The serving wench fell to her knees quickly for a woman her age and scooped the gold pieces back into his purse. Sebastian helped her off the floor, and she slipped the purse into his hand.
“May the Angel of Whitechapel watch yer back tonight,” she murmured.
He’d heard tales this evening about an angel. A heavenly beauty roamed the streets at night giving shillings to the poor. Angels. Sebastian wouldn’t count on one coming to his aid.
He winked at the serving wench. “Could be the angel stole the blunt.”
“Oh, no. Ye’re wrong ’bout that. Don’t know no footpads be parting with their money out of kindness.” She escorted him to the exit and smiled up at him. “The angel has a heart o’ gold. She left a basket of bread and milk on my widow neighbor’s doorstep early this morning. And her with five mouths to feed.”
Sebastian chuckled. “There is our proof then. The Angel of Whitechapel is aboveboard.” He extracted four shillings from his purse. “For you, madam. From the Mad Devil of Mayfair.”
“Ye’re no devil.”
“But I am quite mad. Ask anyone.” He dropped the coins into her outstretched palm. Tipping his hat, he bid her good evening and stumbled through the tavern exit while trying to shove his purse back into a suddenly missing pocket.
Fog clogged the narrow street outside the door and he stopped to get his bearings. Where would he most likely find a hack at this hour? Perhaps he should have arranged to have his driver return for him, but he hadn’t known how long he’d wanted to wallow. A couple hours turned out to be too long.
What is done is done. Self-pity wouldn’t help his sister to reenter Society, nor would it complete the work his father began before his death. Sebastian had made an oath to see his father’s dream of housing for injured soldiers become a reality, and he was finally making progress this year. To the devil with what others thought of him. He wouldn’t allow a bit of nasty gossip to defeat him.
Sebastian stepped onto the street, lost in a muted world of mist that lightly fell against his cheeks. Now, where was that hack he needed? He groped his coat once more.
“There you are.” He found his pocket, at least, and replaced his purse.
His boots made a sucking sound in the muddy lane, and he sloshed through a puddle, soaking his pant legs. Gads. His valet would be in a mood when he saw the mess Sebastian had made of himself tonight.
His excursion to the Black Dagger had been less than satisfying. He hadn’t found the comfort he’d sought in anonymity. And now he was returning home looking like a sow after a mud bath.
A sound, like the scraping of wood against stone, echoed in the street. Sebastian whirled to his right.
“Who goes there?”
No one answered. He strained to hear movement in the dark until a ringing silence filled his head. Then he heard it again. Definitely a scrape and a footfall. The hair at his nape stood on end. A black wall of night hid whoever was out there.
“I am seeking a hack,” he called out, on the off chance there really was an angel waiting to help him.
No one answered. His heart slammed against his breastbone. A squish behind him made him spin around, and he wobbled off balance. He shouldn’t have overindulged this evening.
Fumbling in his coat, he searched for his pistol. His fingers brushed the polished wood as something hard slammed across his shoulder blades.
He cursed and fell to his knees, his back burning as if on fire.
“Get ’is blunt,” a voice growled.
Sebastian reached for his flintlock once more, but a heavy boot crashed into his stomach. He doubled over, groaning. On second thought, he wasn’t nearly foxed enough for this kind of treatment. A blow to his head created an explosion of color behind his eyes, and he collapsed in the mud. His assailants ripped the coat from his back while he tried to catch his breath.
“Found it!”
Another kick to his kidney paralyzed him in a cloud of pain. Two men grabbed his legs and tugged at his boots.
“Not the Hessians,” he mumbled.
They laughed and ran off, the splash of footsteps growing faint.
“Bloody… hell…” he said between wheezing breaths. He would have given them his purse if they had asked nicely, but no gentleman should have to part with his boots.