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brawler advanced in a threatening manner. Nick hooked his foot behind the man's leg and as he lost his balance and fell onto Nick, he caught him under the chin with an uppercut that sent him with a sickening thud against the flagstones of the cell floor.
    Nick nursed his grazed knuckles and kept his eyes open. He saw a guard on the catwalk gesture toward him as he spoke to his fellow warder. Now Nick was being observed from above as well as below. His muscles bunched and he waited. His vigil wasn't a lengthy one. Two cell inhabitants formed a team and approached him from either side. He waited, crouched like a cat, then with a surge upward, he brought his knees up sharply into the groin of the first man, who rolled at his feet with pain. The second he took by the throat and smashed his fist into the large, bulbous nose, instantly covering the knave's face with his own blood.
    The ironic part was that if they'd asked Nick for a handout, he'd likely have given them his last guinea with an amused curl of the lip. But lately too many people had decided to take from him what was his by right. The assaulted pair had simply picked on him at the wrong moment.
    The two guards above, who'd been waiting for the toff to get dragged from his high horse, were disappointed, but clearly Nicholas saw their reaction and was forewarned. No one approached him the rest of the night, not even the drabs who knew he must have money in his pockets. He had clearly demonstrated that it was going to stay in his pockets, so they gave him a wide berth. They were well occupied most of the night as copulation was freely and openly indulged.
    Nick's fit condition enabled him to banish sleep for one night, and in the morning when it was time for him to be taken before the magistrate, the two guards who took him from the common cell were ready for their bit of pleasure. In the long passageway they jostled him and loudly accused him of trying to make a break for it. Dutifully, they brought they billy clubs down about his ears.
    Nick was ready for them. He elbowed one in the ribs so viciously, he'd carry the bruise for a month, while the other lost the only two teeth that remained in his head. But they had clubs, they wore hobnailed boots, and they now had their excuse.
     
    The man they dragged before the magistrate was well-bloodied and beaten, but his spirit was undaunted. When Nickolas raised his head, the judge immediately noted three things about the prisoner in the dock. He did not smell, he was expensively clothed, and he had an air of authority.
    A young solicitor stepped forward when the bailiff called the prisoner's name, and told the magistrate that his clients were charging the man with theft of a horse.
    Without hesitation, Nicholas addressed the judge, "Your Honor, I should like a word with the prosecution, an' it please you."
    "That would be highly irregular and out of the common way, but then I suspect you yourself are out of the common way. Permission granted."
    The young solicitor, obviously a junior member of the law firm to which Peter Chetwynd belonged, approached Nicholas with a flicker of apprehension.
    Nicholas minced no words. "Chetwynd obviously fears me enough to wish me out of the way. He does right to fear me. Once I tell the judge I am Lord Harry's son, he'll do no more than fine me and I have the means to pay that fine. However, if you withdraw the charge on condition the property is returned, I've signed aboard a ship for the colonies that sails tomorrow." The timber of his voice changed. "If that ship sails without me, I shall return to Peacock Hall, pull it down stone by fucking stone, and build a mausoleum for your learned Mr. Chetwynd." Nick smiled through his split lip. "You decide."
    The decision was already taken. Any fool could see Nicholas Peacock was dangerous.
    As the portal of Newgate opened to release him, Nicholas pulled the collar of his blue jacket tighter against the icy winds that whipped along the bleak street,