Prejudice in Regency Society. Michelle Styles

than he anticipated, but not that long. She had gone. He had been mistaken.

      A hard tight knot came into his throat. He had counted on her being different. He did not think she would have abandoned him so easily, not after the stand she had made at the hotel. He gave one more sweeping glance of the yard. Next time he would remember about the perfidy of women.

      ‘Lost something, pet?’ an elderly woman crooned to him. ‘A trinket? A pretty little dove? I know where you can find another. Mother Hetts knows everything about little doves, she does.’

      ‘There was a woman here. A blonde woman, well dressed. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?’

      ‘Can’t remembering having seen anyone of that description.’ The woman gave a shrug of her thin shoulder and her watery eyes turned crafty. ‘Then my memory ain’t what it used to be. Lots of folks searching for things today. Always asking Mother Hetts if she’s seen this or that. Can’t be expected to remember. It’s market day.’

      The old woman gave a cackle, reminding him of a demented hen. The crackle went straight through him. He swung back and advanced towards the woman, whose crackling abruptly ceased.

      ‘You know something. Where did she go?’ Tristan advanced towards, his hands flexing at his sides, longing for something to hit. ‘Would a coin help to recover that memory of yours?’

      ‘May do? May not?’ The old woman rocked back and forth. ‘It is amazing what silver coin can do for my memory.’

      Tristan reached into his pocket and fished out a shilling, holding it beyond the reach of the woman. ‘The truth. Quickly.’

      ‘I sent her to the parish constable…if she can find him. Mother Hetts looks after the little doves, she does,’ the woman said, holding her basket in front of her face. ‘She was looking for someone who was missing. Right concerned she was. Nearly in tears. Poor little dove. Are you lost?’

      Tristan tossed her the coin. She caught it with expert claws, tested it as Tristan’s insides twisted. He had not considered the possibility that Lottie might wonder about his whereabouts and worry. He had to find her and quickly. There was no telling what trouble she might encounter.

      ‘Bless and keep you, sir. You are a real gentleman. If you don’t find her, I can always get you another pretty dove.’

      Tristan pushed past a cart and horse blocking the entrance to the yard, and went out into the street. His blood pounded in his head.

      She had to be there. She could not have gone far. That old crone would not spend for ever in the yard. He must have missed Lottie by a matter of moments.

      Only farm labourers, cattle drovers and a few women wrapped in shawls and carrying baskets lined the streets. There was no sign of Lottie’s brightly coloured straw bonnet anywhere.

      He fought against the sudden stab of concern.

      Lottie had gone looking for him. He would find her more than likely with the parish constable. He would keep her safe. Then they would marry. All would be well.

      A woman’s scream rent the air. Tristan raced towards it.

      ‘Let me go.’ Lottie twisted away from the evil-smelling man and screamed again. Her sleeve tore slightly as she elbowed the man hard in the stomach. His hands loosened as he doubled over in pain.

      ‘Why did you have to do that? I didn’t mean no harm, did I, Den?’ the rough unshaven man said to his companion.

      ‘No, Fred, you didn’t,’ the companion said, sticking his hands in his pockets and giving a low whistle.

      ‘I doubt the truth of that statement.’ Lottie kept her nose in the air; her stomach was in knots as she struggled to breathe. She wished her corset was not so tight, then she would have been able to run, but as it was, she could not draw sufficient air.

      If she walked quickly, perhaps she would come to the constable’s box…if it even existed, if the woman had been correct in her directions, something Lottie was beginning to have her doubts about. She should have never gone down this alleyway. She should have never trusted that old woman. She should have stayed in the coaching yard until nightfall and then demanded the constable be brought to her. That would have been the sensible thing to do.

      Her slippers resounded on the cobble stones. Only a few more steps and she’d be back in the open. She’d be safe. One more step. Lottie resisted the temptation to turn around and see where the men were. The back of her neck pricked, but she forced her feet to move. They had to let her go.

      ‘Playing hard to get, me little golden-haired beauty? Thinking yourself all prettified in those togs? Above the likes of me and me pals? Way aye, I have the measure of you.’

      Rough hands grabbed her waist again, dragged her back into the alleyway, away from the light, and back into the dark. The scent of alcohol wafted over her. Lottie gagged and kicked backwards. But the man had lifted her off the ground and her slippers only encountered thin air.

      ‘Not this time.’ He wiped a dirty paw down her face. ‘You won’t get away so lightly, but I likes it when they plays rough, I do.’

      ‘Let me go, you—you monster!’

      ‘We will go somewheres quiet. You, me and Den. I knows a good game we can play.’

      ‘Unhand me this instant or I will call the constable.’ Lottie fought against the hands, saw her handkerchief, reticule and satchel fall to the ground and with them all her money. She gave a little cry of despair. But the arms continued to hold her tight. She kicked backwards and screamed.

      ‘And what is the constable going to do about it, my pretty?’ His companion laughed. ‘See here, Fred, see if you can wake him from his box. Or is he snoring his head off?’

      Lottie’s throat went dry as she prayed for a miracle. She should never have gone off out of the yard. She should have stayed and waited. She whispered a prayer.

      ‘The lady is with me and not with you.’ Tristan’s voice cut through the man’s banter. ‘Release her. Or I won’t be held be responsible for what happens.’

      Lottie froze as hope bubbled up inside her. Tristan. He was here. He had not abandoned her. He had found her. She turned her head towards the sound, hoping against hope that it had not been her imagination. He stood at the entrance to the alley, large and solid, formidable, his lips turned down in a furious expression.

      ‘Tristan! I am here! Thank God you are all right. I thought something must have happened to you.’ Lottie struggled against the imprisoning hands. ‘Help me.’

      ‘I said let the lady go.’ Tristan advanced forwards. ‘I am in no mood to repeat myself. No mood at all.’

      ‘Why should I?’ The man stood there, hands imprisoning her. ‘I caught her first. Prove she’s yours.’

      ‘In the interests of your long-term health…release her.’ Tristan’s voice was calm and cold as if he were passing the time of the day. ‘A friendly warning, if you like.’

      ‘How so?’ the man’s companion asked. He advanced towards Tristan, brandishing his fists. ‘Fred found her, plying her trade. You best be about your business, you jumped-up Englishman. I’m a professional boxer, like. My punch is harder than a sledgehammer. Den Casey, Sledgehammer of the North, they calls me. Won five straight.’

      A loud thwack resounded in the street as Tristan’s fist connected with the man’s jaw. The man tumbled backwards, lay on the ground. ‘Remind me not to bet on any of your fights, then.’

      ‘Den down?’ Lottie’s captor looked at his prone companion and back at Tristan. ‘The Hammer is on the ground. Dead to the world. Felled with one punch. I ain’t never seen the like.’

      ‘Who