The two men ran out of the alley, faces splitting into wide, gap-toothed grins.
That must have been the signal. Their driver had been in the pay of these men. Blast!
She and Merry couldn’t outrun two men. Not in cloaks. And skirts.
Why had they been tricked? These men didn’t look cunning enough to have thought this up. They looked like the kind of thick-necked brawlers who worked for someone clever.
Breathing hard, she lifted her unloaded pistol and leveled it at the men. Meredith gasped at the sight of it. “You’ll shoot them? Miss, that’s murder.”
“Not if we’re defending our lives,” she said, with all the calm she could muster. “If I were you, gentlemen, I would run away as fast as you can.”
One man chuckled. He was the shorter of the two. Burly, with a dirty face, dark clothes, a dark cap. They were dressed the same, but where one was short and squat, the other was tall and thin.
The squat man stepped forward. “I know that pistol isn’t loaded.”
Portia was so scared it was hard to breathe, but she couldn’t show it. Don’t panic. Keep your wits. Father had taught her that. He’d been a great explorer before he settled down, got married, and opened the home for children. Wits were a man’s—and a woman’s—best weapon. In a commanding voice, she barked, “Of course it is. I’m not a fool.”
“I know it’s a bluff, missy. Ye never load the thing. And even if ye did, I were told ye’d never hurt anyone.”
How could he know? Or was he bluffing her? She clutched the pistol grip with two hands, pointing it at his chest. “I would hurt you to protect our persons. Let us go.”
“Ye’ve no way out, missy. We want ye, not the other one.”
“Can’t imagine why,” muttered the tall one. “The other one’s the beauty with ’er blond curls and round tits. This one’s skinny and the ’air’s so red, it looks like ’er ’ead’s on fire.”
“Shut up,” barked the short one. “Now come quietly, missy, and we’ll let yer maid go.”
“No, Miss Lamb, I won’t leave you.” But Merry shook like a leaf.
“You must,” Portia said. She glowered at both men—the short one who thought she was daft and the insulting tall one. She had no intention of going quietly anywhere. “Turn around and go, Meredith. Go to the High Street—it will be the safest for you. Now run!”
Merry shook her head.
Portia motioned desperately with her head. If Merry got away, she could make it back to the foundling home and tell Portia’s brothers what had happened. “You must go! Fetch my brothers from the Eight Bells and bring them at once. Do exactly as I say and run!” She was supposed to come alone. Let them think she hadn’t.
Merry, thank heaven, finally understood, Portia guessed. For Merry started to run.
Her attackers had been advancing. Now they stopped. “No one said nothin’ about brothers,” began the tall one, and Portia took advantage of their momentary distraction. She spun on her heel and ran for her life.
She turned at a corner and sped for the nearest alley, one that led farther into the maze of the Whitechapel slums.
She knew the stews, but she feared the two men knew them just as well. Footsteps thundered behind her and she rushed out of the alley onto the lane, holding up her hems.
Damn! One of the men was down the lane, ahead of her. He’d circled around to cut her off. She turned and ran wildly away from him, up the street. Now both men were behind her, for she was sure the short man had followed her into the alley.
She had friends amongst the people who lived here on these streets. Surely, at a house on this street, she could find refuge—
Oh, drat it, no! Out of another alley, a few yards ahead of her, the squat man emerged. He held a white cloth.
She had fallen for the same trick twice.
Portia raced blindly to the door of the house beside her. Pounded hard with her fists. But no one answered. What could she do? Then she remembered—one of the houses ahead of her had a carriageway through it that led to a courtyard. She ran.
The fiend looked short and squat, but he ran fast. She reached the carriageway just as his hand landed hard on her shoulder and hauled her back. She slammed against him. Her hood blocked her view, but she knew she was trapped against his chest. Looking down, she saw his huge, thick arm, wrapped around her like an iron bar. And she smelled him. Sour sweat. Beer on his breath.
She screamed—
A wet cloth slapped against her face. She breathed in sickly sweetness. At once, her wits whirled, her stomach lurched, and she felt as if she were dropping into an abyss.
Ether? It must be some chemical like that.