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was ready when she tossed the poker through the air. He caught it and brandished it before him like a sword. The poker made a much better rapier than the cracked gardener’s scythe.
    Tully started forward, lust for revenge distorting his face. His foot hit the sherry coating the stone floor, and suddenly he seemed to be flying through the air. Nick turned, changing his grip, and swung the poker like a cricket bat. The iron connected with the thug’s midsection with a satisfying thwack, and the miscreant doubled over before falling to the floor.
    “Aw, now,” Hector grumbled from the doorway, “when ye ‘arm Tully, then I’m the one wot ‘as to do somethin’ about it.” He reluctantly crossed the threshold. “Why don’t ye just send ‘er with us, peaceful like, and no one ‘as to be ‘urt.”
    The giant moved toward the girl. Nick cast about for a weapon, since Tully was now wrapped around the poker, but the only thing at hand was the kettle the girl had dropped. Deciding that hot cast iron made as good a weapon as any, Nick snatched the kettle from the floor and, with one heave, sent it flying in a perfect arc that struck Hector on the temple.
    The reluctant thug shot him a look of surprise before he crumpled to the floor.
    “Hmm—what?” snorted the cook in the corner, rousing at last. Just then two more shapes loomed in the doorway, and Nick knew it was time to flee. He grabbed the girl’s wrist and towed her toward the stairs that led to the main part of the house.
    “Stop!” commanded the voice from the doorway, but Nick refused to heed it, fully intent on carrying out the course of action he had only that morning sworn to avoid. They dashed up the stairs and into the wide hallway that ran the length of the house. Nick spotted the front door.
    “Wait!” The girl pulled against his grip, but he was brooking no arguments. They passed an open doorway, and a glance inside revealed the Duchess of Nottingham and her daughters, as well as Crispin and another gentleman dressed all in black. But even his friend’s presence was not enough to keep Nick’s boots from moving toward the front door. He wanted this hellion somewhere private, somewhere quiet, and when he got her there, he was going to find out what in Hades those men wanted of her.
    “Let me go,” the girl hissed, angry and not afraid.
    “Lucy!” a shrill voice rang out, only it rang with exasperation and disdain, not panic. The black-and-white tile of the marbled foyer echoed under their feet as Nick hauled her along. He threw open the front door and, despite the girl’s protests, pulled her down the steps after him.
    He was going to rescue her whether she liked it or not.

Chapter Three
     
    OMINOUS GRAY clouds gathered over Mayfair as Nick towed the angry scullery maid down the steps of Nottingham House. He was glad there were no scythes or pokers lying about the street, for he was sure she would quickly see to it that he met the same ignominious fate as the ruffians who were pursuing her. Well, she had a rescuer now, a known hero, and he intended to give her the full measure of his efforts.
    Yip! Yip! Wellington appeared on the steps of Lady Belmont’s town home, his gelatinous torso trembling with excitement.
    “Stay, Wellington,” Nick ordered as they passed by, but it was a hopeless cause. The little dog tumbled down the steps and hit the pavement at a dead run. Nick glanced over his shoulder to find Wellington barreling along behind them.
    “Wait for Wellington,” the girl admonished him, but Nick ignored her and instead racked his brain in an attempt to formulate a plan. The cobblestones passed quickly underfoot, yet he had no idea where he was headed. He could hardly take the girl back to his rooms at the Cromwell, especially since she believed him to be a gardener, and the only other respectable residence he frequented was Lady Belmont’s, where the thugs had found her. Well, if he couldn’t take her to a reputable house, why