Conspiring with a Rogue by Julie Johnstone

in a fine neighborhood of gleaming door knockers anymore. Linger here amongst the thieves and the rabble too long and ye’re likely to find yer throat slit or, if ye’re lucky, just yer pocket emptied.”
    The man’s black beady eyes blended with the dark night, making his gaze hard to decipher, but his blunt speech left nothing to her imagination. Perhaps she had been too bold insisting she come without Peter, but at the time, she thought coming alone might be the best choice.
    There were fewer people she had to fool that way. Now, as she stepped out into the murky atmosphere uncertainty filled her. Darkness consumed the narrow alley, but she needed no light to detect the filth. The stench of rotted rubbish almost made her gag. She forced herself not to react. A man would not flinch at such a thing. A quick glance around the driver into the black night left her confused.
    Where was she? A splintered shingle hanging by one creaky chain and reading Melvin’s Gin House swung back and forth, pushed by the light wind blowing through the alley. To the left of the gin house, a piece of wood nailed over a door—the windows of which had bars running parallel—read Martin Morvin Pawnbroker . Between the two broken-down dwellings stood a dark red door.
    The driver stuck his hand out at her. “That’ll be a shilling.”
    Reaching into her topcoat, Whitney pulled out the blunt and offered it to him. He snatched it out of her hand, turned, and was halfway into his coaching seat before her surprise evaporated. She scrambled after him and grabbed the horses’ reins to prevent him from departing. “Wait a blessed minute,” she commanded in the deepest voice she could muster. Securing her bearings was mandatory before this man left. “I paid you to take me to the Vagabond Club, and I don’t see it.”
    “Ye blind?” the driver asked, tugging on the horses’ reins.
    “Certainly not, you insolent man. I demand you step down and show me where the Vagabond Club is.”
    “Nay.” The coachman snatched the reins away and shoved at her.
    A chuckling beggar teetered on the sidewalk near them. “You gonna let the big man bully you, huh? Here.” The man stumbled as he hurried forward. He extended an empty bottle. “Clock him over the head with this.”
    “No, thank you. I fight fair.” But did she? How did she know? She was not really a confounded man, after all. But a man would fight, and so must she if she did not want to be abandoned in this alley. She swung around, took a deep breath, cocked her arm back and slammed up toward the coachman’s nose.
    “Ow!” She stumbled backward and landed on her bottom. “Your face is bloody hard,” she moaned, extending her fingers and wincing. “I believe I’ve broken my finger.”
    “Yea?” The driver clomped toward her and leered down. “I’m gonna break more than yer wee little finger for that punch ye give me.” The murderous glare in his eye and the fact that he grabbed the lapels of her kerseymere told her he meant what he said.
    Better to bluff than go down like a coward. “This coat is expensive, you buffoon. Get your bloody hands off of me.” Speaking the words of a belligerent man might come easily now, but they were likely to get her killed.
    The drunkard cackled as he shuffled off, and in the distance, a night watchman called out the weather.
Splendid.
She was going to be murdered while her only hope for protection, the night watchman, was busy informing her that it was a cool night.
    “Ye’re one queer fellow,” the hackney driver said as he reared back his fist.
    “He’s been told that before.”
    She froze, at once recognizing the deep, smooth voice. Before she could react, Drake spoke again from the darkness.
    “If you really want to offend him, you’ll have to be more clever.”
    Jerking toward him, a flood of emotions almost made her stumble.

 

    “Mr. Sutherland?” she choked out, happy to see him for the moment.
    Drake stepped from the shadows