All this week, it had been home to hack, hack to printer, printer to hack, hack to home. 

Colin had almost become bored with it. But he'd take that boredom a hundred times over any variation on it.

He supposed he'd become too used to this routine by now that he took it in stride. Sometimes he had to stop and remind himself that this was no street-wise maid. This was Miss Penelope Featherington. And she was a proper young lady. And she was out after midnight.

Colin growled under his breath, no longer able to stand there waiting, stalking toward the print shop. He usually kept his distance, but things were different tonight and he'd damned well like to know why.

He stared at the shrouded window, a muffled version of their nightly argument becoming clearer as he drew closer, clutching his walking stick... not that he need it to walk. It had other uses.

The glass was soaped over, but he could see inside at the edges. There she was, just like any night, that supposedly Irish maid of Lady Whistledown's banging her little fist on the counter, counting the coins, berating the man about the news-boys. That last seemed to be a constant point of contention for her.

From what he'd gathered, there had been some new system in the last year, involving the boys purchasing their pamphlets and keeping their earnings, since she didn't trust the printer to pay them properly, but apparently that had now gone awry.

"...and I thought this was to be fair," she said, the nameless maid— whatever she called herself, Colin had not caught it yet — poking a finger at him, "but from what I hear—"

"It is fair," the man groused. "They take home what they make.."

"I heard from one boy that ye make them pay three pence a paper," he heard her say now, practically growl at the much larger man. "What can they possibly take home, at five pence, if they don't sell 'em all?"

"I give them a reasonable price," the man said. "If they don't sell, that is their problem."

"And I heard from another, you make him pay four," she cut in. "That sound reasonable to you?"

Colin had once thought her foolish, tiny as she was, to threaten a man with such a hulking presence, but he'd seen by now that the much larger man was actually a little bit terrified of her.

As if to prove it, he paled now. "That is only during the first printing. They buy more, they try harder, they sell more. It is good business."

"I don't think you understand me." She planted her palms on the counter now, leaning toward him. "My mistress does not want these boys paying more than tuppence at any time."

"Tuppence?" the man spat. "So they make more than half while I—"

"Sit on your lazy arse pulling a lever while they run all over town," she said over him without hesitation. "Some of them have families that depend on them for food and shelter. Some of them have no families to go home to and can only sleep safely if they pay for the privilege."

"So? Is it my problem?"

"You are collecting more than they can afford to pay," she said hotly, "as you well know."

"And what is your mistress collecting?" The man grumbled, his voice defeated. Even Colin could see the supposed Irish maid had worn him down yet again.

The Maid drew up to her full height then, which wasn't much. "My mistress is collecting what she is due. Without her, there would be nothin' to sell. Best you remember that." She held out her hand. "Her takins, please?"

"You know, I liked when these things were sewn into dresses. It was quieter around here," he muttered.

Colin frowned at that. When Eloise had told him that Pen had used Madame Delacroix's shop as her method in getting parchment to printer, he'd been relieved. At least, then, he could imagine Pen venturing only as far as Mayfair, but now...

Why would she go back to this haggling, bickering existence when she could have been free of it?

"And here I thought ye might have missed me. I'm inconsolable." Penelope grinned as the man dropped a drawstring purse on the counter.

Was it possible she enjoyed this? Because he certainly didn't. He didn't want to be out here. Sometimes, he thought he should just tell her mother. She would be done, then. Kept safe inside. And he wouldn't be stuck trailing after her as she traipsed about with a by-your-leave.

Why didn't he just do that? Portia Featherington could certainly put a stop to this?

"What can I say?" Pen was saying in her deceptively soft Irish lilt. "It's hard to find good, discreet partners in this business."

"Aye. Because not everyone wants to be in business with Lady Whistledown," the printer grumbled. "Think the risk I'm takin' would gain me some respect."

Pen glanced up sharply at that, her soft tone hardening. "Is it too much for ye? If ye'd rather she find another printer, just say the word. As you now, they're—"

"Ten-a-penny," he sighed. "Are we finished or do you want me printing this a fortnight from now?"

