Kit took a deep breath, then strode forward, raising his voice as he approached the table. “Mr. Percival Bartlett?”
Bartlett looked up. “Yes?” he said, irritation in his voice. His shirt points were so high, they obscured half his sideburns and forced him to hold his chin up at an artificial angle. “And who are you, sir?”
“My name is Redford,” Kit said. “And I have something to say to you, sir.”
Bartlett frowned, glancing uneasily at his two companions. “As you can see,” he said shortly, “I am busy. And I do not know you, sir. I suggest you call upon me at my place of residence where we can speak in private.”
“I do not seek privacy,” Kit said in a loud, clear voice. “The reason I came here was to say my piece in front of witnesses.”
The men at the other tables were turning in their seats to see what was going on. Bartlett cast a panicky look about the room, searching for one of Sharp’s staff, no doubt, to throw this upstart out. But of course, there were none to be seen.
“Now, look here,” he said to Kit, his colour beginning to rise. “I don’t know who you are, but—”
“I told you, my name is Redford,” Kit said flatly. “I’m here because you have been harassing my employee, a defenceless young woman.”
Bartlett paled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he exclaimed, but Kit could see he had a sense of what this was about.
“I think you do,” Kit sneered. “Let me help you remember: she was a servant in your father’s house and you ravished her and got her with child—”
Bartlett surged to his feet. “How dare you!”
“—and when she asked you for money to raise that child you sent a thug to warn her off with his fists,” Kit continued relentlessly, his voice rising. “What kind of gentleman does such a thing?”
The room was silent now, but for hushed murmurs at the neighbouring tables.
Bartlett was puce, his slightly protuberant eyes wild.
“If anyone lays a finger on that young woman again,” Kit said in a loud, clear voice, “I will hold you responsible, sir, and I will make it known, far and wide, what you have done and what kind of man you are.”
No sooner had he finished speaking than a voice behind Kit—a horribly familiar voice—said silkily, “Are you going to let this low-born milksop insult you like this, Bartlett?”
Kit whipped around, and there, looming over him, was Lionel Skelton.
His gut roiled, and his heart began to thud in a panicky rhythm. Without meaning to, he stepped backwards, and Skelton’s thin, cruel smile widened into a nasty grin. He always had enjoyed Kit’s fear.
“No, by Jove,” Bartlett snarled, emboldened by Skelton’s intervention, and surged to his feet, his chair screeching against the wooden floor. Kit whirled back to face him, only to realise that Bartlett had already swung at him. An awkward blow landed on Kit’s chin, which, despite its lack of elegance, had enough power to send him to the floor in an ungainly sprawl.
Baring his teeth in a nasty sneer, Bartlett strode towards Kit, while Kit tried to scrabble to his feet and glance over his shoulder at Skelton at the same time.
And then, astonishingly, help came from an unexpected quarter—one of the other two men at the table, who threw his own chair back and strode into the fray, pushing Bartlett roughly back.
“Percy, for God’s sake!” he exclaimed. “You can’t brawl in here!”
“Fine!” Bartlett cried. “Let’s take him outside and thrash him!”
“Capital idea,” Skelton said, chuckling.
Kit was on his feet now. He cast a look of dislike at Skelton then turned his attention back to Bartlett.
“I’m not thrashing anyone,” the intervener said flatly. “And neither are you, Percy.”
Kit frowned then—the young man’s profile was oddly familiar.
“Get out of my way, Freddy,” Bartlett said in low, dangerous voice.
“I don’t think so.”
And that was when Kit realised who he was—the young man who had escorted Clara back home on the day she’d been attacked.
“I said get out of the way!” Bartlett roared. He tried to push his erstwhile friend aside but when the young man wouldn’t budge, Bartlett tackled him to the ground with a yell of fury, the two of them landing in a twisted tangle of bodies right next to the neighbouring table.
All around the room, men got out of their chairs and began to gather around to watch the brawl, some shouting for calm while others encouraged the fight, even shouting out wagers.
Head swimming, Kit tried to push his way through the swiftly gathering crowd, but before he could make any headway, he felt himself being grabbed. Twisting in his captor’s hands, he looked over his shoulder to see Skelton’s furious face staring down at him. Skelton yanked him around and shoved him up against a wall, then pushed his face against Kit’s. His breath was sour with brandy.
“I needed that fucking idiot’s money,” he hissed, raising his fist.
Kit looked around desperately for help, but everyone was crowding around the other brawl. He opened his mouth to yell out but before he could make a sound, Skelton’s fist connected with the side of the head. An instant later, a second blow to his stomach knocked all the air out of him.
He'd have fallen to the ground, but Skelton was holding him there, against the wall, and raising his fist again while Kit gasped for breath and tried to make his limbs move, his vision swimming alarmingly, his right ear ringing in a way that was horribly reminiscent of the last time Skelton had laid hands on him. And then, quite suddenly, the hands holding him fell away as Skelton was yanked away from him.
Without Skelton holding him up, Kit dropped to the floor, only just catching himself on his hands before he landed on his face.
He heard Skelton cry out and the sound of scuffling and blows. Another familiar voice, cursing and angry.
Henry?
Kit managed to open his eyes briefly—just in time to see Henry’s fist connect with Skelton’s jaw and Skelton fall backwards, arms windmilling—before he had close them again to stop the world spinning.
20
Henry
No sooner had Henry felled Lionel Skelton than a loud voice shouted, “That’s quite enough! Back to your seats, gentlemen.”
Henry glanced up from Skelton’s satisfyingly crumpled form on the floor to see that the voice had come from a dark-haired, well-dressed man that he suspected must be Sharp, the notorious owner of the club. Flanked by two enormous fellows with grim expressions, Sharp strode towards the larger group of men at the centre of the room, where clearly some other drama had begun to unfold before Henry arrived.
Henry wasn't interested in that though—he needed to take care of Kit, who was now sitting with his back against the wall, his head in his hands.
Henry rushed to his side, dropping to a crouch beside him.
“Kit, are you all right?” he asked urgently, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.
Kit nodded, though he didn’t raise his head from his hands. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m just a bit dizzy. Can you give me a moment?”