Chapter 16

A fter returning the bowl to the salop seller, Tom hurried down the street. He hated to leave Gwen standing out in the cold, but he couldn’t very well deprive the street vendor of her bowl. Based on her tattered clothing, she didn’t have a shilling to scratch with and could ill afford to replace it.

He turned down a side street but didn’t see Gwen. Damn it, he wasn’t very familiar with these fancy neighborhoods on the west end of London. He jogged back to the edge of the park. It was probably the next street over.

He was surprised by how enthusiastically she’d joined the snowball fight. He’d hoped she wouldn’t mind watching the spectacle, seeing as there wasn’t much else to do on Christmas Day. But when they arrived at Green Park and he saw how unruly the crowd of children was, he’d started second-guessing his decision to bring her there. She was quality, after all, and he figured most ladies wouldn’t want to hang around a park crawling with street urchins. Most toffs would look at those children and see nothing but a crowd of pickpockets.

But Gwen had surprised him once again. She hadn’t minded being in the park with the unwashed masses, hadn’t minded getting clocked right in the face with a snowball, and hadn’t been too stuck-up to join right in. Not that she’d had much of a throwing arm, but it was the thought that counted, wasn’t it? She’d even said it was one of the best Christmases she’d ever had!

This was a problem, all right. Because Tom was really starting to like this bird. As in, really starting to like her! Their bedsport couldn’t be topped, for one.

But the thing that was really dangerous was the way she treated him—like a normal bloke. Not like a notch in her bedpost or a ravaging brute she only needed to fulfill some unspeakable fantasy.

But like an ordinary fellow, one she liked having around.

That was dangerous. Tom’s outsides might be honed to iron, but his insides were starting to feel as soggy as his grandmother’s Christmas pudding. Which wasn’t supposed to be soggy, but God love her, Nan had never been able to cook for shit.

But the point was, he liked Gwen too much. He’d obviously loved fucking her last night, and it had felt far too natural to chat with her over the breakfast table. It had been so nice, in fact, that his brain kept coming up with cracked suggestions for things to say like, “This was fun. Shall we do it again? Say, every day for the rest of our lives?”

Pull yourself together, Talbot . Gwen was a lady! She was educated! She knew all that apiara… apiari… that bee science. What in seven hells would she want with a great oaf like him, whose only talent was punching people in the face?

He was distracted from this dreary train of thought by someone calling his name. “Mr. Talbot! Mr. Talbot!” A trio of boys came sprinting up to him. “You know that lady you was with earlier?” the tallest one asked.

“The one who joined in our snowball fight,” another boy added.

“Of course. What about her?” Tom asked.

The tall boy pointed down the street. “There’s five coves over there trying to snatch her!”

“ What ?” Tom took off at a run, the boys right on his heels.

He turned on the street they indicated and surely enough, there was Gwen. Two men had her by her arms. She was struggling for all she was worth, but she was significantly smaller than the cunts who’d grabbed her, and they were making steady progress dragging her toward the plain black carriage parked nearby.

“Gwen!” he shouted, charging down the street.

The men peered at him, surprised. “Fuck me,” one of them said, pointing. “Isn’t that Tommy Talbot?”

“Sure is,” Tom replied. He handed his hat to one of the boys and raised his fists. “Let her go!”

Four of the men stood frozen, blinking at him.

The fifth, a rat-faced fellow who, in spite of his posh clothes, managed to give off a distinct “grave robber” sensibility, waved frantically at Tom. “Get him!”

Two of his goons looked at each other, then shook their heads in unison.

“Good decision. You don’t really want to do that,” Tom agreed.

Rat-face’s voice grew shrill. “If you don’t do as I say, you won’t get paid!”

One of the men swallowed, then made a hesitant charge. Tom brushed his punch aside and gave him a push. He stumbled into the side of the building.

Rat-face pulled a knife out of his boot and thrust it at one of his goons. “Here, use this.”

The man snorted. “Like that’s going to help.”

“There are four of you!” Rat-face screeched. “You can take him!”

One of the men holding Gwen had his face screwed up in an are you daft sort of expression. “He’s Tommy fucking Talbot!”

“This is ridiculous!” Gwen snapped. “Your men are not fools. They know they will get beaten to a pulp, to absolutely no end. You’ve lost again, Joseph. Unhand me!”

That got Tom’s attention. “Joseph? This lout is your brother, then?”

Gwen’s lip curled as she glared at the subject of their conversation. “He is.”

“Oh, jolly good.” Tom closed the distance to Joseph in two brisk strides and threw his signature right hook, the Stinger, taking him square in the temple. He didn’t bother to put his shoulder in it, but he didn’t need to. Joseph went limp as a wet noodle and collapsed in a heap on the snowy pavement.

He could hear the three boys tittering in delight behind him. Tom turned to the blokes holding Gwen. “Well, there’s no point in detaining her now, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“There’s really not,” one of them offered.

“She’s all yours,” his companion said, unable to release her fast enough.

The other two goons had already made themselves scarce, and these two promptly followed in their footsteps.

Heaving a sigh, the coachman, who had been watching silently from his seat atop the carriage, climbed down from the box. Bending down, he checked Joseph for a pulse.

Gwen went to his side. “How is he, Mr. Caraway?”

The coachman answered in a deep voice, “Well, he’s breathing, anyway. Going to have a deuced big headache when he comes around.” He heaved a put-upon sigh. “I suppose I should take him back to the house.”

“Here,” Tom said, stepping forward, “let me help you.”

He hooked his hands under Joseph’s arms, and Caraway took his feet. They stuffed him into the carriage, with his knees on the floor and his torso draped over a seat.

Caraway mopped his brow. “I appreciate that.” He turned to Gwen. “I’m sorry about all this, Miss Gwendolyn. Your brother… well, you know how he is.”

