His eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed to a slitted stare. “Give me that book,” he repeated. “Or you will be sorry.”

His strike was quick—but not quick enough.

Her reactions honed by half a lifetime of fighting off drunks and pimps, Arianna caught his wrist and pivoted, twisting hard enough to draw a grunt of pain. “I wouldn’t wager on that.”

“Poxy slut.” Breaking away, the man clenched a fist and threw a wild punch at her head.

She ducked the blow and countered with a kick that buckled his knee. “True—if I were a real lady, I would be falling into a dead swoon.” Her jab clipped him flush on the chin. “But as you see, I’m not. Not a lady, that is.”

Staggered, the man fell against the display table, knocking several books to the floor. His curses were now coming in a language she didn’t recognize, but the edge of panic was unmistakable.

What madness possessed him? It was only a book, albeit a lovely one.

Arianna glanced at the archway, intent on making a strategic retreat. The last thing she wanted to do was to ruffle the rarified feathers of Messrs. Harvey & Watkins by brawling among their rare books. Such a scene would only embarrass her husband, who, ye Gods, had suffered enough gossip on her account . . .

Bloody hell. A glint of steel drew her eye back to her assailant.

His fumblings inside his coat revealed not only a book hidden in the waistband of his trousers but a slim-bladed knife.

“Try to use that on me, and you’ll find your cods cut off,” she warned softly.

He blinked, looking torn between anger and fear.

The sliver of silence was broken by the sound of hurried steps in the adjoining room. “Is someone in need of assistance ?” called a shop clerk loudly.

Her assailant hesitated for an instant, then whirled and darted for the archway, bumping into the other man as they crossed paths.