Marrying Winterborne
Without pausing, Dr. Gibson turned to confront the other man, who had lunged forward. Before he reached her, however, someone had seized him from behind and spun him around.
The stranger displayed extraordinary agility, dodging to the side with fluid ease as the thug swung at him. He moved in with an effortlessly fast and brutal combination: a jab, right cross, left uppercut, and a full force blow with his right. The ruffian collapsed to the street beside his companion.
Helen whispered to the petrified child, who was whimpering against her neck. “It’s all right. It’s over.”
Dr. Gibson viewed the stranger warily, lowering the tip of her cane to the ground.
He returned her gaze implacably, adjusting the brim of his hat. “Are you unharmed, ladies?”
“Quite,” Dr. Gibson said crisply. “We thank you for your assistance, although I had the situation under control.”
Helen had the impression that the other woman was annoyed at having been deprived of the chance to demolish the second ruffian as thoroughly as she had the first.
“Obviously you could have managed on your own,” the stranger said as he approached. He was a well-dressed young man, slightly taller than average, and extraordinarily fit. “But when I saw two women being harassed, I thought it only civilized to lend a hand.”
He had an unusual accent, in that it was difficult to place. Most accents were so specific that one could easily discern what area they were from, sometimes even pinpoint the county. As he drew closer, Helen saw that he was very good-looking, with blue eyes and dark brown hair, and strong features.
“What are you doing in this area?” Dr. Gibson asked suspiciously.
“I’m on my way to meet a friend at a tavern.”
“What is the name of it?”
“The Grapes,” came his easy reply. His gaze moved to Helen and the child in her arms. “It’s not safe here,” he said gently, “and night is falling fast. May I hail a hansom for you?”
Dr. Gibson replied before Helen was able. “Thank you, but we don’t need assistance.”
“I’ll stay at a distance,” he conceded, “but I’m going to keep an eye on you until you’re safely in a cab.”
“Suit yourself,” Dr. Gibson said crisply. “My lady, shall we go?”
Helen hesitated and spoke to the stranger. “Will you tell us your name, sir, so that we may know to whom we owe our gratitude?”
He met her gaze, and his face softened slightly.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I would rather not.”
She smiled at him. “I understand.”
He lifted his hat off his forehead in a respectful gesture, the outer corners of his eyes crinkling as they walked away. Helen beamed, remembering West’s warning about strangers and heroes in disguise. Wait until she told him about this.
“No smiling,” Dr. Gibson reminded Helen.
“But he helped us,” she protested.
“It’s not help when one doesn’t need it.”
When they had nearly reached the main road, Dr. Gibson threw a quick glance over her shoulder. “He’s following us at a distance,” she said, annoyed.
“Like a guardian angel,” Helen said.
Dr. Gibson snorted. “Did you see the way he felled that thug? His fists were as quick as thought. Like a professional fighter. One has to question how such a man appeared out of nowhere at just the right moment.”
“I think he did far less damage to his opponent than you did to yours,” Helen said admiringly. “The way you took that ruffian down with your cane—I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“My aim was a bit off,” Dr. Gibson said. “I didn’t connect squarely with the ulnar nerve in his wrist. I shall have to consult with my fencing-master about my technique.”
“It was still very impressive,” Helen assured her. “I pity anyone who makes the mistake of underestimating you, Dr. Gibson.”
“My lady, the sentiment is returned in full.”
Chapter 29
ALTHOUGH HELEN HAD, IN the recent past, discovered that she rather enjoyed shocking people, she had now come to the conclusion that it was highly overrated. She felt nostalgic for all those quiet, peaceful days at Eversby Priory when nothing had ever happened. Too much was happening now.
It seemed that Ravenel House was collectively paralyzed when Helen returned with a bedraggled orphan of mysterious origins, in questionable health and decidedly unsanitary condition. Setting Charity on her feet, Helen held her hand, and the child huddled against her. Servants stopped in their tracks. The housekeeper, Mrs. Abbott, came to the entrance hall and froze in astonishment. Pandora and Cassandra descended the stairs, chattering, but as they saw Helen standing in the entrance hall with a ragged child, they both fell abruptly silent.
The most unnerving reaction came from Lady Berwick, who emerged from the parlor and stood at the threshold. As her gaze went from Helen to the child beside her, she comprehended the situation without exhibiting the slightest break in self-control. She seemed like a military general watching his troops retreating from a losing battle and calculating how to regroup his forces.
Predictably, in the horrid, silent tableau, Pandora was the first to speak. “This is like being in a play when no one remembers their lines.”
Helen sent her a quick smile.
Without a single word or flicker of expression, Lady Berwick turned and went back into the parlor.
The pencil lead taste was back in Helen’s mouth. She had no idea what the countess was going to say to her, but she knew it would be dreadful. She took Charity with her to the bottom of the stairs, while her sisters came down to meet them.