Colin knew very well the man would print it tonight. And he'd be reading it, first thing tomorrow. He'd barely bothered with that gossip rag before, but now he devoured every word.

And he really shouldn't care. Yes, he was following her, but that was only for her protection as she was too damned foolish to see to such things for herself. Yes, a part of him had been curious, early on, about Lady Whistledown and how the whole operation worked. But now he knew far too much about it.

The only thing he should want to know now was when it would stop.

Then he could stop.

He could rest.

God! Maybe he should stop now. He could do with a good night's sleep.

Yet he knew he wouldn't rest — not until she did.

And he wouldn't tell her mother, either. He'd witnessed her callous treatment of Penelope himself. Her punishment might not be as bad as whatever the Queen might wish to visit upon Lady Whistledown, but he'd always had the feeling Portia Featherington was more dragon than lady.

Despite his quarrels with Penelope, he'd not leave her to a the tender mercies of a dragon. It wasn't in him...

***********************

Twelve years earlier ...

***********************

Colin Bridgerton had often thought, if he could be anything, he'd be a knight. It was one of his earliest aspirations.

From a very young age, from his first readings of the tales of King Arthur at the age of eight, he'd been drawn to the knights above anyone, even the King!

His parents always said that one's future must always be considered carefully. So he waited, ages and ages... until the summer when he was nine.

It was then that he, quite seriously, told his father that he would be a knight and nothing else would do.

"Not King?" Edmund Bridgerton asked with a laugh, lounging on the bank of the stream that rushed through Aubrey Hall's woods.

"No, that's you," Colin said as he stabbed at invisible dragons with his very fearsomely long stick.

They'd been fishing, but Colin had long since lost interest in it. He didn't like hooking the worms. They wriggled so much that he felt sorry for them. He did briefly wonder if, should he poke a dragon, he'd feel sorry for it. But dragons burned villages. They were deadly and dangerous. Worms did very little to harm anyone, so he didn't like harming them. Dragons were fair game, he decided.

"Wouldn't you rather be a prince?" his father prodded,

"That's Anthony." Colin rolled his eyes, going back to his slaughtering. He'd got at least three invisible dragons, by his count. "You two can sit in the castle getting fat and I will slay all the dangerous, deadly beasts for you."

"Here, now!" Anthony protested from the water's edge. "You're the one with the pudgy little belly. Perhaps you should sit in the castle getting fat!" He took Colin's stick and poked him with it, right in the belly, before holding it high above his head.

Colin tried to get it back, but Anthony wouldn't relent, also he tickled him! "You're going to be the king of the house," Colin protested through his squirming laughs. "Let me have something! Give it back!"

Papa took Colin's stick then, holding it away from both of them. "The boy's right, Anthony. He is a third son. He must go off into the world and prove his worth. I think protecting us is a worthy cause." He stopped in front of Colin, thrusting the stick into the ground. "Do you swear fealty to Bridgerton House?"

Colin's eyes widened as he fell to one knee. "I do, Your Majesty!"

Papa considered him carefully. "Shall you protect it with your life?"

"I swear it," Colin said solemnly. "I shall protect you, my liege."

"Very kind of you." Papa nodded. "Shall you protect your brothers as well?"

"I don't need protection," Anthony put in. "And knights don't exist now outside of glorified shopkeepers who—"

"Hush, you!" Papa said, pulling the stick from the ground and holding it aloft.

"I shall protect my brothers," Colin promised. Anthony might be much older than him at seventeen, but Colin had personally witnessed him falling into the duck pond... after being pushed by Daphne, something that would not have happened without protection from a fierce knight.

"And what of your sisters?" his father asked now. "Will you protect them?"

Colin let his head hang down. "Do I have to?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Even Eloise?" Colin grumbled.

"Especially Eloise," his father countered.

"But she kicks me."

"She's five."

"That's no excuse," Colin muttered. "But I will protect my sisters if I have to. And everyone else, too."

His father nodded. "A defender of the innocent, then."

"Yes! I didn't even hook my worm," Colin said eagerly. "I let it go to live a good worm life. And I helped some others escape."

"Is that where all my bait is going?" Anthony scoffed loudly. "We shall starve!"

