Chapter Nineteen
Jonathan took his hat and swordstick from the club’s dark-suited butler who’d been waiting patiently and gave the man a nod in thanks.
He pulled on his silk gloves and watched Walter as he donned his own hat.
They’d spent a pleasantly convivial evening that had progressed into a large part of the night with a few of their friends at a private game of cards.
Betting had been limited but Jonnie was going home slightly richer than when he’d left, unlike Walter.
Robert had elected to stay a little longer as he’d encountered an old friend and the two of them were busy plotting some youthful devilry.
Walter pulled out his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and peered at it in the dimly lit gloom of the foyer.
“Nearly four,” he said. “Hardly worth going home to bed. Do you fancy popping over to the Lyon’s Den for a bit?
They have some more unusual opportunities to gamble.
It’s only round the corner, and their doors’ll still be open. ”
Jonathan paused, considering this suggestion.
He’d been to the aforementioned establishment a number of times and had been impressed with the welcoming atmosphere, as well as the aforementioned unusual gambling.
He’d bet on such varied things as snail races, whether a friend could get a particular woman into bed, how many times a particular bore might say “actually,” and how many members of the Lords would fall asleep in the House on a named day.
“Another night, perhaps,” he said. “I find myself yawning and think, for once, my own bed might be desirable. Although you’re more than welcome to come back for a nightcap if you so care. ”
“That would be most agreeable,” Walter said, hurriedly putting his own hat on. “And not too far from the old man’s place.”
The butler opened the door for them and the two young men stepped out into the warm darkness of the night.
St James’s Street was well lit with oil lamps that threw circles of golden light across the paving stones, but in between them darkness took hold again.
London was not a city used to having clear nights, and both of them were used to making their way to their respective homes along gloomy streets.
It was a hazard of maintaining such nocturnal lifestyles.
So late at night, or, rather, so early in the morning, there was no sign of any cabs.
Walter chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re getting middle-aged in your outlook, Jonnie, and can’t stick the pace any longer.
I swear that over the last week since you marched up the aisle with my cousin you’ve turned soft on me and our friends.
I know for a fact you’ve been nowhere near that actress of yours since before the wedding.
And you told me yourself you’ve broken it off with La Delamere.
” He narrowed his eyes. “Has my little cousin some sort of a hold over you, even though you’d like me to believe otherwise? ”
Jonathan ignored his friend and started off down the street towards Piccadilly, heedless of the threat of darkness and what it might be concealing. London at night had never bothered him, which was just as well as he saw a lot of it.
Walter had to run to catch him up. “No need to take a huff, old chap. I was just remarking.”
“Well, kindly desist from remarking,” Jonathan snapped, not turning his head to look at his friend.
They reached Piccadilly, crossed it, and started up Albermarle Street, where there were fewer lamps to illuminate their way, and not many people about. Almost none, in fact. Four in the morning was late for gentlemen like them, and early for those who had to begin work before their betters.
Behind them, a group of three roughly appareled men emerged from a side alley.
Jonathan, who, despite his air of disconcern, always took care to note who else was about at night and whether they might present a threat, glanced back over his shoulder.
The men were walking arm in arm, as though somewhat the worse for wear, but something about them, some alertness that didn’t match with being drunk, had him tightening his grip on his sword stick.
One of them had a powerfully built dog on a piece of tatty rope.
Was it the same dog with the same men, plus a friend, that he’d seen in the garden at the center of Cavendish Square?
Unlikely, but you never knew. But there were only three of them, and he and Walter could, if necessary, easily deal with them, dog and all.
Disreputable men were to be found all over London, especially at night, but it was a little odd that these were so bold as to dare to pass through such a fashionable area.
But as there were three of them, this had perhaps given them the necessary bravura.
No sign of any constables on patrol though.
These fellows might not be so cocksure if there were.
At the end of Albermarle Street they turned right into Grafton Street then left into New Bond Street.
