“Of course,” Henry said gently. Now that the immediate panic of seeing Kit being assaulted by Skelton had worn off, his mind was racing. What was Kit doing here? He almost asked, then decided Kit wasn’t fit to be questioned right now. “Sit quietly and don’t move, all right? I'll be back in a moment. I’m just going to make sure Skelton doesn’t slip off.”
Kit murmured something that sounded like assent.
As Henry rose to standing again, he saw that the larger group of men was now dispersing. They'd been watching another brawl, he realised. And then, as the final stragglers moved aside, he stopped in his tracks, shocked to see that his own son appeared to have been one of participants—Freddy's clothes were rumpled and his hair was wild. A red mark on his cheek showed where a blow had landed. But he looked perfectly calm. He was speaking to Sharp, while one of the big bruisers hauled the other combatant—Oh Christ, that was Percy Bartlett!—to his feet.
Freddy looked more or less all right. He was a little mussed to be sure, but other than that one red mark on his cheekbone, he appeared unhurt. Bartlett, on the other hand, was very much the worse for wear. His lower lip and left eyebrow were both split, and the area around his left eye was swelling. The bruiser handled him ungently, his expression unimpressed as Bartlett spluttered outrage.
There was a story here, but it would have to wait a little longer. Henry couldn’t risk Skelton leaving before he’d spoken to him and left him in no doubt of the danger he was in if he ever so much as looked at Kit again. But when Henry glanced Skelton’s way, it was to see that the other bruiser was already hauling that sorry specimen to his feet with the same disregard for comfort that his colleague had shown Bartlett, and was pushing him towards Sharp.
Henry strode towards them.
“Mr. Sharp, I presume?” he called out, and the dark-haired man glanced his way.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, your grace. That was quite a punch.” Plainly, he already knew who Henry was.
“Father?” Freddy exclaimed.
“Good evening, Frederick,” Henry replied coolly, inclining his head.
“What are you doing here?” Freddy said weakly.
“Punching my customers, it would seem,” Sharp said. “Is that an Avesbury family trait?” He raised a brow, and Freddy flushed.
Henry did not. “If you don’t want your customers punched, then don’t allow Lionel Skelton in the door,” he said tightly, adding in a lower voice, “the last time he was here he was using his own marked cards.”
Sharp’s gaze narrowed angrily at that, and he glanced at Skelton. “I think we need to have a talk, Mr. Skelton,” he said. His voice was not unpleasant, but there was a note in it that was somehow chilling. Skelton paled.
Sharp glanced at the bruiser who nodded and led the unprotesting man away.
Sharp turned to Bartlett then. He smiled, but his eyes were flat and dangerous. “As for you, Mr. Bartlett, I think it’s about time we discussed your account, don’t you? Join me for a glass of brandy in my office. Ackroyd here will show you the way. I'll be with you in just a few minutes.”
Bartlett went red with angry mortification, but he too was silent as the other bruiser escorted him from the room. Given his docility, he must owe Sharp a fortune.
Sharp turned to Henry, meeting his gaze. “Thank you for the information about Skelton,” he said. “I don’t tolerate cheats in my establishments—you can rest assured that I will deal with him. As for the other one, I’ll make sure he doesn’t come near Kit or his friend ever again.” His smile was tight. “He’s in considerable debt to me, and I can make his life extremely uncomfortable.”
Henry wasn’t sure what Bartlett's connection to Kit was, but he nodded, resolving to ask Kit later.
Sharp sighed. “I should have insisted on dealing with Bartlett myself. Kit’s got balls, to be sure, but not much by the way of muscle to back up his heroic tendencies.” He jerked his head in Kit’s direction. “So, are you planning to take him home, your grace? He’s not fit to find his own way back—if you can’t—”
“I’ll take him home,” Henry said firmly.
“Who’s Kit?” Freddy asked, then, looking in the direction of Henry’s gaze, said wonderingly, “wait, do you mean Mrs. Marsden’s brother?”
Mrs. Marsden? Wasn’t that Kit’s friend, Clara?
Sharp glanced between them. “I can see some explanations are required, however, I really do think Kit needs to be taken home without delay.”
Henry nodded.
“And he’ll need to be watched tonight,” Sharp said. “If you can’t stay with him, tell me now and I’ll—”
“I’ll stay with him,” Henry bit out.
Sharp looked faintly amused at his tone. “Very well.”
Henry felt himself flush. Trying to ignore the betraying heat, he turned to Freddy. “Can you help me get him out to the carriage?”
Freddy nodded, though his puzzled expression did not fade, indeed, it had changed now into something more wary.
“Good night, gentlemen,” Sharp said. “I’m sure all will be well by morning.”
Henry nodded his thanks then returned to Kit’s side, Freddy on his heels.
Kit now had his head leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed.
“Kit?” Henry said worriedly, crouching down again. “How are you?”
“Other than a headache and feeling like I’m about to cast up my accounts, I feel as fine as fivepence,” Kit mumbled without opening his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” Henry said. “We’ll get you home and into bed.”
“Hmmm,” Kit replied, eyes still closed. “Is that a promise?”
Henry’s face flamed. Christ, what must Freddy think? He couldn’t even bring himself to look. Instead he cleared his throat, becoming all business. “Let’s get you up then,” he said heartily. “Freddy, you take his right arm and I’ll take his left.”
Kit’s eyes flew open at that and he stared at Henry then Freddy in horror before quickly masking his expression.
“Sorry,” he said. “Am I talking drivel? It’s that punch to the head. Please ignore my ramblings.”
“It’s fine,” Henry said reassuringly as he gently helped Kit to stand.
Freddy said nothing, but he was equally careful with Kit, and for that, Henry could only be grateful.
They took him outside, walking slowly, and at length got him into the carriage.
“Kit’s house is in Marylebone,” Henry said to Freddy, once he’d settled a blanket around Kit and wadded another up into a pillow for his head. “Do you want me to drop you back at Curzon Street? It’s on the way.”
Freddy shook his head. “No, the sooner you get Mr. Redford home, the better. I’ll make my own way, Papa.”
Henry smiled helplessly at the old name—he still preferred it, even now that the children were grown. Freddy usually called him Father these days.
“All right. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Are you—are you staying at his house then? To watch over him?”
Henry blinked. “I—”