Restored (Enlightenment Book 5)

by Joanna Chambers

  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.

  “I don’t think so.”

  And that 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 were both split, and the area around his left eye was swelling. The bruiser handled him ungently, his expression unimpressed as Bartlett spluttered outrage.

  There was a story here, but it would have to wait a little longer. Henry couldn’t risk Skelton leaving before he’d spoken to him and left him in no doubt of the danger he was in if he ever so much as looked at Kit again. But when Henry glanced Skelton’s way, it was to see that the other bruiser was already hauling that sorry specimen to his feet with the same disregard for comfort that his colleague had shown Bartlett, and was pushing him towards Sharp.

  Henry strode towards them.

  “Mr. Sharp, I presume?” he called out, and the dark-haired man glanced his way.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, your grace. That was quite a punch.” Plainly, he already knew who Henry was.

  “Father?” Freddy exclaimed.

  “Good evening, Frederick,” Henry replied coolly, inclining his head.

  “What are you doing here?” Freddy said weakly.

  “Punching my customers, it would seem,” Sharp said. “Is that an Avesbury family trait?” He raised a brow, and Freddy flushed.

  Henry did not. “If you don’t want your customers punched, then don’t allow Lionel Skelton in the door,” he said tightly, adding in a lower voice, “the last time he was here he was using his own marked cards.”

  Sharp’s gaze narrowed angrily at that, and he glanced at Skelton. “I think we need to have a talk, Mr. Skelton,” he said. His voice was not unpleasant, but there was a note in it that was somehow chilling. Skelton paled.

  Sharp glanced at the bruiser who nodded and led the unprotesting man away.

  Sharp turned to Bartlett then. He smiled, but his eyes were flat and dangerous. “As for you, Mr. Bartlett, I think it’s about time we discussed your account, don’t you? Join me for a glass of brandy in my office. Ackroyd here will show you the way. I'll be with you in just a few minutes.”

  Bartlett went red with angry mortification, but he too was silent as the other bruiser escorted him from the room. Given his docility, he must owe Sharp a fortune.

  Sharp turned to Henry, meeting his gaze. “Thank you for the information about Skelton,” he said. “I don’t tolerate cheats in my establishments—you can rest assured that I will deal with him. As for the other one, I’ll make sure he doesn’t come near Kit or his friend ever again.” His smile was tight. “He’s in considerable debt to me, and I can make his life extremely uncomfortable.”

  Henry wasn’t sure what Bartlett's connection to Kit was, but he nodded, resolving to ask Kit later.

  Sharp sighed. “I should have insisted on dealing with Bartlett myself. Kit’s got balls, to be sure, but
not much by the way of muscle to back up his heroic tendencies.” He jerked his head in Kit’s direction. “So, are you planning to take him home, your grace? He’s not fit to find his own way back—if you can’t—”

  “I’ll take him home,” Henry said firmly.

  “Who’s Kit?” Freddy asked, then, looking in the direction of Henry’s gaze, said wonderingly, “wait, do you mean Mrs. Marsden’s brother?”

  Mrs. Marsden? Wasn’t that Kit’s friend, Clara?

  Sharp glanced between them. “I can see some explanations are required, however, I really do think Kit needs to be taken home without delay.”

  Henry nodded.

  “And he’ll need to be watched tonight,” Sharp said. “If you can’t stay with him, tell me now and I’ll—”

  “I’ll stay with him,” Henry bit out.

  Sharp looked faintly amused at his tone. “Very well.”

  Henry felt himself flush. Trying to ignore the betraying heat, he turned to Freddy. “Can you help me get him out to the carriage?”

  Freddy nodded, though his puzzled expression did not fade, indeed, it had changed now into something more wary.

  “Good night, gentlemen,” Sharp said. “I’m sure all will be well by morning.”

  Henry nodded his thanks then returned to Kit’s side, Freddy on his heels.

  Kit now had his head leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed.

  “Kit?” Henry said worriedly, crouching down again. “How are you?”

  “Other than a headache and feeling like I’m about to cast up my accounts, I feel as fine as fivepence,” Kit mumbled without opening his eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” Henry said. “We’ll get you home and into bed.”

  “Hmmm,” Kit replied, eyes still closed. “Is that a promise?”

  Henry’s face flamed. Christ, what must Freddy think? He couldn’t even bring himself to look. Instead he cleared his throat, becoming all business. “Let’s get you up then,” he said heartily. “Freddy, you take his right arm and I’ll take his left.”

  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?”

  “That was Bartlett?” Henry asked, horrified.

  Kit nodded “Peter is his natural child—not that he’ll ever recognise the boy. Clara recently approached Bartlett and asked him to contribute money to Peter’s upbringing. He didn’t take it well.”

  Henry stared at Kit. He could just about make out his features now that his vision had adjusted to the darkness, and Kit’s expression was tight with anger.

  “She shouldn’t have approached him,” Kit said. “She knew what he was like.”

  “Then why did she?” Henry asked curiously.

  “Peter has a weak chest. The doctor told Clara she needs to move him to the country and she realised she would have to stop working at Redford’s to do that. So, she decided to try to get the money she needed from Bartlett—and he reacted by sending thugs after her.”

  “And is this where we come to why you were at Sharp’s tonight?” Henry guessed.

  Kit’s soft laugh was rueful. “It is.”

  “You went to see Bartlett? Why? To ask for the money for Clara?”

  “Christ, no!” Kit exclaimed, rising up on his elbow. “I would not sink to the level of that slug by blackmailing him
. I’ve already told Clara not to worry about money again—she and Peter are family to me, and I will always provide for him. I went to Sharp's tonight with the sole intention of forcing Bartlett to leave Clara alone by publicly confronting him.” He gave a dismissive snort then. “Besides, he’s got no money. His father has some wealth, it’s true—though it’s mostly tied up in land—but I expect Bartlett will run though that within a year or two of his sire passing on.”

  Henry gazed at Kit, who was now settling himself back down onto his pillow. His strategy had been well thought out. He was a clever man, and a principled one. Brave, too. He didn’t need to stick his neck out for Clara and Peter, but he did it because he thought it was the right thing to do—and because he’d taken responsibility for a little boy who was not his own son.

  Henry was rocked by an unexpected wave of emotion that had him swallowing painfully against a sudden lump in his throat.

  When he had himself under control again, he said, “Clara and Peter are very lucky to have you.”

  Kit’s expression softened. “I’m lucky to have them,” he said. “Given how Peter was conceived, one might think—” he broke off, shaking his head minutely—“but despite everything, Clara’s devoted to him. She is the best of mothers.”

  Henry watched Kit, fascinated, trying to interpret his expressions. After a moment, he said, carefully, “Was your mother… not like that?”

  Kit made a soft noise of amusement. “Actually, my mother was very indulgent—very affectionate.” He smiled. “But she was also rather…” He trailed off, as though unsure how to finish.

  Henry stayed quiet, waiting as Kit thought.

  “Life was not kind to her,” Kit said at last. “And it is hard to be strong when life always beats you down.” He paused, and again, Henry waited, sensing there was more to come. There was something about the darkness that made it easier to share one’s thoughts.

  “She conceived me with a client,” Kit said at last. “She didn’t ever tell me who the man was. She may not have known. She’d been pregnant before and got rid of the babe, but for some reason, she decided to keep me.”