April 1817

      ‘Unhand her this instant!’

      The woman’s shrill voice carried easily in the evening air, reaching Cyprian Sloane’s ears as he strolled down one of the paths through Hyde Park. He stopped in his tracks and groaned. Why had he not caught a hack on Bond Street instead of yielding to the temptation of a fine spring evening’s walk?

      ‘Release her.’ Cultured and emphatic, the voice reminded Sloane of a scolding governess. Whoever she was, she was a fool for being in the park at this late hour.

      ‘Go to the devil!’ a man responded fiercely.

      Sloane blew out a breath and pressed his fingers to his temple. No choice but to investigate. Gripping his silver-tipped walking stick, he automatically adopted the cat-like stealth of his former clandestine life.

      He edged over to the bushes that hid the speakers from view, using the leaves and branches to obscure his own presence, on the slim chance he could walk on and not become involved. He peered through a gap in the leaves.

      A man in an ill-fitting brown coat held the arm of a young, pretty blonde-haired woman who wore the bright red dress of a doxy. Her other arm was clutched by another young woman, the owner of the governess’s voice. She was taller than the doxy, pleasantly slender, and respectably attired in a plain lavender dress. That her bonnet hung by its ribbons on her back and her brown hair had come partly loose of its pins attested to the intensity of her struggle with this ruffian. The man and the ‘governess’ played tug-of-war with the woman in the red dress, while another female—this one could be nothing but a maid, still in her apron and cap—bawled a few feet away.

      ‘Miss Hart, do not let him take her!’ the maid wailed.

      It was like a scene in a bad play, and, God knew, Sloane had seen plenty of bad plays at Drury Lane Theatre this Season. At least this time he could do something to halt the melodrama.

      He stepped into view. ‘What goes on here?’

      The characters all looked at him in surprise.

      The man spoke first. ‘This need not be your concern, sir. You may proceed on your way.’

      Sloane’s brows rose. He disliked being told what to do by anyone, but more so by an obvious scoundrel.

      The ‘governess’, who was apparently the Miss Hart to whom the maid referred, took advantage of the man’s momentary distraction and pulled hard, causing him to lose his grip on the doxy’s arm. She quickly tugged the red-dressed girl behind her, making a shield with her body. ‘Do not heed him,’ Miss Hart pleaded. ‘Help us. He would take this girl away!’

      ‘She’s my sister!’ wailed the maid.

      ‘Bugger you.’ The man lunged at Miss Hart and tried to push her out of the way. She stumbled, falling to her knees, while the red-dressed doxy ran to hide behind her sister.

      ‘Enough!’ shouted Sloane, moving quickly. He crossed the short distance and grabbed the man by the collar of his coat, lifted him in the air and tossed him into the bushes.

      Sloane extended his hand to help the woman rise. ‘Are you injured?’

      She shook her head as he pulled her to her feet, but her eyes flashed with alarm. ‘Take heed!’

      Sloane spun around, swinging his stick as he did so. The man rushed at him, but Sloane’s stick struck him across the abdomen, and he staggered backwards. Putting a hand in his coat, the ruffian pulled out a knife.

      The maid screamed.

      Crouching, the man waved the knife, its long blade catching the last rays of the sun. ‘You leave her to me, now,’ he growled. ‘I’ll take her and be on my way.’

      ‘No!’ cried Miss Hart.

      Out of the corner of his eye Sloane saw her start forward and held her back with one hand. Not taking his eyes off the knife, he turned his head slightly towards the girl in the red dress. ‘Do you wish to go with him, miss?’

      ‘I… I…’ she stammered.

      ‘Oh, say you do not, Lucy,’ her sister cried.

      Her words rushed out. ‘I do not wish to go with him.’

      The man glared at Sloane, but he too addressed the girl. ‘You will come with me, missy. We had a bargain.’

      Sloane let a cynical smile turn up one corner of his mouth. ‘It appears the young lady has changed her mind.’ He twirled his stick, then held it in two hands in front of him.

      The man came closer, slashing the air with his knife, circling Sloane, who merely moved to evade him. The man scowled and spat out expletives. His performance was indeed worthy of Drury Lane. Sloane laughed at him.

      Miss Hart still hovered too close. Sloane longed to shout at her to stay out of the way, but he did not want to alert the man to her close proximity. The last thing Sloane wanted was for the man to slash his knife at her.

      But the ruffian’s attention was riveted on Sloane. The man inched in closer. Sloane twisted the handle of his walking stick, ready for him.

      The man swiped his blade again. Coming up behind him, Miss Hart jumped on the man’s back. He flailed at her, trying to shake her off, the blade of his knife coming perilously close to her skin.

      Foolish girl! Sloane quickly released the sword hidden inside his walking stick, its deceptively innocent wooden sheath falling to the ground. ‘Leave him to me, woman! Stay out of the way!’

      She let go, falling backwards on to the ground and rolling out of range. The man charged Sloane in earnest, but Sloane checked the knife’s blade with the steel of his sword. His opponent was undaunted and his blade flashed to and fro as Sloane’s sword rang loud when it connected with the blade.

      The maid screamed, but there was little to fear. This man might grunt and slash, but Sloane had been in fights much worse than this one. This one had even odds, at least.

      Miss Hart jumped to her feet again and still she did not move out of range. Her presence merely distracted Sloane and this was not a time for distractions. Sloane parried the man’s blows. Becoming bored, he bided his time until the opportunity came to knock the weapon out of the man’s hand.

      Their blades