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?”
“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