Page 5 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

“Charge!”

Celeste squeezed his arm. “Jonathan, that sounds like they might be hurting a poor, defenseless animal. What should we do?”

They should ignore the sounds in the alley, climb into his carriage, head to her townhouse, then tup like wild animals. He placed his palm on the small of her back and nudged her forward.

“Jonathan.” Her normally smooth brow scrunched into sharp lines.

This is what he got for bringing a lady to a rough part of the city. If he’d wanted to bed her, he probably should have just shown up on her doorstep with flowers. Exhaling loudly, Jonathan strolled to the alley, then peeked into the semi-darkness.

A fire blazed in an iron brazier that had seen better days, illuminating a group of street lads who couldn’t have been more than fourteen and fifteen years old. They surrounded a scrawny younger boy clad in threadbare rags, a loaf of bread tucked beneath his arm. A large, mangy beast stood protectively in front of the boy, saliva dripping from its mouth.

“Give me that bread or I’ll knock yer teeth down yer throat,” one of the older lads said.

“My goodness,” Celeste said as she came up alongside Jonathan. “They are going to kill that boy over food.”

They weren’t going to kill him; however, they’d probably bloody his nose. This was the way of the streets. Survivors had to learn to feed and protect themselves.

The younger lad handed the loaf to the dog and stepped around the beast. The gang of boys closed in. Then, the lad’s fist shot out, catching the closest bully in the gut.

That was a twist Jonathan hadn’t seen coming. “Bravo. Capital shot,” he yelled to the scrappy striker.

Celeste gasped. “My God, Jonathan. Help him.”

While the bully-boy dramatically stumbled about holding his stomach, the minikin, who might be older than Jonathan initially thought, lunged, delivering a cracking jab to the next closest bully. Taking advantage of his opponent being off balance, he then kicked his assailant in the crotch.

“Ouch,” Jonathan murmured, hunching forward as a sympathy pain slammed him in the bollocks. This fight was even better than the one going on inside the underground mill. “I don’t think he needs my help,” he assured Celeste.

Unfortunately, this is when the gang leaped upon the lad. Seven to one really were hapless odds, still, this brawl was none of Jonathan’s business.

Throwing her hands in the air, Celeste charged toward the fray.

“Foolish woman,” Jonathan murmured as he followed her.

“Shoo,” she said, flicking her fingers at the brawling youths as if they were gnats. “All of you, go home. Leave him alone.”

They ignored her, and continued to pound on the unfortunate lad, who was giving them quite a fight. Meanwhile, the dog had abandoned the loaf to snarl and nip at flailing limbs, as well as a protruding arse or two.

Jonathan grabbed one of the older jackanapes by his waist and yanked him from the pile. His prisoner whirled, punching him in the gut.

Sucking up the pain, Jonathan pinned the wriggling adolescent’s hands behind his back. “Settle yourself, and I’ll give you some blunt.”

The lad stilled. Jonathan fished in his pocket for a coin and handed it over as promised.

“Shoo,” Celeste said with her non-threatening finger flicks.

The thieving bugger stared at the coin with wide eyes. Smiling, he then sprinted down the alley, disappearing into the dark.

Jonathan grabbed another rascal from the unruly pile, handing him a coin. Then he waded into the fray. The gang might turn on him, but even if they did, this was the release he’d been seeking after fighting with numbers and figures all day. At least he felt like he was accomplishingsomething.

It took a while, and Jonathan suffered a few thwacks to his person as he emptied his pockets, but eventually, he rid the alley of the thieving buggers.

The unfortunate youth he’d just saved lay on the ground, gasping. Blood spatters dotted his filthy rags, although Jonathan suspected the red blotches belonged to his assailants because miraculously, the lad appeared to be uninjured. Panting hard, the dog stretched out beside him. The lad brushed his stringy brown hair from his eyes and searched for something, perhaps the bread, which unfortunately had been smashed into the cobblestones.

Now that Jonathan could see his features clearly, it was apparent this was no child. Perhaps the waif was close to twenty years old. But damnation, he was so scrawny and underfed, he almost looked like a girl. The unfortunate gamin was in desperate need of a haircut, a bath, and food.

Ignoring him, the victim leaped to his feet and rushed to a mud-covered cap that sat a few yards away. He plopped it on his head and began shoving his too-long hair into it. The bloke’s gaze met his, and he sucked in a gasp, reminding Jonathan of the way women reacted when they first noticed him.

Odd indeed.