Almost of its own volition, his hand found the cane resting against the wall next to him. He bashed the brass topper against the man’s head. Only his aim missed, and he bashed the side of the attacker’s shoulder instead. The knife the man held clattered to the ground though.
“Hey! Get off him,” another voice yelled out.
Hart and his attacker both turned their heads toward the sound. A carriage had pulled up, and three men dressed in evening clothes were emerging from its dark interior.
The hand on his shoulder disappeared. So did the man attached to it, vanishing into the shadows like vapor. Hart placed a hand against the tearing pain in his side. Warm and wet; he was definitely bleeding. The three gentlemen who had saved him approached. Relief poured through him at their familiar faces.
Danvers was the first to speak. “Good god, man. Are you all right?”
Hart pulled his hand back and stared at the blood covering it. “I don’t think so.”
“Shit. Hartwick, is that you?” Quincy gripped his arm to steady him.
“It’s him. Quick, get him back inside.”
“No, get my driver. Don’t want to make a scene.” The idea of going back inside the club, bleeding all over the expensive carpets, was horrifying. He didn’t want any more attention than he’d already endured this evening.
“Nonsense.” He grabbed Hart’s other arm. “We’ll go in here at the back and shuttle you to a private room. The manager will call a doctor. I’m not putting you in a carriage injured.” Danvers and Quincy muscled him back through the back door to the club.
“Jesus, Hartwick. I didn’t even hear that you were back in town. Where have you been?” Danvers asked when they were safely in one of the many private lounges the club offered.
“Recovering,” Hart wheezed out. Fuck, his right side throbbed.
Danvers’s gaze raked over him. Then he reached forward to pull back Hart’s jacket. His lips pursed together in a thin line. “I had no idea the extent of your injuries. No one did. You just disappeared.”
Hart batted his hands away.
“I just need to see how bad. Was it a knife?”
“Yes. Leave it. It’s fine,” Hart growled. He didn’t want anyone touching him.
Quincy walked into the room. “The doctor is being sent for. Heyward went to tell your coachman what’s happened. I ordered us a bottle of whisky.”
The idea of more alcohol made Hart’s stomach roil. He closed his eyes against the sensation. When he opened them, both men had taken seats across from him and were staring at him.
“What?” Hart said testily.
The two exchanged a look.
Danvers shrugged. “Nothing.”
Hart sighed. He might as well get this over with. They wouldn’t let it go for long. “Listen, the blast that killed Lord Galey also hit me.” He gestured to the right side of his face. “This is from the shards of exploding crockery. And the burns cover much of my right side.”
“Shit,” Quincy muttered.
A sharp knock rang out, and the door opened. A servant hurried into the room with a bottle of whisky and four glasses on a tray. The man pulled out a folded towel and handed it to Hart. “Press this against the wound until the doctor arrives.”
Hart unbuttoned his waistcoat and peeled it back to see the extent of the knife wound. His white shirt was soaked with blood, so there was no way to see how bad the cut was. He gratefully took the towel and did as he was told. It hurt like hell, but the throbbing abated somewhat. His alcoholic haze was quickly draining, leaving his head throbbing along with his side. Where was Thomas? He wanted to go home.
“Hart, when did you get back into town?” Danvers asked.
“Last week.”
“You should have sent around a note. Lots has happened. We’d be happy to have a drink and fill you in.”
“I’m not really ready to step back into society.” Hart raised a hand, gesturing widely to his person.
“What? Because of the scars? We don’t care about that. Besides, at least we’ll have a chance with the ladies now that you’re so ugly.” Quincy guffawed.
