Page 12 of Juliet's Touch

Lord Stanley frantically nodded his agreement.

“I will be watching,” Eric said. He exhaled, then slammed an upper cut up and through the lord’s jaw.

The pathetic man toppled over. Eric tapped his supine body with the toe of his boot. Stanley didn’t move. As he hoped, he had knocked the man out, making him easier to deal with.

After Eric hitched the horse to the gig, he tied the lord’s legs together, hefted him into the carriage, and blew out the candle. The ride to the magistrate’s closed office took forever.

Since he wasn’t a thief, Eric returned the carriage and tried to check on the terrified woman, only to find everything locked up tight. This was for the best. He patted the horse and left the carriage on the street.

Tossing the lord onto the sidewalk in front of the magistrate’s office had seemed like a genius plan in the dark. Today, Eric knew he’d made a grave error.

No one gave a whit about a masked man combing the rookeries. However, people would notice him in places like Mayfair, Kensington, Chelsea, and Belgravia. There would beoutrage that a half-naked aristocrat had been tied up and deposited at Number Four Bow Street.

Eric had been careless, forgetting to take off his mask as he journeyed home, consequently, unnerving a beautiful woman out for a walk. He had no idea aristocratic ladies were up at dawn. He was under the impression that they slept the day away. Nother.

Eric’s cock awoke, quickly growing hard. The damnable appendage was a misbehaving nuisance, and all because he innocently touched this woman who wasn’t looking where she was going and crashed into him. A woman who was as elegant and willowy as a golden-haired, hazel-eyed ballerina—until she’d crashed into him. A woman who was so far out of his league that they might as well be different species. And yet, when she looked up to meet his gaze, something powerful had crackled between them, and for a moment, thunderbolts of promise lit up his world. Then she had glided away, disappearing into a lovely home on a fine street, and he’d begrudgingly accepted his fate; they were from different worlds, so their paths would never again cross.

Since self-flagellation did little to curb his carnal desires, lord knows he’d tried, numerous times, Eric rolled out of bed and sank into his restorative, cold bath.

’Twas early evening when Eric arrived at the gymnasium. He bypassed the hanging sandbags and the pair of roped rings to make his way to the dumbbells. A few blokes he recognized but didn’t personally know hefted about the weights as they spoke. Not one for chatter, Eric grunted his hello. He dropped his bag on the floor and took off his coat and shirt. Whileperforming Coach’s prescribed calisthenics routine, he watched with fascination as a pair of female pugilists sparred in the farthest ring.

Once Eric’s body was thoroughly pliant, he grabbed dumbbells and silently counted as he curled his biceps. Normally he could focus like a monk, but today his concentration was shite, so he couldn’t completely drown out the nearby conversation.

“Blah, blah old mask,” one of the men said. “Blah, blah, blah naked. Bloody hysterical.”

Old mask? Naked?They had to be talking about him.Tilting his ear toward the men, Eric focused on their animated discussion.

“Apparently, it was some peer or other,” one of the men said.

Another snorted. “His lordship will get no sympathy from me. Every one of those aristocratic fools should be hogtied, stripped naked, and left to rot.”

The trio chortled.

Stanley had on small clothes, but rumors often took on a life of their own. Let everyone think he was naked. The more humiliating, the better.

“I heard the magistrate offered a reward for any information that leads to the masked man’s capture.”

Eric hissed in a breath, then winced at his less-than-nonchalant reaction.

“To hell with capturing him. I say we let him run wild if he is willing to humiliate a few more bloated aristocrats.” The speaker tapped Eric’s shoulder. “What do you say, mate?”

Since he’d been caught eavesdropping. Eric winced. Hoping to buy himself time to come up with an appropriate response, Eric rested his dumbbells on the floor and stretched his arms to the ceiling. Unfortunately, “To hell with aristocrats,” was the best he could do.

The trio cheered.

“I heard the masked man referred to as Night Roamer,” one of the blokes said. “’Tis like he is a knight who is the people’s hero. Kind of makes you want to root for him, don’t you think?”

Ah.They probably meant Knight Roamer—not that Eric was a scholar, but Auntie had insisted he learn to read and write. “You must also speak proper like,” she often said. “So that someday you can leave Whitechapel.” Like that would ever happen.

One of the blokes inclined his chin toward the women in the ring. “Coach’s daughter is fighting well.”

Thankful for the change of subject, Eric’s gaze slid to the females. Rendered awestruck by the raw power emanating from their petite forms, he couldn’t peel his attention from the scene. In his humble opinion, both women were exceedingly skilled. The redhead was quick on her feet, and the brunette threw deadly fast combinations. He wouldn’t want to meet the end of her hook, not for a plate of sausage, and lord knows he coveted his spicy meats.

“The Stone,” someone said.

Although Eric had only heard the voice once before, he recognized it instantly. While watching the women, he’d let down his guard, giving Hugh Fletcher the opportunity to corner him in front of a dozen individuals. Exhaling, he faced his stalker.

“My name is Hugh Fletcher, and as you know, I have been trying to speak with you for days.”