"Oh, hush, you!" Papa nodded magnanimously at Colin. "Sir Colin is only following his knightly code."

Colin ignored Anthony, saying solemnly to his father, "I shall be a defender of the innocent."

"Even the annoying ones?" his father prodded.

That meant Eloise, didn't it? "I swear it," he said nonetheless.

Papa seemed to think that was good enough. He touched him on one shoulder, then another, with his stick. "Arise, Sir Colin: Protector of the Innocent and the Annoying."

Colin did arise, feeling quite brave. "I shall discharge my duties with... knightliness."

"I'm certain you shall," his father said gravely before turning to his second-oldest brother, "And what of you, second son?"

Ben, laying on his stomach in the grass and fashioning ferns along the bank into a crown, seemed startled by the question. "What?"

"Your knightly duties, Benedict." Papa winked at Colin before turning back to Ben. "How shall you prove your worth?"

"I don't know, but I heard stuff about kings, so... here!" Benedict tossed his crown of ferns to Anthony before rolling to his back. "I don't see myself ruling or slaying. Maybe I'll be a court minstrel or poet or put on puppet shows in the village." He sat up, then. "Perhaps I shall launch an all-puppet staging of The Tempest!* Imagine the colors! The scenery! I must get to work at once!"

*************

Present day

*************

Benedict did, indeed, put on a production of The Tempest that included puppetry and pageantry and only himself as the man behind it all. He managed to make characters from wet shirts, discarded dolls, and various objects found about the house — varying the voices as needed. It was, according to Benedict, a masterpiece and he rather thought it a shame only his fellow Bridgertons had seen it.

As for Colin, he supposed he hadn't done much in line with his own aspirations. He couldn't think of one instance in which he'd protected his family. Rather, it had been them rallying to protect him — or at least his reputation — after that business with Marina. Or was that the family's reputation?

It hadn't been in much danger. Anthony himself had said that they should all be grateful to Lady Whistledown, of all people. "That The Ton devours every bit of Whistledown's on-dit is the only thing keeping this family from shame," Anthony had said that night, that first night when Colin could not think it was possibly true, this lie about the woman he loved. "Because of her column, no one believes you are the father of Miss Thompson's child."

He hated to hear that, at the time. There was no child. He was sure of it. He'd still believed it a falsehood, that Marina had loved him, that Marina was in agony without him... until Daphne arranged for him to meet her the next day. 

It was then that Marina told him herself that this scurrilous rumor was indeed true and, while she might be suffering a sort of agony in her situation, it was not for want of him, nor love of him. She made it clear she didn't love him. She didn't even try to pretend she had loved him before, and she didn't even deign to apologize, claiming her actions were justified by her situation...

And the worst part was that, later, he thought she might be right. In London — in Mayfair, to be precise — he was protected from seeing a world full of unkind realities. But in Greece, in Cypress, in Albani... On his first tour, he'd seen too many unwed mothers, forced to beg, forced to sell themselves, forced to send their children away while they worked themselves to the bone and sent what they could for their care.

And while Marina had married Sir Phillip Crane, who at least was blood to her children, he thought of what might have become of her if not for that. And whether he would have played a part in it. That, more than anything, had driven him to visit her. He wanted her forgiveness for... 

Really, it was ridiculous, but there he was, seeking absolution for an eventuality that hadn't even happened.

Yet she wouldn't even grant him that. She also seemed offended at him offering his forgiveness in turn because she thought he deserved no apology. She'd seemed annoyed at his presence on the whole — and at her husband's affability toward him. He detected in her interactions with Sir Phillip, something similar to looks she'd given him before her countenance shifted to laughter and smiles. Now, she no longer pretended such things and he wondered how he had been so fooled by her feigned delight in him.

Then again, he'd been fooled by Penelope as well, he had to remind himself, and that was without the added blindness of love.

He let out a huff of bitter laughter against the window now, staring at Pen, remembering how Marina had touted her as one of the people he should count as equal to his family. Later, he'd thought it rather astute of her, as if Marina had seen fine qualities in Penelope that he'd not.