The men followed them.
Despite its air of modernity and wealth, and its more numerous lamp posts, Jonathan knew this wouldn’t stop footpads, even here, if they decided a pair of swells were worth robbing.
And most men dressed as he and Walter were carried readies in their pockets.
He had friends who’d been set upon on the very doorsteps of their own homes in some of the best parts of the city.
Nowhere was truly safe. Hence the sword sticks.
Best to keep an eye on these three men.
Walter, who had consumed a fair bit more brandy than Jonathan had, seemed not to have noticed them at all.
They passed the narrow lane into Bruton Street, where Verity’s father had his lodgings, on their left, opposite Conduit Street, and Jonathan could tell from the sound of the men’s footfalls that they’d put on a spurt of speed and were now a good bit closer.
Some of the lamps had either not been lit or had gone out, making the street darker than ever.
And at this time of night it was empty of anyone but himself and Walter. And the men behind them, of course.
Jonathan took Walter’s arm and hurried him along.
He’d far rather distance himself from them than partake in a street brawl, even one he knew the two of them could win.
Although, from Walter’s state it might be less three against two and more three against one. And he didn’t want Walter getting hurt.
A little ahead, and from out of one of the narrow entrances on their right, that Jonathan knew from experience led into a couple of yards, which at this time of night would be dark, deserted and unlit, four more men emerged onto the street.
Four large men, one of whom could possibly be described as a giant.
Instead of heading either in the same direction as he and Walter, or turning towards them, these men merely spread out across the street, hands on hips, blocking the way, the giant in the center.
Their bulky shapes made a menacing barrier.
It was clear they meant to prevent Jonathan and Walter from passing.
“I say,” Walter said, as if noticing their imminent danger for the first time.
“What’s going on here?” Never a man not to mistake an obvious threat, he raised his sword stick and slid the weapon out of its cover with a little difficulty due to his inebriation.
The blade flashed in what little light there was.
Jonathan cast a glance over his shoulder at the men behind them, who were closer still now, cudgels having appeared in their hands as if from nowhere. They, too, had spread themselves across the street with the obvious intention of preventing escape that way. Not that flight had entered his head.
He drew his own sword and shifted his cane into his left hand, gripping both with determination. The arrival of the men in front had just lengthened the odds against him and Walter a little worryingly, but he felt confident they could cope.
To either side of them the houses, silent and dark at this time of night, slept on, no one within them aware of the ambush that was taking place just outside their front doors on this fashionable street. And if they did notice, no one was likely to come rushing out to help them.
“If it ain’t the Black Earl,” one of the men facing Jonathan said with a sneer. “Well, well, well.”
“Back-to-back,” Jonathan snapped, and Walter hastened to obey, turning to face the three men behind them while Jonathan faced the four newcomers.
The men, their faces almost invisible in the gloom, drew closer and in so doing, began to edge their prey towards the yawning darkness of a second yard entrance.
Their intention was clearly to force Jonathan and Walter into it and out of view of any witnesses who might be disturbed by the fracas to come.
“Weren’t expectin’ this, were you, mate?” The same man spoke again, shifting the cudgel that had appeared in his grip from hand to hand. The dog growled, a low, threatening sound.
Jonathan was not a man to give up without a fight, and neither was Walter.
The possibility that handing over his possessions to these footpads might save them from a fight didn’t even occur to him.
Neither, it was apparent, did it occur to Walter, who suddenly lunged forward with his blade outstretched, flicking it, with astonishing ease considering his state of inebriation, across the cheek of the nearest footpad.
This man uttered an unmanly yelp and jumped backwards, his hand to his face, blood seeping between his fingers and running down his cheek.
“Clear off or it’ll be the worse for you,” he snapped, now not sounding inebriated at all.
The dog barked and strained at its lead.
“Well done,” Jonathan said. “Good move.”
Perhaps not quite such a good move as he’d thought.