She scurried backward out of his reach, her heart hammering. “Don’t touch me.”
Her skirt met an obstacle; something scraped across parquet and something crashed. Her left heel slipped, and bright, hot pain seared through her ankle as it turned, making her cry out.
The man muttered a profanity and came after her.
“Stay away from me!”
He approached, his brawny shoulders looming. A hasty glance said she was halfway to the door. Help—would there be anyone to help her in this vast, empty house?
Another crash.
“Miss—”
She blindly grabbed something off a table and pointed it like a foil.
“Stay where you are, or I shall stick you with this.”
Now he heard her. His eyes fixing upon her makeshift weapon, he came to a halt and slowly raised his hands, palms forward as if attempting to soothe a spooked horse—as though she were the unhinged person in the room!
“Very well,” he said. “But put that down.”
She realized she was holding the tiptoed dancer she had nearly toppled earlier.
“It’s a unique piece,” the man added.
“I’m aware,” she snapped. “Meissen, and a limited edition from 1714.”
Surprise sparked in his eyes, there and gone in the split of a second.
“So you agree it shouldn’t be destroyed in the wake of needless theatrics,” he said.
“Theatrics?” Outrage made her squeak. “You, sir, just forced yourself on me.”
“A regrettable misunderstanding,” he said, not sounding particularly regretful.
She shook the dancer at him. “Mr. Blackstone will hear about your wicked behavior.”
His lips quirked. “Without doubt. Miss Jones, why don’t you take a seat”—he gestured at her skirt hem—“you appear to have done yourself some damage.”
He had no business thinking of or alluding to any one part of her anatomy, but of course, he had to add insult to injury by mentioning her twisted ankle. He was also watching her with deepening annoyance, like a predator wondering why he was being ordered around by his prey.
Pain throbbed in her left foot as she inched toward the door, sideways like a crab, because she was not letting him out of her sight. Her heart thumped with relief when she burst into the corridor: the disgruntled painter and a slim young gentleman with a respectable blond mustache were hovering just a few paces away in the hallway, their expressions alert.
“Thank goodness.” She hobbled toward them. “I require your assistance. There is a man”—she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb—“and I’m afraid he is not acting like a gentleman.”
The men exchanged a wary glance. It occurred to her then that they must have heard her scream—why else were they here in front of the door? And yet neither had come to investigate. Her stomach fell, and she felt dizzy, as if taking ill. Of course. She looked a fright. She was here without a guardian. Her incognito cloak was a theater prop from the old trunk in the nursery playroom. Right now, she was not Hattie Greenfield; she was not even a properly chaperoned young woman. The absence of her father’s name slapped with cold force, as though an invisible shield had been taken from her, as though she had suddenly been stripped bare in front of a crowd. Right now, she was … no one.
She turned to the blond one, who, though timid, still looked vastly more likely to help a damsel in distress than the painter. “Please, good sir, I might need an arm to lean on …”
The men’s attention shifted to something beyond her shoulder, and she knew the barbarian was in the hallway. She could feel the dark energy swirling around him.
“And if you could hail a cab for me, that would be awfully kind,” she added quickly.
“Not so hasty,” came the mean voice.
“You also must inform Mr. Blackstone that he has a ruffian in his employ who accosts the female guests under his roof.”
The blond man’s eyes widened with alarm. “Erm,” he said, his throat moving convulsively. “Miss …”
A pathetic gasp burst out of her as realization struck. She closed her eyes. “He is standing right behind me, is he not?” she said. “Mr. Blackstone.”
“He is, yes,” the young man replied, his tone apologetic.
She really was silly sometimes. The Scotsman’s identity should have been plain to her the moment he had stalked across the reception room as though he owned it; at the very latest, when he had tried to ravish her next to a Han vase as a matter of course. Everything horrible she had heard about him was evidently true.