He'd even gilded Pen with more virtues, telling her that Lady Crane said she cared for him, that she would never forsake him.

Later, after all was revealed, he wondered where that had come from. His own wishful thinking perhaps? All Marina had actually said was, "If you would simply open your eyes to what is in front of you, you would see there are those you already make happy. You have your family. You have... Penelope."

He was the one who took those words and thrust Penelope up onto a pedestal she did not sit well on... nor deserve.

He watched through the window now as Pen opened the coin purse, peering inside, as if counting, although Colin well knew she couldn't see all that was there. She nodded after a moment and pull out some coins. "Divide this among the boys. You can do it when you announce their newly reduced prices. A gift from Lady Whistledown."

The man rolled his eyes, but held out his hand.

She drew her own hand back. "If she hears they didn't receive it, she will be finding—"

"Another printer, aye." He shook his head as he took the coins.

Colin narrowed his eyes, hoping the man would make good. He had seen far too many boys left to the streets on his travels, begging for coins or for work, flexing their skinny arms to show off their meager muscles, asking to carry his bags or see to his horse. He didn't always carry much coin as it was a dangerous thing to do abroad, but he'd toss them what he had to spare. Half would run off as soon as they had the coins in their little hands, but others were very serious about wanting to work and their pride wouldn't let them accept payment even when Colin insisted he could manage on his own.

One such boy, George, a skinny but scrappy little lad in the south of France, presented himself every morning as his personal guard. Napoleon was on the backfoot in Germany then and his people were growing tired of his antics. Colin was quite sure even his English accent and terrible French wouldn't make a target of him. Most townspeople and shopkeepers were grateful to have travelers patronizing their businesses at all, but he kept the boy in his employ for his stay and gave him a handsome bonus for his bravery in "protecting him."

Not that Colin needed it. He'd learned to fight by then — with his fists, with a knife, and with a damned stick if that was all he had. That second trip, he'd sought out the best trainers he could find. He'd told himself it was to protect himself, but who was he fooling? He wanted the brutality of it. He wanted to stop feeling like a boy who needed protecting. He wanted to feel like a man who could take a beating... and give it right back.

But he kept George on, even taught him a few moves a scrawny fellow like him would need to sneak out unscathed in a fight. He rather liked the company as well. Traveling was a lonely business. As much as he tried to immerse himself in the language, it was always difficult to find good conversation when every other word must be clarified. It had been like a balm to his soul whenever he received a letter from home, even if it was a short, perfunctory reply, which was often the case. It was only Pen that wrote him long missives, last year at least, regaling him with... 

God, Pen!

He'd been so busy woolgathering he hadn't even noticed she was leaving the shop.

He turned and flattened himself himself against the window as the print shop door opened, tucking his stick under his arm and pretending the half-smoked cheroot he pulled from his pocket was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Still, he watched as she stared past his carriage, dismissing it, looking up and down the street for her own equipage, then stamping her foot quite loudly. "Blast it!"

So the hack leaving wasn't part of her plan?

She stood there a moment then, to his shock, dropped the purse down her bodice, pulling her cloak closed before she started away, down a narrow alleyway.

Colin followed, at a distance.

"Paid him in advance," she was muttering to herself, quite loudly. "Last time I do that. Couldn't wait five minutes to—" She stilled.

So did Colin, ducking behind a nasty smelling bin.

"I know y'er after me," she said loudly. "I can't think why. I've no coin to spare."

Colin was quite ready to step out and assure her that he had no designs on her purse, but he soon realized she wasn't talking to him.

Two men stepped in front of her, from the open end of the street.

"If it's all the same to you, we'd rather see for ourselves," the larger one said.

"Irish ain't known for tellin' the truth, are they?" The smaller fellow said, circling her. "We have it on good authority you're out here on business from a wealthy woman."

"Bosh! I am out on household business," he heard Pen say. Her Irish lilt was intact, yet with a tremor underneath as she backed away. "And if me mistress is wealthy, it's news to me."

Colin gripped his stick, twisting the silver handle, but didn't move. Not yet. There were two of them and he'd learned the hard way that, even if he ambushed the larger of a pair, the smaller one could be the most deadly.