Gwen nodded grimly. “I do, indeed.”

“And on Christmas Day. Just when you think a man can’t sink any lower.” Caraway shook his head, his expression one of disgust. “He knew they was having a ball. Those Wicked Widows, I mean. Yer barrister let slip that they was the ones that hired him, so he had someone watching the house, in case you showed up. That’s how he found you today.”

“I see.” Gwen squeezed his forearm. “Please rest assured that I do not hold you in any way responsible.”

Caraway bowed. “That’s right generous of you.” He turned to Tom and a grin sneaked across his face. “Tom Talbot. I’ll be damned.”

Tom held out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The coachman pumped his hand enthusiastically. “I was there, you know. The night you won the title.” He shook his head. “You and Harry Osborne. Fifteen rounds. Best fight I ever saw in my life.”

Tom smiled. “I remember it well. I could scarcely believe I’d beaten Harry Osborne.”

“I had three quid laid on Osborne,” Caraway confessed. “So I didn’t believe you could beat him, either.”

Tom laughed, taking no offense. “I hope you didn’t make that mistake again.”

“Believe me, I didn’t.” Jerking his head toward the carriage, Caraway rolled his eyes. “I guess I’d better be getting this one home. But Merry Christmas to you both.”

“Merry Christmas,” Tom and Gwen called. Caraway climbed up top and disappeared down the street.

Tom turned to Gwen. “So, what’s our next?—”

“Are you all right?” She surged forward, seizing his right hand and tugging the glove off. “Oh, Tom! You were so brave ! How I hope you haven’t sustained a fracture, or a sprain, or a?—”

“Hangnail?” he suggested, then laughed. “I’m fine, bun. Truly, that was nothing.”

“Nothing! I’ve never seen someone throw a punch like that!” She stroked her thumb over the back of his hand, inspecting it. “How did you not break something?”

He flexed his hand into a fist. “I’m not exactly small-boned. But really, it was no trouble. You should see the coves I usually fight. Take Donovan McLaren—he’s as big as an ox, and just as strong. It’s like punching a brick wall. The point is, this is what I do.” He peered at her, frowning. “Wait. You’re not crying, are you?”

She gave a great sniff as she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “You were so gallant ! So honorable ! I’ve never had a man do something like that for me. It seems to have turned me into a watering pot.”

Well, shit . Gallant? Honorable? That wasn’t him, was it? He was just the big, dumb lout who got punched in the face for a living. But to hear Gwen tell it, you’d almost think he was some kind of hero. And Tom found that notion was turning him into a watering pot.

“I’m right up there with Miss Mercy and her hatpin, eh?” Tom joked. Because what was he supposed to say? Gosh, Gwen, that really means a lot to me ? He couldn’t say that ! Even if it was true. Especially because it was true!

She was still sniffling. “I hold both you and Miss Mercy in the highest regard. And I don’t like the idea of you fighting someone who is as strong as an ox. I would be distraught if anything were to happen to you!”

Bloody hell . He’d scrambled out of the frying pan and straight into the fire. Because now Gwen held him in the highest regard . She didn’t want him fighting the likes of Donovan McLaren, and she would be distraught if anything were to happen to him.

It was a good thing she didn’t know what had happened the last time he’d fought McLaren, about the ringing in his ears that plagued him night and day and kept him tied to this big, noisy city when all he wanted was a quiet life in some little town. He wanted to be Tom Talbot, the bloke who lived down the lane, not Tom Talbot, the famous boxer everyone knew of and no one knew .

He shook himself. What the hell was wrong with him? All this maudlin drivel wasn’t going to solve a damn thing.

Get hold of yourself, Talbot . He wrapped an arm around Gwen’s shoulders. “There now. It’s all right.” He squeezed her and did his best to mumble encouraging shite until she’d stopped crying.

Once she finished dabbing her eyes, he asked her, “So, what’s your next step? Do you want to go back to the Widows, or?—”

She shook her head. “When Joseph comes to, he’s going to be furious . I need to get back to Merstham before that happens. I’m safest there.”

Tom nodded. “Then we’ll get you there straightaway.”

“Let’s see.” Gwen bit her lip. “The mail coaches won’t be running on Christmas Day. But maybe I can arrange for a post chaise.”

They went to the Golden Cross, a large coaching inn at Charing Cross. When Gwen enquired about hiring a post chaise, the innkeeper wasn’t encouraging but said he would see if anyone was willing to undertake the journey. He returned with the news that only one postillion was willing to see Gwen home, and his price would be five guineas.

“Five guineas!” Tom couldn’t believe his ears. “That’s highway robbery.”

The innkeeper shrugged. “It’s Christmas Day. Take it or leave it.”

He grabbed Gwen’s elbow and strode away from the counter. “Tom!” she protested. “What are you doing?”

“That trip should be less than two guineas.”

Gwen blinked at him, looking perplexed. “Yes, on any day other than Christmas. As it is, I’ll have to be grateful someone is willing to undertake the journey at all.”

“And God knows what kind of tip the driver will be expecting on top of it,” Tom muttered, not slowing his stride. “Five guineas. I never heard the like!”

“Tom!” she cried.

It occurred to him that, in his fervor to rescue Gwen from a spectacularly bad deal, he was probably not escorting her across the inn’s common room but towing her across it.

“Sorry,” he said, halting just inside the door. “Did you really want to take him up on it?”

She winced. “Not particularly. But what choice do I have?”

Tom’s nostrils flared. It was bad enough that Gwen was being forced to take a post chaise at all. Post chaises were bloody expensive.

But to be charged more than twice the going rate? That was unacceptable.

“Come with me,” Tom said. “I have an idea.”