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from the sheath in her sleeve.
    â€œDrop the pearls,” she said grimly.
    â€œBugger off, yer bleedin’ Amazon!” said the man, thrashing.
    Anaïs pressed the blade to his throat and felt him quiver. “Drop the pearls,” she said again. “Or I will cheerfully draw your blood.”
    In the gloom, she felt rather than saw his fist open. The necklace fell, two or three beads skittering away as it struck the pavement.
    â€œYour name, you cowardly dog,” she said, lips pressed to his ear.
    â€œNone o’ yer bleedin’ business, that’s me name.”
    He jerked again, and she lifted her knee, slamming it up hard where it counted.
    The man cried out, and managed to twist slightly in her grip, turning his once-empty hand. She heard the soft snick! of a flick-knife, then caught the faint glint of moonlight as the blade thrust back.
    In a split second, she tightened her grip and steeled herself to the strike. But the blade never found flesh. A long arm whipped out of the darkness, catching the man’s wrist and wrenching it until he screamed.
    Startled, Anaïs must have loosened her grip. The flick-knife clattered to the pavement. But the villain dropped, slipped from her grasp, and bolted into the gloom.
    â€œ Maledizione! ” she uttered, watching him go.
    â€œAre you unhurt, ma’am?” A deep, masculine voice came from her right.
    Anaïs whirled about, still clutching the stiletto, blade up. A tall, lean figure leapt back in the dark, a mere shadow as he threw up both hands. “Just trying to help,” he said.
    â€œDamn it!” she said, angry at herself and at him.
    The man let his hands fall. The night fell utterly silent. Anaïs felt the rush subside and her senses return to something near normal. “Thank you,” she added, “but I had him.”
    â€œWhat you had—almost—was a blade in your thigh,” he calmly corrected. She felt his gaze fall upon the glint of her knife. “On the other hand, you appear to have been well prepared for it.”
    â€œA blade to the thigh, a blade to the throat,” she said coolly. “Which of us do you think would have lived to tell the tale?”
    â€œ Hmm ,” he said. “Would you have cut him, then?”
    Anaïs drew in a deep breath. Though she couldn’t make out the man’s face, she could sense his movements, his presence—and the warm, rich scent of tobacco smoke and expensive cologne told her just who he was. A wealthy man, the sort rarely seen traversing these mean, meandering streets. And he was tall, far taller than she—and that was no small feat.
    â€œNo, I wouldn’t have cut him,” she finally answered. “Not unless I had to.”
    â€œAnd now,” said the man quietly, “you don’t have to.”
    He was right, she realized. He had not saved her from danger. He had saved her from herself. She was running short of sleep, dead tired from days of travel, and still queasy from the crossing. Neither her judgment nor her intuition was at its best.
    â€œThank you,” she said, a little humbled.
    In a flat high above, someone shoved a casement wide, and thrust out a lamp. Still, the feeble light scarcely reached them. But it was enough, apparently, to allow him to bend down, sweep up her great-grandmother’s pearls, and press them into her hand.
    â€œThank you, sir,” she said again, the pearls warm and heavy in her palm. “You were very brave.”
    But the tall man said no more. Instead, still deep in shadow, he swept off his top hat, made an elegant bow, then strode off into the darkness.

Chapter 2
    In battle, there are not more than two methods of attack: the direct and the indirect; yet these two in combination give rise to an endless series of maneuvers.
    Sun Tzu, The Art of War
    A ttired in the austere vestments of the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis , the Earl of Bessett stood on the stone gallery