Both men at the table advanced on me. The fellow with the candle had stuck it into a holder, and he too produced a cudgel. The other man already had his knife.
Mr. Hawes made a squeak of fear, but I doubt it was on my behalf. He must be wondering what they’d do to him once they were finished with me.
All three rushed me at once, giving me no time to run. If I could find my walking stick, I could perhaps hold my own, but the odds of me stumbling across where it had been hidden were small.
I did know how to fight without a weapon—I’d had to batter my way free of sticky situations on battlefields after I’d lost carbine, pistol, and saber. I’d also taken lessons in boxing in the last few years in Gentleman Joe’s rooms and learned a more brutal version of pugilism from Brewster. However, I’d not had to fight three armed men from the back streets of London, in the dark, with a knee still weak from a long-ago injury.
Blows rained down at me. I blocked them the best I could, feeling the knife blade cut through my greatcoat to my forearm. I dove under reaches to punch, balancing on my good leg to kick. I managed to stomp on one man’s foot—mostly by accident—but I increased the pressure on his boot, making him dance away with a curse.
But it was a most uneven battle. I ended up simply trying to shield my face and take the worst of the hits on my shoulders and back. One blow caught my bad knee, and I went down in an ungraceful heap.
I knew they’d not kill me, as Arthur had promised. But they’d beat me until I could barely crawl away. I might not be able to find my way out of this cellar at all and die here anyway.
A burst of light stabbed my eyes, and shouting echoed from the stone walls. I remained on the floor, my knees drawn up, head down.
The blows mercifully ceased, and I heard the thump of boots fading into the darkness.
Then came Brewster’s voice, shouting invectives that would make the most jaded soldier flinch. More heavily tramping feet went after the first set.
Wax dripped to my skin, stinging. Someone had brought the candle over to me.
I looked up to see the gaunt features of Gibbons brushed by candlelight against the shadows behind him.
“Get him on his feet,” Gibbons barked.
Hands reached for me. One set belonged to Downie, who peered at me in worry. The other pair was Bartholomew’s.
“Thank you, Bartholomew,” I said, my voice a faint rasp. “Mr. Downie. Mr. Gibbons. Most timely.”
Downie and Bartholomew heaved me up but had to hang onto me so I didn’t fall again.
Bartholomew took in Hawes on the table and the remains of his bloody shirt. “What happened to him?” he asked in shock.
I strove to catch my breath, my body throbbing. “He was stabbed by his mates. Let that be a lesson about what friends you trust.”
Neither Downie nor Bartholomew laughed, but I suspect they could barely understand what I was saying.
“We’ll help him, don’t you worry,” Downie assured me.
“I have something to ask him first.” I hobbled, with Bartholomew’s and Downie’s aid, over to the table.
Hawes raised his head, his face colorless in the wavering candlelight. “You all right, Captain?”
“I will be, no thanks to you.” I heard the snarl in the words and reined in my temper with effort. “You can make it up to me by doing me a favor.”
“Of course,” Hawes whispered.
“My friends will get you patched up.” My voice was cracked, but I forced it to work. “Then you will send a message to Pickett’s murderer and instruct him to meet you at Mr. Christie’s shop in Finsbury Square.”
Hawes regarded me in abject terror. “But he’ll kill me.”
“We will be there to prevent that,” I assured him. “Tell him you want your share of the winnings, or you’ll be off to reveal all to Mr. Spendlove. Which you will be if you do not undertake this for me. Do you understand?”
I was amazed my demand held the strength it did, but my resoluteness came from anger at Arthur, Hawes, the man who’d killed Pickett, and Pickett himself for being such a fool.
My adamance reached Hawes. “Yes,” he croaked.
Then his head slumped forward, and he collapsed into a dead faint.
