So he wasn’t the only one who recognized miscreants when he saw them. And she had a point regarding the possibility of others lurking about, but he still didn’t like her being here, loathed the idea of her coming to any harm. He’d die first.
His unwelcome company came to a halt a short distance away, near enough for him to discern that his brother’s lip was swollen and bleeding. He’d wager his sibling was also going to have a nasty-looking blackened eye in the morning. “Lawrence.”
“I’m in a spot of bother,” his brother said, which was his polite way of informing King he was in need of funds. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Thursday here”—he tipped his head to the right, signifying the larger and beefier of the two—“and Mr. Tuesday.”
Tuesday was uglier, resembling a rodent, his feral eyes narrowed, indicating he was the meaner one.
“How might I be of service?” King asked.
“Well, you see, m’lord—” Thursday, obviously the leader of the duo, began.
“Your Grace,” Lawrence muttered irritably.
“Wot?”
“My brother is a duke. You address him as ‘Your Grace.’”
“Well, then Yer Grace, I’m ’ere to collect the two thousand quid your ne’er-do-well ’ere owes me boss.”
With a grimace, Lawrence stared at his boots, their scratched appearance no doubt a result of the scuffle that had obviously taken place as a form of persuasion signaling that it was indeed time to pay up. Why hadn’t his brother come to him if he needed funds? How had he even found what King, judging by the roughness of these fellows, was certain was a disreputable moneylender? “I see. I’ll have the amount owed delivered on the morrow.”
Thursday clucked his tongue. “Ain’t good ’nuff, I’m afraid. Gots to be tonight or his lordship ’ere might find ’imself meeting the pointed end of a knife.”
Christ. “The lady and I will be more than happy to retrieve the funds for you.” He had a safe concealed by a painting on the wall behind his desk but wasn’t about to reveal it. Another safe was hidden away in her office, and he’d given her the key to the pickproof Chubb lock.
The lasciviousness in the blackguard’s eyes as he swept his gaze over Pettypeace had King balling up his fists. “The lady stays. Gives me more leverage, ensures ye don’t do somefink ye ought not.” He gave his head a jerk to the side, and the rodent stepped toward Pettypeace.
“Touch her,” King said with deadly calm that stopped the man in his tracks, “and you will leave here without that hand.”
“I gots to ’old ’er so she dun run off.”
“I’m not going to run off,” Pettypeace said, evenly, flatly, but with heat.
The blighter cracked his knuckles and curled his upper lip into a sneer. “’Cuz ye be scared.”
“Of you? Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t frighten me with your ragged clothing and your grimy hair and your dirty face. But you do need to move beyond reach of my olfactory senses.”
“Yer wot?”
“My nose, sir. You have a stench about you that I refuse to tolerate. If you want me to stay here, move back. Otherwise, I shall accompany His Grace when he goes to fetch your money.”
“Ye think we won’t stop ye?” Thursday asked.
Pettypeace skewered the man with a look. “I’d like to see you try.”
The confidence, the challenge, the absolute certainty that she would prevail—all five feet and one quarter inch of her was standing up to these men as though she towered above them. If King had a heart, he’d have fallen a little bit in love with her at that moment. He couldn’t be absolutely certain that he hadn’t anyway.
Thursday once again jerked his head. “Get back over ’ere, Tuesday. We don’t want no trouble. We just come for our blunt, wot’s owed.”
“The lady can fetch the money,” King said, “and I shall remain as your guarantee that she’ll get up to no mischief.”
“Do I look stupid?” Thursday asked. King refrained from announcing that as a matter of fact, he did. “Once she’s out of ’arm’s way, ye ain’t gonna ’esitate to come for me. You go. And be quick about it. Me patience’s wearing thin.”
King looked over at Pettypeace, and she gave him a little nod. How could she not be terrified? Most women would have swooned by now. “I’ll return in all haste.”
To give the impression he remained in control, he exited the room at a sedate clip. He considered detouring by the billiards room to retrieve a broadsword one of his ancestors had wielded in battle that now was displayed on a wall. Instead, when he was no longer in view of the ruffians, he made a mad dash for her office.
With complete faith in Kingsland’s ability to handle this challenging matter, Penelope held Lawrence’s gaze and tried to convey that everything would turn out well in the end, even if at the moment the situation seemed quite dire indeed. She’d had enough encounters with bullies to recognize them when she saw them. They might have taken their fists to Lawrence, but the danger of them was easily dispelled with a tone that signaled who was truly in command. She’d been a tiny little thing when she was younger, so small that other children had often taunted her. “When you stand up to them, never flinch, never back down,” her father had told her. “You’ll be at their mercy if they spot a weakness.”
Like a wounded gazelle to a lion.
“I’m sorry,” Lawrence said, his tone filled with contrition. “I knew King usually spent his evenings in here when he’s home. I simply didn’t expect you.”
“You’re forgiven.” The conversation with Kingsland had been turning a bit too personal, and she’d been close to confessing everything—and would have found herself dismissed. She’d told him true. She did have the means to survive without employment, but her position here gave her life purpose, and she was loath to give it up.
Lawrence sighed. “Don’t suppose you chaps would mind if I poured myself a whisky?”
“Just stay where ye are,” Thursday said, “’till we got our blunt, and then ye can drink yerself into the gutter.”
“My brother is an honest fellow. He said he’s gone to get the money and so he has.”
“’E’s a toff. I don’t trust no toffs. I need ye close in case I gots to give ’im cause fer regret.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tuesday reach for a ship nestled inside a bottle, resting on a wooden stand. “Don’t touch that,” she snapped.
“Wot? Ain’t gonna nick it. Jest wanted to look at it good. I ain’t no thief.”
The fellow who delivered blows for a living was insulted. She almost laughed. “I assume Tuesday is not your real name.”
“Nah, boss gives his lads names so’s we remember what day it’s our turn to deliver the punishments.”
“Do a lot of that, do you? Mete out punishment?”
He shrugged. “Lots of blokes borrow from ’im. Then forgets to pay ’im. ’Ow’d they put that little ship inside the bottle?”
“Very carefully, I should imagine.”