Page 94 of An Extraordinary Lord

Slowly, the rioters lowered their weapons, but they didn’t retreat. Likewise, the Guards didn’t lower their guns.

“You were soldiers once—goodsoldiers,” Merritt pressed. “Remember how you once gave everything you had for England, how you were willing to die for her and the liberties she gives you? But now you march against her. Are you no better than the French, wanting to strip away all that is good and right from English soil?” His heart ached as he poured out the words, desperate to make them listen. “You’ve already gotten your coins for your trouble tonight, so now take them and go home. Donotgive up your lives here in this filthy street.”

The rioters said nothing but shamefully looked down at the street. No one made eye contact, least of all with him.

He lowered his sword. “Be good soldiers again and go home. There’s no shame in this retreat. You’ve done what you came here for—to bring attention to your plight. I promise you that I’ll make certain your concerns are heard in Parliament, in the law courts, in the papers. Damnation, I’ll take them to Carlton House and present them to Prinny myself!” A few uneasy laughs went up at that. “But now,go home. Go home to your families if you have them or to your favorite prostitute if you don’t—or to your favorite prostitute even if you do.” More laughs, less uneasy this time. He knew then that he’d won them over, and he blew out a hard, long breath before adding with solemn finality, “Tonight’s fight is over.”

The rioters stared at him for several more long seconds. Then they began to move slowly away, back into the dark maze of streets from where they’d emerged. Only a few took swings at the fronts of the buildings and at easy targets like doors, lamps, and posts, until they, too, vanished into the night. All thoughts of attacking Westminster disappeared with them.

Thank God.

His shoulders slumped, and his arm fell to dangle his sword at his side. Never in his entire life had so much depended upon his ability of persuasion. Never once in his entire law career.

Andneverdid he want to go through anything like that again.

“Stand down!” Marcus ordered the soldiers, who gladly put down their rifles. Relief rippled through them that the attack had dissolved.

Relief should have streamed through Merritt, too, that their mad plan had worked and they’d stopped the massacre. That for once they’d gotten the upper hand on Scepter. But it didn’t. Because Veronica was still out there in the streets, still herding the main mob of rioters toward the north, still putting herself in danger.

He jumped down from the barricade and off into the night after the riot.

And after Veronica.

Veronica hurried through the maze of narrow streets at the rear of the riot, her pulse pounding and her muscles burning from being on alert for over an hour now. And damn that dawn was only a mere sliver of light on the distant horizon!

She’d sheathed her sword in favor of one of her knives, but thank God she’d not had to use it. Shouts and threats had been enough to keep the rioters from breaking into the buildings, from keeping innocents from accidentally being caught up in the melee—prostitutes, sellers on their way to their market stalls, dock workers making their way to the warehouses along the river…and a handful of men just like most of the rioters, who’d spent the night at a tavern drinking themselves far into their cups to escape the harsh reality of their lives. A flash of her knife and a quiet threat had been all that was necessary to keep the men in line. But the physical strain and mental fatigue were beginning to wear on her.

Please, God, let this end soon!But she wasn’t at all certain that God was watching over them tonight or if evil had taken hold instead.

Their plan was falling apart. Instead of the riot fizzling out beneath dwindling momentum, it seemed to grow as more people joined in from the hovels and makeshift buildings erected in back alleys and courtyards where they lived in squalor. Their frustrations at their daily hand-to-mouth existence had flared, and the riot presented a good opportunity to let out their anger. But Filipe’s men were still leading them toward Farringdon and Clerkenwell, toward Saffron Hill and their home territory, where they had knowledge of the lay of the land and could gather reinforcements if necessary.

Yet they weren’t moving fast enough into that area of the city where the streets grew so narrow and mazelike that the mob would be scattered and thinned to the point that it would lose its coherence and dissipate. Even now, Filipe’s men were forced to join in with stopping the violence, which sparked fights among the rioters themselves. Parts of the riot had become a free-for-all, destructive to property and potentially deadly.

She halted in midstride. An uneasy prick of apprehension tickled at her nape and slid down her spine like droplets of ice water. Shouts were growing louder, the noise of destruction increasing, the streets becoming more and more crowded. And then she saw—

The mob had turned on itself and was moving back toward her. She was no longer at its rear. She’d been caught up in the midst of it and was surrounded.

Knowing how dangerous her position had become, she raced to the edge of the street where doorways might provide protection, where she might find a narrow alley passageway that—

A fierce blow from a club caught her square between the shoulder blades.

The air slammed from her lungs. She staggered forward to keep on her feet and spun around to face her attacker. But a second blow across her chest shoved her backward into a recessed archway, and her back slammed hard against a wooden door. The violent jolt knocked her knife from her hand. Its blade clattered uselessly against the stones at her feet.

Immediately, the attacker was upon her. He dropped his club and squeezed his hands around her throat.

She kicked with all her strength. Her foot caught the man in the groin and shot enough pain through him that he stepped back with a furious bellow. In a slant of moonlight, she saw his face.

“Danker,” she whispered, stunned.

He lunged at her again. In the narrow doorway, she had no room to escape. When she kicked again, he dodged the blow, and her foot passed through empty shadow.

“You won’t stop this riot.” He reached for her throat again, but she threw up her forearm and deflected his hands, just enough that he couldn’t squeeze her throat. With her other hand, she punched at his face. She slammed the hard heel of her hand into his cheek and the corner of his eye. He growled furiously but didn’t release her. “Bitch! I won’t let you interfere.”

Whatwas he talking about? “But you helped me, when I came to you for information—you told me about Smathers—”

He dodged another blow to his face, grabbed her wrist, and twisted her arm down to her side so roughly that she screamed in pain. “To get out of your debt! What the hell did I care about Smathers? You think he was the only man recruiting rioters?” He grabbed her forearm and pressed it against her throat as if to crush her windpipe with her own arm. “But you didn’t end it there, you and the Home Office. You kept looking, kept digging for more—now I stop you.”

She wrenched her damaged wrist away and slashed her fingernails at his face. But she missed when he ducked his head to the side. Instead, her fingers clawed down the side of his face to his neck and pulled back his collar.