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—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Freddy said quickly. “Tomorrow is fine. To talk, I mean. Get your—get Mr. Redford home.”
He lifted his hand, patted Henry’s shoulder awkwardly, then turned on his heel and walked quickly away.
An hour later, Henry folded back the sheets on Kit’s bed.
“In you get,” he said firmly.
Kit—looking absurdly fetching in a plain white nightgown—said, “I’m fine now. I don’t feel sick or dizzy anymore. I’ve just got a bit of a headache left.”
“Even so,” Henry said, patting the mattress. “The rest will do you good. I’ll watch over you.”
Kit pressed his lips together, but eventually he said. “Fine, but only if you come in beside me.”
Henry was only too happy to agree to that condition. “Very well. You get in while I get undressed.”
He quickly removed his clothes, only stopping when he was down to his drawers. By the time he turned back to the bed, Kit was tucked under the covers waiting for him, his gaze unashamedly travelling over Henry’s mostly naked body.
Henry smiled and extinguished the candles before climbing in next to Kit.
He didn’t reach for Kit, not yet, but settled his head on the other pillow facing him. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, so he could not see Kit’s face. “We have much to talk about,” he said gently. “But perhaps in the morning? You must be exhausted.”
“Actually, I’m not tired at all,” Kit said. “Remember, I’m up very late most nights and sleep late into the morning. This feels like a very early bedtime to me.”
“Not to me,” Henry replied. “At home—in Wiltshire, I mean—I’m usually in bed before now.”
“Bumpkin,” Kit said, but his tone was affectionate. “So, what do you want to talk about? I suppose you want to know why I was at Jake Sharp’s club tonight?”
“Yes, and what that brawl was about,” Henry said. “And I must admit, I’m curious as to how you know Sharp.”
Kit’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. He shifted, settling one hand under his cheek as he looked at Henry. “I have questions too,” he said.
“Such as?”
“Such as why you were there,” Kit replied. “And why your son was.”
“Freddy?” Henry said. Then, “He knows you—how?”
“He doesn’t really,” Kit replied. “But a couple of weeks ago, he saw a man set upon Clara while she was out walking. He chased off her attacker and brought her home. He didn’t mention his name, or of course, I’d have made the connection—he’s very like you.”
“He mentioned that incident,” Henry said.
“You should be proud of him,” Kit continued. “He came to Clara’s aid that day, and to mine tonight—his friend was intent upon giving me a beating, but Freddy stepped in and stopped him.”
“I am proud of him,” Henry murmured. And he was. Freddy had not only stood up for Kit tonight when he obviously needed assistance, he had done so against his own friend.
“I hope he wasn’t hurt?”
“He seems to have come out of the scuffle more or less unscathed,” Henry said. “Which is more than I can say for Bartlett—Freddy inflicted a black eye and a split lip on him.”
“Good,” Kit said with relish. “He deserves that, and a great deal more besides.”
“So, Bartlett was the man who wanted to give you a beating?”
“He was.”
“Why?”
Kit sighed. “You remember me telling you that Clara was a governess in a wealthy household? And that the son of the house forced himself on her?”