the luck of the gaming tables left the players.

      
"Dem, if you'll not have cause to be purse-proud by night's end," Chitchester cried with a distinctly inebriated burp as his American cousin won another pass. The hour was growing late and Puck Forrester had abandoned them in a funk after losing seven straight hands of whist. The Viscount wove precariously back and forth, fading fast. Before long he took his leave after borrowing enough from Alex for hansom fare.

      
Alex was nearly as drunk as his cousin, but he'd been seasoned enough by backcountry Georgia whiskey to conceal his state better. Still it was getting devilish tricky reading the dice and the croupier was growing more hostile with every pass the house lost.

      
"You lose, gov," Bent Nose said triumphantly, quickly reaching out with his stick to snatch up the dice.

      
Before he could touch them, the dandy's slender hand snaked out and snatched the stick with lightning dexterity, inches from the tabletop. "I believe you've misread the dice, old chap."

      
Chill green eyes met surly black ones for a pregnant moment. In spite of his slight stature, something in the dandy's manner gave the heavyset croupier pause. "Blimey, yer right. Light's failin' me eyes."

      
"Mine as well," Alex said, nodding appreciatively to the slender young man. "I'm obliged to you, sir. Alex Blackthorne, late of the sovereign state of Georgia."

      
"Alvin Frances Edward Drummond, your servant, sir. My friends call me Drum. My enemies have other names for me," he added with a pleasant smile at Broken Nose. "I give you leave to be a friend if you will," he said to Alex.

      
"Drum," Alex responded with a grin while the redhead pouted prettily, holding the box of dice for him, already blessed.

      
The game resumed with no further attempts by the croupier to cheat, although he did change dice several times in a vain attempt to stop Alex's winning streak.

      
Finally, with nearly fifteen hundred pounds in the betting circle, Wheatie himself sidled up to Alex. A short pudgy fellow, Freddie Wheaton was balding with an excess of bushy eyebrows set over small beady eyes that glowed with avarice. His little round mouth curved in an oily, insincere smile as he placed one stubby-fingered hand on Alex's coat sleeve.

      
"I 'ate ta break up yer string o' luck, gov, but this 'ere's a workin' man's gamin' 'ouse. These stakes is too 'igh by 'alf fer me 'n my reglars ta stand."

      
The loud babel of voices rose in cacophony, some angry at having the excitement curtailed, others pleased to see the toff put to finish.

      
Sensing the mood of much of the crowd, Alex shrugged. "It is late and I'm having almost as much difficulty as your croupier reading the dice." Scooping up his winnings, he stuffed twenty- and fifty-pound notes inelegantly into his coat pockets, handing the redhead a generous fistful for her diligence.

      
"I 'ave a place, duckie, right 'round the corner," she whispered conspiratorially, clinging to him like a limpet.

      
As his state of inebriation increased, his standards of female comeliness declined. So did his judgment. Alex accepted her offer and they wove their way through the crowd, pausing long enough for the young American to offer his card to Drum, who was languidly lifting his wrist with another pinch of snuff.
 

      
The dandy accepted it, noting the Caruthers's city house address with a raised eyebrow as Alex vanished out the door.

      
The chill night air hit him like a nor'easter washing across the deck of one of his father's sailing ships. Alex took a deep breath and looked down at his companion, whose unruly scarlet locks looked ink black in the moonight. "Whish way, my lovely?"

      
She giggled coyly. "Just 'round that corner, luv," she replied, tugging him toward a narrow walkway between two tall buildings.

      
After spending his boyhood and youth hunting with the Muskogee, Alex had developed a sixth sense for stalking—and knowing when he was being stalked. Had he not consumed all that damnable champagne and gin, that sense would have been triggered well before he entered the passageway.

      
There were three of them from Wheatie's establishment. Alex snapped a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Bent Nose grinning evilly, slapping a truncheon across one meaty palm as he advanced on his prey from behind while his fellows blocked the opening to the next street. The alley was effectively sealed at both ends. The woman slipped behind Bent Nose and vanished like a wraith as soon as Alex turned around.
 

      
Cursing his own stupidity, Alex inhaled cold air in a vain attempt to clear his head while it still rested on his shoulders. Pure reflex led him to extract the blade from his boot. The sight of it gleaming in the moonlight stopped the croupier's advance.

      
"Now, gov, alls we want is th' blunt. 'And it over 'n no one gets 'urt." The malice glittering in his eyes belied the statement.

