Downie’s lantern swung, scattering speckles of light onto the wet cobbles. “No one would ever find ’em, Captain. They know that too.”
“Ah.”
I thought of the terror in the eyes of our assailants before they’d bolted. Gibbons might be past his prime, but I agreed with the men he’d chased away. If I wanted to find a likely murderer, I should look no further than Mr. Gibbons.
Mr. Downie helped patch up Brewster in Denis’s kitchen. I’d never been below stairs in this house and gazed about with interest.
The kitchen was no different than those in most in Mayfair homes—a square room with a fireplace and several ovens, a worktable, and a dresser filled with crockery. Pots of gleaming copper hung from a rack near the fireplace. A fire crackled on the hearth, warming the kitchen, and roasting a large hunk of meat, even at this hour.
The cook was a large man, as hard and formidable as the others, with gnarled hands and a granite-like face. I’d once watched Denis tuck into a meal upstairs that had looked exquisite, and any morsel I’d eaten in Denis’s houses had been tasty indeed. This man, as much as he resembled a troll from Scandinavian tales, apparently had great talent.
Denis was not at home, Gibbons had informed me coldly when we’d entered, which explained why the large Robbie hadn’t been sent out to interfere. Robbie usually accompanied Denis everywhere.
Gibbons had sent us downstairs and said no more about the matter, but I could see he was greatly put out for having to rescue us.
Downie competently bandaged Brewster’s cuts, ignoring hisses and grunts as he wiped blood and gravel from Brewster’s wounds.
“They never should have struck at you here,” Downie said as he worked. “His Nibs will have something to say to Mr. Arthur about it.”
“You know for certain they were Arthur’s ruffians?” I asked, though I’d concluded as much.
Every man in the room, including Brewster, nodded.
“He’s looking to take over,” the cook rumbled as he basted the roast that turned slowly on its spit. “Not that we’ll let ’im.” There were angry murmurs of agreement.
Denis had certainly hired a loyal bunch.
“Will they make trouble for you all?” I asked. “For coming to my aid? What I mean is, are you safe here?”
Downie let out a laugh, though the cook scowled. “They won’t bother us in this house,” Downie said. “They’d have left you alone entirely if you’d made for it instead of turning to fight them.”
“Which is why Gibbons looked so annoyed,” I said. “Though Arthur’s men didn’t give us much choice.”
“Mr. Gibbons is always annoyed,” the cook said. “He’s a bad man to cross, Captain. I’d stay on the good side of him were I you.”
I was astonished to hear Gibbons had a good side, but I held my tongue.
Brewster winced as Downie touched a cloth to the cut under his eye. “They were fools to put most on me and underestimate you,” Brewster said to me. “Also to engage in battle right under Mr. Gibbons’ nose. Mr. Arthur is going to give them a ragging, I shouldn’t wonder.”
The men in the room chuckled, except for the cook, who only frowned at his roast.
“All done.” Downie ceased torturing Brewster and tied the last bandage. “Let your lady wife finish up. The tongue-lashing Arthur gives his blokes will be nothing to what Mrs. Brewster will do to you, Tommy.” He chortled. “Want a room for the night?”
“Em understands what I go through guarding the Captain,” Brewster said without worry. “’Course, he might want to keep clear of her for a while.”
“Very amusing,” I said into the general laughter. “I’ll send you home in a hackney, Brewster, with some of Donata’s fine tea to ease her temper.”
“Em recognizes a bribe when she’s offered one,” Brewster said. “But she won’t say no to it.” He heaved himself to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
Downie and Stout escorted Brewster and me safely to the South Audley Street house. I heard no one follow us, nor did I note any lurkers in the shadows, but I felt better once the door had closed behind me and Brewster.
Donata had not yet returned from the theatre, though I hadn’t expected she would. I gave Brewster the promised tea and had an agile footman run to bring around a hackney for him.
Once Brewster was gone, I let a concerned Bartholomew fuss over me, though the bruises I’d sustained were minor. Donata returned without mishap a few hours later, she becoming agitated when she heard my tale. She took over care of me from Bartholomew, and I happily let her.
The next morning, I rose later than usual, my muscles sore from what Brewster had called a good scrap. I’d thrown off such things as a younger man, but time’s winged chariot was hurrying near, as a poet once wrote.
Even so, I fell upon my breakfast hungrily, intending to work in a ride this morning, no matter what.
