directed Kit to card room two. Kit was gratified to see it was a reasonably large room with a half dozen tables and a good number of gentlemen playing. He stood in the shadows for a minute or two to get his bearings and soon spotted Bartlett on the far side of the room. He was sitting at a table with two other men, neither of whom Kit could see well. Thankfully Bartlett was in the most visible seat, facing the entrance to the room where Kit was hovering. Kit could only see the backs of the other two players. A fourth chair was empty.
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.