with the finest French fencing masters. Lightning swift and effortlessly Drum ran the sword directly into Elem's heart.
As the East End cutthroat fell, already dead before hitting the ground, Drum withdrew the blade with a moue of distaste. "At least you stood up. I do so hate to dispatch a man on his knees. Isn't sporting."
He withdrew a snowy handkerchief from his jacket and cleaned the blade with a quick practiced stroke, then tossed the linen in the dirt with a sigh. After glancing at the other two men, he replaced the sword inside the cane. "Dead as a ducat," he muttered. The Yankee Doodle had done well, considering all. Now if only he was not done himself.
Kneeling beside Blackthorne, Drummond touched his chest to feel for a heartbeat. The American emitted a low moan and tried to move. "Ah, you're still ticking, I see, but in bad loaf all the same."
The dandy observed the widening puddle of blood trickling from beneath Alex's body. Grimacing with distaste he reached out and tugged at the much larger man's jacket in an attempt to pull him up. "You'll have to help me, my good fellow."
Alex sat up, wincing at the sharp stab of agony in his back. "Damn, those bastards ruined a perfectly tailored jacket. I only picked it up from Schweitzer and Davidson's yesterday."
"Your assailants could not ruin it, my good man. You already succeeded in doing so yourself, stuffing the pockets with blunt. Quite destroys the lines, you know," he sniffed.
"Please forgive my vulgar display," Alex said with a chuckle that ended in a gasp of pain, "and accept my thanks for saving my life. This is twice I'm indebted to you... and in only one evening."
"Then think how far into dun territory you'll be after
we've been friends for a fortnight or two," Drum replied genially.
This time Alex stifled the laugh, mindful of his throbbing back. Bent Nose lay spread-eagled in the alley with a red stain blooming across his chest. "How the deuce did you do that?" He saw no place to conceal a weapon in the toff's exquisitely molded jacket or breeches.
"Sword cane," was the succinct reply as he helped the much larger man to his feet. "You really should acquire one. Knives are so frightfully declasse, even for an American."
"Ah, but I'm not just an American, I'm one of those wild red Indians. We like knives," Alex replied with a grin.
For once Drum had no instantaneous retort. "A blond red Indian. How extraordinarily colorful," he grunted as Alex leaned on him.
"I fear I'm ruining your jacket," Alex said when the little toff placed his arm around Alex's waist to help him walk.
"Not to worry, I've outrun the constable most of my life. Another tailor bill will scarcely matter, considering the prodigious amount I already owe. I'd rather say our concern should be finding you a physician lest you bleed to death." He sacrificed his last clean handkerchief, stuffing it up inside Alex's jacket and pressing it against the wound. "That will have to serve," he murmured at his friend's hiss of agony.
Alex squinted at the sky when they reached the open thoroughfare. "Not quite dawn. Pretty hard to find a physician's office open."
"Or even a hackney," Drum added bleakly. "This certainly isn't Mayfair."
"No, but then being a rude colonial, I'm used to frequenting low places."
"As am I when the lombard fever overtakes me. Boredom, old chap," he added by way of explanation, then cocked his head decisively. "If memory serves me, there is a hospital for the indigent nearby. Considering our present appearance, we should gain easy admittance. Come along."
They made their way down the street and around the corner to a dingy gray stone edifice situated between rows of decaying houses. In spite of the chill late fall air,
As the East End cutthroat fell, already dead before hitting the ground, Drum withdrew the blade with a moue of distaste. "At least you stood up. I do so hate to dispatch a man on his knees. Isn't sporting."
He withdrew a snowy handkerchief from his jacket and cleaned the blade with a quick practiced stroke, then tossed the linen in the dirt with a sigh. After glancing at the other two men, he replaced the sword inside the cane. "Dead as a ducat," he muttered. The Yankee Doodle had done well, considering all. Now if only he was not done himself.
Kneeling beside Blackthorne, Drummond touched his chest to feel for a heartbeat. The American emitted a low moan and tried to move. "Ah, you're still ticking, I see, but in bad loaf all the same."
The dandy observed the widening puddle of blood trickling from beneath Alex's body. Grimacing with distaste he reached out and tugged at the much larger man's jacket in an attempt to pull him up. "You'll have to help me, my good fellow."
Alex sat up, wincing at the sharp stab of agony in his back. "Damn, those bastards ruined a perfectly tailored jacket. I only picked it up from Schweitzer and Davidson's yesterday."
"Your assailants could not ruin it, my good man. You already succeeded in doing so yourself, stuffing the pockets with blunt. Quite destroys the lines, you know," he sniffed.
"Please forgive my vulgar display," Alex said with a chuckle that ended in a gasp of pain, "and accept my thanks for saving my life. This is twice I'm indebted to you... and in only one evening."
"Then think how far into dun territory you'll be after
we've been friends for a fortnight or two," Drum replied genially.
This time Alex stifled the laugh, mindful of his throbbing back. Bent Nose lay spread-eagled in the alley with a red stain blooming across his chest. "How the deuce did you do that?" He saw no place to conceal a weapon in the toff's exquisitely molded jacket or breeches.
"Sword cane," was the succinct reply as he helped the much larger man to his feet. "You really should acquire one. Knives are so frightfully declasse, even for an American."
"Ah, but I'm not just an American, I'm one of those wild red Indians. We like knives," Alex replied with a grin.
For once Drum had no instantaneous retort. "A blond red Indian. How extraordinarily colorful," he grunted as Alex leaned on him.
"I fear I'm ruining your jacket," Alex said when the little toff placed his arm around Alex's waist to help him walk.
"Not to worry, I've outrun the constable most of my life. Another tailor bill will scarcely matter, considering the prodigious amount I already owe. I'd rather say our concern should be finding you a physician lest you bleed to death." He sacrificed his last clean handkerchief, stuffing it up inside Alex's jacket and pressing it against the wound. "That will have to serve," he murmured at his friend's hiss of agony.
Alex squinted at the sky when they reached the open thoroughfare. "Not quite dawn. Pretty hard to find a physician's office open."
"Or even a hackney," Drum added bleakly. "This certainly isn't Mayfair."
"No, but then being a rude colonial, I'm used to frequenting low places."
"As am I when the lombard fever overtakes me. Boredom, old chap," he added by way of explanation, then cocked his head decisively. "If memory serves me, there is a hospital for the indigent nearby. Considering our present appearance, we should gain easy admittance. Come along."
They made their way down the street and around the corner to a dingy gray stone edifice situated between rows of decaying houses. In spite of the chill late fall air,
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