And bump into a different man altogether. He was sitting at the end of their bench, broad in the shoulder and listing slightly, and the nudge sent what remained of his ale sloshing over his sleeve.
“Beg pardon,” Laura said quickly, already backing away.
The man turned. His eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused, and the expression that crossed his face was not the mildly irritated look of a man who had spilled his drink. It was something uglier.
“Watch where you’re bloody going,” he growled.
“He apologized,” Caroline said, stepping forward before she could think better of it and keeping her voice low and as even as she could manage. “It was an accident.”
“Didn’t ask you, did I?” He turned the ugliness on her instead, and she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck beneath her cap. He was bigger than she had registered.Muchbigger. “Think you’re clever, do you, lad?”
“I think you’ve had a great deal to drink,” Caroline said. “And that we’re leaving now, so?—”
He came off the bench at her.
She had time only to brace and hear Laura’s horrified gasp behind her?—
But instead, the man was yanked backward by the collar as though plucked from the scene by some intervening force of nature.
A voice cut through the noise around them like a blade through linen. “That will do.”
The voice was not loud, but it really did not need to be. Caroline could not resist looking up either way.
And froze.
The man who held their assailant by the collar was tall, much taller than most men in the room, with a build that suggested he had never once in his life required assistance carrying anything. His coat was dark and plain, clearly chosen for anonymity, but no amount of plain clothing could quite strip the authority from his bearing.
The Duke of Wynford.
Her brother’s best friend.
His jaw was set. His green eyes—she was close enough to register the color even in the dim, smoky light—were very cold.
She watched him lean down, very slightly, and speak directly into the drunk man’s ear. His voice was low enough that the surrounding noise swallowed it entirely, but she was close enough to catch the words.
“You will apologize to these two gentlemen,” he said, “and then you will sit back down, finish your drink, and spend the remainder of the evening being grateful that I am in a patient mood tonight.” He paused. “Because I assure you, I am not always.”
He straightened. He did not step back. He simply stood there at his full height, entirely unhurried, and waited.
The man looked up at him, and whatever he found in the Duke’s expression was apparently sufficient, because the belligerencedrained out of him with the speed of a man who had rapidly and correctly assessed his situation.
His lips parted almost instantly. “Sorry,” the drunk man muttered, and bolted.
The Duke straightened and turned. His gaze passed over the two of them in a brief, dispassionate sweep; the practiced assessment of a man accustomed to reading rooms, and for one taut second, something in his expression shifted. A small furrow, barely perceptible. It seemed as though something had snagged his attention, but he did not fully register what or why he was compelled to take notice of it.
Caroline pulled the brim of her cap lower and inhaled deeply.
“Thank you,” she said in the lowest tone she could produce, and grabbed Laura’s arm. “Come on.”
She moved fast, threading through the thinning crowd toward the door, and for one blessed moment, it seemed they would simply make it out.
The alley behind the tavern was narrow and dark, lit by a single distant lamp, and smelled of wet stone and old rain.
“That was…that was…” Laura pressed her back against the wall, hat askew, both hands over her mouth. “He was right there, Caroline! The Duke of Wynford!”
“He didn’t recognize us.” Caroline gripped her friend’s arm, steadying her. Her own heart was beating considerably faster than she would have liked to admit. “He saw two young men, and that’s all. We’re perfectly?—”
“Lady Caroline.”