"You hear that, Otis?" The little fellow said. "I hear coins jingling. I suspect she's holding out on us."

Penelope huffed out a laugh. "Lads, it's not me own money. And it ain't worth me job to give ye all I got. But here..." She dug in her pocket and pulled some coins free. "Perhaps ye'll take these off me, lighten the load. Ye can help me pass this way safely again, if I see ye tomorrow."

Colin held in a growl. Didn't she get it? These weren't a couple of stupid cutpurses, scamming a toll for safe passage.

And, good God, how he hated that she'd come across that scam before, but this was different! They knew what she carried. They'd been tipped off by her driver. They likely thought it would be easy to take what they wanted from the tiniest damned redhead to ever traipse about London alone.

The larger man slapped the coins away. "I'd rather help ye pass today. Got a purse in there somewhere, I reckon."

"I think she's got a little more than that," the little bugger oozed, staring her up and down.

Colin had seen his sort skulking in the shadows before. Whether in London, France, or Milan... He wouldn't be satisfied with only her money...

"First things first," the big one, Otis, said. "Well?"

Penelope edged away until her back hit the brick wall. And he hated it. He hated the fear in her eyes as they drew closer to her, but he couldn't do a damned thing about it... not just yet.

"I could search ye," Otis said.

"Nah, let me," the slimy little bastard said, drawing closer.

"No need to be searchin' me," she pushed away from them, liftin' her chin. "If ye want it so much, I'd rather be rid of it. It ain't worth me life." She opened her cloak, her hand dipping inside her bodice before she pulled out the purse... and tossed it down the alleyway before she ran the other way.

The big one chased the purse, but the other one was after her.

Like fucking hell, he was!

Even as Penelope sped past him, Colin made quick work of the little bastard, smashing his kneecap with the wooden end of his cane before bashing his nose with the silver handle. Colin's only regret was that he only got to hear one gurgling shriek before the bugger fell to the ground and into oblivion.

He didn't deserve that. He should have hurt longer.

Still, there was always the big one. The oaf turned as Colin drew nearer, flicking his walking stick from one hand to the other, his little crony's blood not so much dripping from the silver handle as speckling the walls as Colin bore down on him.

"Where the bloody hell did you come from?" the large man demanded, as if that even mattered.

Still, Colin froze as the man drew a large knife from his vest. "Otis, right?"

"Stay back, you!" The man had meaty fists, but a very unsure grip on that dull looking knife of his. Coin was much more sure of his weapon of choice.

"Sorry, but I have no intention of doing that." Colin gripped the silver handle of his walking stick, pulling the wooden sheath away to reveal a blade of his own.

Otis stared at it a moment, sneering as if eager to do battle... until he bloody ran!

Colin gave chase, knowing the lumbering man wouldn't outpace him.

He didn't.

Colin had only to take one leap, swiping the back of Otis' head with the blunt handle of his knife, before the big man fell, face-first, the coin purse falling loosely from his hands with only a few bits falling out of it.

He swept them up, tucking them back in, glancing back down the alleyway, wondering if Penelope had run all the way home. He supposed he should be glad if she did, but he wouldn't rest easy until he knew she'd made it safely.

He growled and tucked the pouch into his coat pocket. All that for a purse of coins? How much could there even be in it? He didn't know and he didn't care to know.

He sheathed his knife and used its handle to rap on the door nearest to the alley. A sour-faced man opened up.

"Fetch a Bow Street Runner," Colin said, "or a constable. These men tried to rob and assault a lady."

"What's that got to do wit' me? Some of us are trying t' sleep!" The man started to close the door.

Colin stopped it.

Luckily, Colin supposed, Otis chose that moment to stir.

"Very well," Colin said. "I'll leave you to his tender mercies."

The sleepy man rushed out, yelling his way down the street for a constable.

Colin whacked Otis over the head again, satisfied when he slumped to the ground.

His hired coachman, O'Reilly, appeared beside him, fretting, "Oh, what you gone and done now?"

"Nothing to what they had planned," Colin grunted. "Have you got any rope?"

"Aye, but it's me own..."

