Oh, sweet sorrow to recall the blood one has lost.
A gust of wind grabbed hold of Lord John Pettigrew’s beaver and flung it back before he could react. Spinning on his heel, he gave chase as it skittered down the street he had just exited. The hat had been a gift from his older brother, whom he had not seen in some time, and it was too valuable to him to allow it to escape. It came to a stop on the filthy London roadway, but John was determined as he grimaced at the unmentionable things that would need to be brushed—nay, scrubbed—off the expensive piece.
As he bent over to pick it up, a door opened nearby and a pair of polished Hessians stepped out of Hatchards bookshop and into his peripheral vision, causing him to stumble off-balance. A large, sun-bronzed hand shot out to steady him as
