Chapter Nineteen
KIT GLADLY ESCAPED Grosvenor Street the next morning, even if it was only a trip to his old lodgings. In the eleventh earl’s absence, with much to say and no one with whom to share it, he wandered aimlessly, his feet echoing along the hallways and stairways of the enormous residence.
Like motes of dust trapped in candlelight, everyone shone a little brighter in Lando’s presence, Kit decided. The lavish breakfast had tasted less pleasing without the beguiling earl curled up in his lap, and even the rose bushes in the stone urns either side of the imposing front door appeared to bloom less enthusiastically. As he made his way down the wide stone steps, the majestic linden trees across the square seemed to no longer care whether they gathered their leaves about them or let them sail away on the breeze.
He headed towards Bond Street to hail a hansom. His restlessness had a name. Love , and it disrupted his thoughts like a troublesome toothache. Kit held it responsible for every single one of the poetic flights of fancy cramming his head when he should be concentrating on his future. It was the reason for his stumble over a loose cobblestone, for failing to hail a hansom and having to hunt for another. Get a grip , he admonished himself. The roses around the bloody doorstep were fine; they were thriving, as were the lindens. Kit had no idea why he’d bloody noticed them anyhow.
He’d walked halfway to Sindell Street by the time he managed to secure a driver. Which gave him plenty of time to resolve to come clean to Lando regarding the runner, Clark. Shame had prevented him from confessing earlier when Lando first mooted the Gartside plan, shame that Lando would think less of him. Admitting one’s flaws to oneself was painful enough, never mind to a ravishing and wealthy earl with whom one had fallen headlong in love, and who had readily admitted all his weaknesses to Kit. Whether his love for the earl was reciprocated or not, frankly, he was undeserving of it anyhow. If, after the whole farrago was over, he and Lando parted ways, then it would be nothing less than Kit warranted. He’d crawl into the darkest of dark corners, lick his wounds, and if God and the honest employment market were willing, slide back into his appropriate level of society a better, more trustworthy man.
Sindell Street was its usual grimy, bustling, smelly self. Kit used to barely notice, but now he had an urge to cover his nose and block his ears. He’d discarded Lando’s fine clothes for the expedition, not wanting to draw attention to himself, and a jolly good thing too. His new supple leather boots were far too nice to gather muck.
Love and ton living had made him soft; he hardly bothered to glance up and down the street before crossing over to his lodgings. Having ransacked the place weeks earlier and deduced Kit was not to be found, Clark had hopefully moved on to hound some other poor bugger scratching out a nefarious living. Rather wishing to avoid an unpleasant encounter with his landlady, Kit threw thruppence to a bundle of rags clutching a mangy dog, then slipped down the dank side alley, fumbling in his pocket for the heavy key.
His abode was as depressing as on his last visit. His few clothes and books were still carelessly tossed around the place; Kit didn’t think anyone had been back. And why would they? There was nothing worth stealing. If he was honest, there was nothing worth him coming back for either. Except that his other woollen coat had been passed down from his father, and he had a pointless, sentimental attachment to a dogeared set of playing cards from his youth.
And they belonged to him, dammit. Which was as good a reason as any.
Add in a couple of his favourite books gifted from Sir Brandon’s library, a worn greying towel, a shirt requiring repairs, and two cotton handkerchiefs, it was a pathetic haul to show for three and twenty years. Hefting his small bag across his shoulder, he took a last look around the room. Whilst a week from now he’d face an uncertain future, hopefully not involving Newgate, he knew he wouldn’t be coming back.
The first blow landed from nowhere, as he was closing the alley door silently behind him so as not to draw the attention of his landlady. More of a stumble really, a sharp strike against his leg. For a fleeting instant, Kit cursed himself for tripping over someone else’s rubbish in the gloom, unbalanced by his heavy bag. But stumbles didn’t push back or thump a second fist low in his belly, accompanied by a grunt. A hot flare of pain shot through his hip as he smacked against the damp wall. “What the…?” A third breathtaking whop to the small of his back had him lurching forwards.
“Oy! Get off!” Abandoning his bag, Kit thrashed indiscriminately at his unknown attacker, barrelling into him and knocking the other man off balance. For a moment, they scrapped, cheek to jowl, Kit’s head still reeling as he determinedly dodged the blows. Blood from a thick gash across his forehead spurted into his eye, and he lashed out half-blinded. One of his blows hit home as his assailant made a sound like a yelp, then hollered, bringing a new set of footsteps pounding down the alley.
Kit’s chest burned. The stink of the other man’s rank sweat mingled with the taste of his own blood. His attacker’s accomplice drew closer just as someone else shouted from the other end of the alley. Kit’s heart skipped with fear. One ruffian, he had a sparring chance against, two or three, and he was only staving off the inevitable.
The second man was bigger; Kit barely had time to brace before one swift boot to his flank had him breathing hard and choking on his own iron-tinged gobs of spit. A follow-up with an open fist, and Kit lost his footing completely, tumbling towards an ungainly sprawl across the cobbles.
The final lightning punch, a practised roundhouse swipe squarely on his temple as he was on the way down, he never even saw coming.