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have once used a razor.
    â€œShore ain’t no slavey, eh, Garf?” They laughed in apparent agreement. “Look’en ’ow nobby this one is. I’d like t’see wot’s under dem daisy roots she gawt there.”
    â€œâ€™Ow kind o’ ye t’join us, fresh jenny,” said Garf as he grabbed my arm. I gasped and reared back in pretend fright.
    â€œDon’t touch me,” I said, struggling a little.
    â€œNow, now, li’l loidy. We e’en ’ave a place t’sit,” the nameless one said as I was propelled roughly toward a table in a dingy corner. He leered at me, his face coming much too close. The stench made my eyes sting.
    The numbfists must have thought I was light-headed because of their charming personalities, for they laughed andcongratulated each other as I was shoved onto a chair. They took a seat on either side of me; the rest of the patrons were watching without appearing to be watching.
    â€œNo, thank you,” I said, attempting to stand. But a heavy hand shoved me back in my chair.
    â€œâ€™Ave a seat, missy. Yer ’avin’ a drink wi’ us. And then later . . . we’ll ’ave a bit more fun. If’n ye know’at I mean.”
    I hid a smile. Idiots were going to get the surprise of their lives if they tried anything with me.
    My so-called companions hollered for a round of whiskey, and three small glasses were delivered to the table.
    â€œDrink’m up, jenny,” ordered Garf as his friend gulped down the spirits. Great. Rotting whiskey breath. “Things’ll be much mo’ fun if ye do. Loosen t’ings up a bit, eh? Like them laces on yer side, eh?” He poked at them.
    â€œNo, thank you. Do you have any lemonade, Bilbo?” I called to the bartender. “With a bit of ice in it, perhaps?”
    This suggestion caused great guffaws of laughter and some backslapping from my so-called escorts, as well as some snickering from the other patrons. Bilbo seemed as shocked as if I’d asked for a new parasol, and Garf gave a long, aromatic belch that probably rattled his teeth. I gagged.
    I’d attracted enough attention and if Pix was around, he’d know I was here. I placed my hands on the table to push my chair back. Bad choice. I should have known it would be sticky, and now I’d gotten it on my gloves and fingers. I thought about wiping them on my seatmates’ shoulders, but decided that’d probably make things worse.
    â€œIt’s been quite a pleasure, gentlemen.” I stood. “But I fear your conversation is boring and your table manners leave much to be desired. Have a—”
    â€œWhere d’ye think ye’re goin’?” The nameless one clamped a hand on my shoulder and slammed me roughly into my seat.
    â€œRemove your hand from my person,” I said in a voice Mina Holmes would have used. “Now.”
    â€œNow wh’ would I wanna do ’at?” he asked, tightening his fingers around the top of my arm. “Ye ain’ goin’ nowheres, little jenny, wi’out me and Garf ’ere. We gots a goo’ time planned fer ye. Jus’ t’tree o’ us. And dem laces o’ yers. We’re gonna r’lieve ye of them tight laces, ain’t we, Garf?” His laugh was unpleasant.
    â€œIf you don’t remove your hand from my arm by the time I count to four, I’ll break your finger. Can you count that high?”
    Oh, he didn’t like that. At all. His eyes, already squirrelly and beady, narrowed. A glint of malevolence showed there for the first time, and I was quite glad of it. I didn’t want to break his finger if he was just a drunken sot acting silly.
    But this man was mean. How many times did a woman have to tell him to take his hands off her?
    â€œOne,” I said.
    He tightened his fingers and grinned. I could feel them digging into the soft flesh at the front of my shoulder. His