      
Alex cursed silently. He had not carried his pistol this evening because it created a noticeable bulge in his new jacket. So much for sartorial splendor. He'd be lucky to get out of this alley without these pug-uglies creating a bulge on his skull... or worse. He glided closer to the ringleader, feinting with his blade.
      
"Out of my way and you can keep your liver."

      
Swearing, the boxer swung his truncheon, missing Alex's head by inches but coming down on his shoulder with a nasty whack that numbed his left arm. Alex barely managed to hold on to his knife. Quickly he raised his right arm to block the second blow, smashing his foe's arm against the brick wall. The truncheon went flying from the croupier's hand but he yanked a stiletto from his waistband just as Alex moved in with his knife.

      
The two men wrestled, blades locked, turning in the narrow confines of the alley. Alex could hear the other two men coming up behind him and tried in vain to twist around, placing Bent Nose between himself and them. Suddenly he felt the icy hot slice of steel in his back as one of the men cried, "I 'ave 'im, Jackie!"

      
Before he went down, Alex swept his foot behind the croupier's knee and shoved hard, then turned, slashing out in the opposite direction with his blade. He sliced the second thief's throat cleanly. As the man gurgled and dropped, Bent Nose recovered his footing and started to lunge in for the kill.

      
Alex could do nothing to stop him since he was engaged in dealing with the third assailant. Just as he slipped in beneath the thug's blade and drove his own home, he felt the hot breath of death coming up behind him. The wound in his back burned like liquid fire and he could feel the wet stickiness of his own blood rolling down his breeches.
Got to turn around and face him.
Everything began to fade. He knew he was done for as his knees started to buckle.

Chapter Four

      
Drum heard the sounds of the scuffle coming from the dark alleyway, the yelping cry of a street tough being cut, the breathless hiss of steel on steel. The latter sound was intimately familiar to him. Swiftly and silently he made his way to the fight, withdrawing a gleaming blade from inside his fashionable silver-handled walking stick.

      
As he approached, Drum saw Alex on his knees, crumpling to the ground. The brute behind him started to lower his knife to deliver the final blow when he felt the prick of cold steel puncture the side of his neck. He started to turn, but the blade only sliced further.

      
"I wouldn't try it, old fellow. Stand up and move away from Mr. Blackthorne, there's a lad," the dandy offered with mocking encouragement as the huge prizefighter stood.

      
Deprived of his prey, the assailant snarled an oath when he recognized the little toff. He moved his head to evade the sword, intent on lunging in under it. He had a good eight inches' advantage in reach, not to mention being at least four stone heavier. It should have worked. But Jackie Elem underestimated his slightly built foe's skill with a blade. Alvin Frances Edward Drummond had trained with the finest French fencing masters. Lightning swift and effortlessly Drum ran the sword directly into Elem's heart.

      
As the East End cutthroat fell, already dead before hitting the ground, Drum withdrew the blade with a moue of distaste. "At least you stood up. I do so hate to dispatch a man on his knees. Isn't sporting."

      
He withdrew a snowy handkerchief from his jacket and cleaned the blade with a quick practiced stroke, then tossed the linen in the dirt with a sigh. After glancing at the other two men, he replaced the sword inside the cane. "Dead as a ducat," he muttered. The Yankee Doodle had done well, considering all. Now if only he was not done himself.

      
Kneeling beside Blackthorne, Drummond touched his chest to feel for a heartbeat. The American emitted a low moan and tried to move. "Ah, you're still ticking, I see, but in bad loaf all the same."

      
The dandy observed the widening puddle of blood trickling from beneath Alex's body. Grimacing with distaste he reached out and tugged at the much larger man's jacket in an attempt to pull him up. "You'll have to help me, my good fellow."

      
Alex sat up, wincing at the sharp stab of agony in his back. "Damn, those bastards ruined a perfectly tailored jacket. I only picked it up from Schweitzer and Davidson's yesterday."

      
"Your assailants could not ruin it, my good man. You already succeeded in doing so yourself, stuffing the pockets with blunt. Quite destroys the lines, you know," he sniffed.

      
"Please forgive my vulgar display," Alex said with a chuckle that ended in a gasp of pain, "and accept my thanks for saving my life. This is twice I'm indebted to you... and in only one evening."

      
"Then think how far into dun territory you'll be after

we've been friends for a fortnight or two," Drum replied genially.

      
This time Alex stifled the laugh, mindful of his throbbing back. Bent Nose lay spread-eagled in the alley with a red stain blooming across his chest. "How the deuce did you do that?" He saw no place to conceal a weapon in the toff's exquisitely molded jacket or breeches.