"I'll reimburse you, damn it," he said shortly. "Fetch it and then see that she made her way home."

O'Reilly hesitated. "Aye, but she—"

"Just do it," Colin barked. He wouldn't have these two getting away before the authorities could cart them off.

He strolled up to the smaller fellow, then, giving him a kick to be sure he didn't stir. Then giving him another for what he'd obviously been after when he chased her instead of her purse.

He was ready to give another when he found the end of a rope nudged into his hand. "About time," he growled, dragging the rope to that Otis fellow first. He rather hoped the wee little bastard roused himself. He'd like a more satisfying bout with him.

He tied the big man's hands, then went for his feet, but the rope wasn't coming. He'd have to get them both lashed together for whoever packed him up. "Give me more rope than this," he growled, pulling on the length.

"Well, I'm tryin' but it's all tied up!"

That wasn't his coachman.

He turned to find Penelope Featherington kneeling behind him, frowning down at a tangle of rope in her lap. He supposed that was why his coachman wasn't chasing her down. She just... stayed?

She held the rope up. "Could we not just tangle them in it?" Her Irish accent was nowhere to be found now. "I find it quite impossible to work through, so perhaps they—"

"Give me that," Colin rasped, turning away from her, annoyed that she'd dropped her pretense. She sounded too damned much like the Pen he knew, yet she had no idea he was the Colin she knew. But shouldn't he be relieved at that? He let out a breath through his scarf. Yes, he should be relieved. Yet why was he also annoyed?

But then why would she know him now? He worked at the rope as he stewed. He wasn't dressed as he normally would be and, between his hat and the scarf covering his face, and the fact that he was currently trussing up a criminal... Well, it wasn't a normal evening for Colin Bridgerton.

He did finish with the big one, though. Before he cut the rope off and stood, making for the little fella who had, sadly, not stirred.

"Oh, how clever of you," she said, suddenly appearing in front of him. "You've got it all untangled."

"Nothing to it," he grunted, trying not to sound too much like himself. He'd unraveled worse knots in his travels across the sea. He found himself annoyed again. Had she ever called him clever before this? He had to remind himself not to be annoyed. He'd rather end this night without her knowing it was him anyway. Hadn't he done enough for her, exposing that cousin of hers, that awful night before he learned...

"Would you mind very much if I tied this one up myself?" she asked.

He turned to her sharply. "What? Why?"

"Well, he... he..." She lifted her chin, her voice suddenly dropping back into her little lilt, "I'll have ye know he touched me in a way I don't like."

"Did he now?" Colin seethed. He hadn't seen that from his vantage point. He bent to the man, but she stilled him, placing a hand on his sleeve. He should barely feel it through all the layers between them, but he did, an unsettling warmth.

"I think I'd find it very satisfyin'," she said, "to tie him up tight. Very tight."

He handed her the rope with a grunt. "Be quick. We shouldn't be here when the law comes." He'd have to reveal himself if he made a statement to the constable. And Penelope Featherington couldn't be found wandering the streets at night either.

He heard the little man groan unconsciously as she bound the little bastard's wrists behind him with a hard tug. Good. He hoped it hurt.

"...down this way. They was robbin' a lady and..."

The voices were coming from the street's end of the alleyway. The grumpy man must be coming back with help.

"That's good enough," he said, pulling her up and making for the dark coach still waiting around the corner.

She stilled. "But we should—"

"Do you truly want to reveal yourself to the law," he rasped, "Lady Whistledown?"

Her face drained of color and she mutely let him pull her to his coach, lifting her in before she could protest. Not that she did, sprawling on the bench and staring ahead of her blankly.

"Mayfair, now," he barked, getting in as well.

*****************

More to come! I can 't promise this one will be updated as much as my other WIPs or my original, which I need to prioritize for now. I hope you understand. But I will try to not let a month go by again. I enjoy writing Colin cosplaying Regency Batman.

*** I once saw a production of The Tempest presented with various kinds of puppets (actual puppets, shirts that talked, swords that gestured bravely, dolls, trumpets) in a kiddie pool that was in an alleyway. It remains the best piece of theater I have ever experienced. For real.