Still, I have honed my feminine charms to as fine a blade as any I might carry. I will employ them here. I will, of course, also employ an actual blade.
I take my pocket knife from my pouch and instead slide it where it belongs—in a pocket. I design all my own clothing for exactly this purpose. It is no wonder women find themselves at the mercy of predatory gentleman when they have no pockets into which they may secret a defensive weapon. It is a conspiracy, I am certain, one I have learned to thwart. I have even converted Portia to the wonders of pocketed skirts, though she insists on using hers for so-called practical items, such as pocket watches and pocket money. What is a pocket knife if not practical? Sometimes I despair of ever understanding my older sisters.
The highwayman—yes, I shall call him such, as there is no one to stop me—has risen from the table and moved to a spot I cannot see. There’s a tapping and clattering of dishes that covers any sound of my journey from couch to doorway. Then a sigh and a struck match, as if he’s settling in with a pipe or cheroot.
All goes quiet as he presumably smokes, and I mentally unspool my performance. I will pretend I have stumbled upon him. Shriek in feminine dismay and horror. Run screaming for the constable. At that, he should also run—in the other direction—and vacate the premises. If he comes after me instead, I will lure him in and then surprise—
The cold tip of a knife digs into the back of my neck.
“Do not move,” a voice growls. “I have no wish to harm you but—”
I swing around, knife raised. Or that is the plan, but he’s too close for a proper “swing” and instead I find myself pressed against the wall with his knife at my throat.
In theory, this should be an alarming circumstance. While I have been in scrapes before, this one is new, and I have the distinct sense that I ought to be terrified. But I am also suddenly and discomfiting aware of why my own former victim found the situation somewhat more invigorating than one might expect.
My word, he has gorgeous eyes.
That is not at all what I should be thinking, and instead, it is all I am thinking. Before I’d seen only that he had dark eyes that were very pretty indeed. Now those eyes are ringed with enviable lashes, and the irises are flecked with gold.
I have never remotely been mistaken for a poet, but in that moment, I believe I could compose an ode to his eyes, and before I know what I’m doing, I hear myself saying, “You have the most beautiful eyes.”
He blinks and pulls back. “What?”
I drop my gaze. “I am sorry, sir. That was very forward of me, but I could not help notice—”
I ram my fist into his stomach. I don’t use the hand gripping my knife. That would be wrong. My other fist executes a perfectly aimed blow to his solar plexus.
He falls back, those gorgeous eyes widening in shock. I hit him again. This time, he dodges the blow. I take a deep breath, as if winded. Then, when he begins to straighten, I charge. I hit him with all my might and he flies backward over a footstool. His knife clatters to the floor, and I launch myself on him like a cat, landing on his chest, with my own blade at his throat.
I’m tensed, ready for him to throw me off. Instead, he only looks down at the knife against his throat and says, “I suppose I deserve that.”
I’d heard his voice earlier, but I’d been too busy staring into his eyes to really hear it. Now that I do, it’s beautiful, a light contralto with a French accent, made even more melodious by a wry lilt to the words.
“Yes, you do,” I say. “Now—”
He bucks under me, legs flying up. I only press the knife in a little harder.
“I used a distraction trick myself moments ago,” I say. “Do you really think I’d fall for it myself?”
He sighs and thumps his head back to the floor. “All right. You have bested me, fair maiden. There are five pounds in my jacket pocket, which I left in the kitchen. It is yours. But then you must leave.”
“No,” I say. “It is you who must leave.”
I propel myself up, my free hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword. Yes, it’s a sword. I’d noticed that in taking him down. Now I’m up and dancing away with the sword in hand.
He only sighs and shakes his head as he rises. “Put that down, child.”
“Child?” I sputter. “We are of an age.”
“Hardly,” he says. “I am six-and-twenty.”
“As am I.”
He smiles. “Does anyone actually believe such a story, child? You cannot be more than eighteen. Now put down that sword or I shall be forced to take it from you hand.”
I raise the weapon, and his eyes harden.
“Do not play this game, little one,” he says as he comes toward me. “A sword is no toy. It is a dangerous weapon that requires years of training, and you will only injure yourself if you attempt to use it.”
I execute a perfect lunge and thrust.
He stops in his tracks. “My mistake.”
“Evidently.” I lift my chin. “I am not a child. I am Miranda Hastings, friend to the gentleman whose home you are burgling.”
“You mean Lord Thorne? The man whom I call friend? The man whose house you are burgling?”
“Burgling?” I squawk. “Do I look like a thief to you?”
He eyes my dress. “I am not certain. Your dress does seem unnecessarily ostentatious, whatever your intent.”
“Unnecessarily ostentatious?” I stop myself with the reminder that I am not in my world, where my dress is perfectly fashionable. That’s also when I get my first good look at him. I look to see what he’s wearing—to get an idea of the future fashion. I see him in full then, head to toe, for the first time, and my stomach clenches with recognition.
I know him.
Dear Lord, I know him.
Not as a man, but as a ghost.