Page 3 of The Duchess Curse

“Bitch!” he hissed, sounding gutted. “You… You st-stabbed m⁠—”

“And I’ll do it again.” She glanced toward the main thoroughfare. In the sunlight beyond the alley, Ned chained a second attacker’s head in his muscled arm like a snake squeezing its next meal.

“You all right, Lady G?” he called.

“I will be shortly. Thank you, Ned!”

Despite the wound, Guin’s attacker tightened his hold around her waist, adding his other arm to her neck. “You’re not the one making threats here.” He seemed to have recovered somewhat.

“Oh? Do you have a pistol?”

Silence.

She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “A knife?”

Silence. He shifted from foot to foot.

She sighed. “Did you at least bring potion to knock me out?”

Still no answer.

“You are the fifth attempt on my life this week, and it’s only Wednesday. I suppose you thought that since I’m a woman I’d be easy to abduct, easy to dispose of.”

“Well… yes.” He sounded sheepish, as he should.

“Good Gaia. Men are so terribly uninspiring.” Except for Bran. Rest in peace, old friend. “Listen closely, you oaf. I’ve stabbed you. Do you understand that?”

He grunted, and his breath—redolent of onions and ale—made her want to gag. “Only a flesh wound. I’ve had worse.”

“No, you’ve not. The blade has been dipped in a particular type of potion that delays the coagulation of blood. If you do not get the antidote soon, the blood that is your life force will drain away entirely. You’ll be nothing but a husk in a dark corner of London where no one will think to look for you.”

He was quite still now, and his grip on her had loosened. She whipped away from him, striding toward the main thoroughfare where Ned still grappled with the other man. Bran would have had the fellow neutralized by now, unconscious or dead. Bran had never seemed to care what state he left her attackers in so long as she was alive and uninjured.

She was thinking of him again, and that rocked the ground beneath her more than the attack did, shoved her irritation higher.

Her attacker pressed a hand to his stomach, and when he held it up, his palm glistened red.

“Do you want help?” she asked. “Would you like the antidote?”

“Yes!” His red hand was shaking.

She pulled a tiny vial from her pelisse pocket and threw it. “Catch.” He caught it with both hands. “Pour it directly on the wound. And tell whoever hired you I’m not such an easy mark. You are by far the least difficult assassin I’ve outmaneuvered this week.”

He wasn’t listening, though. Poor brute. He un-stoppered the bottle, and she moved toward the street where Ned had the second attacker face down in the dirt, his arms twisted behind his back.

“Who hired ya?” Ned demanded.

“Lord Pemberton!” the second attacker cried, parting with sensitive information like it was an invitation to lunch.

Another amateur. She sighed.

Pemberton… Pemberton… Ah. Of course. Guin had sold his wife a love potion before the fire.

Guinevere squatted near the man’s head, and he lifted it as far as he could, his face pale, eye bruising, nose bloody. “Tell Pemberton to take whatever issues he has with my potion up with his wife. Murder is a hanging offense, even if it is by proxy.” She stood. “Come along, Ned. We cannot be late. Not today.”

Ned finished wrapping a length of twine around the man’s hands and feet. It had been dipped in strengthening potion and was unbreakable until cut. Which the man wouldn’t be able to do on his own. Ned jogged into the alley, and the crunch of bone on bone made Guinevere wince. With the sound of a body hitting the ground, she lifted her skirts to inspect her half boots. Perhaps the muck would clean off, but they were suede. Damn it. She had much less disposable income for luxuries these days. If she wanted to rebuild her shop—and she did—she’d need money.

Ned exited the alley, wiping his hands on his trousers. “All tied up.”