Bartholomew had to assist me up the stairs of the cellar I’d been imprisoned in and out into a lane I didn’t recognize. The light was failing, not because the hour was late, but because of rainclouds rolling in. Spring weather in London was fickle.
Denis’s coach waited at the mouth of the lane, and Bartholomew bundled me into it. Gibbons, who’d followed us, called up to the driver a direction I couldn’t hear, and then he strode away, going I knew not where.
The road we rumbled down was unfamiliar to me but then the carriage turned, taking us into Jermyn Street.
“Where the devil was I?” I asked Bartholomew. London-born, he had the layout of the metropolis embedded in him.
“Bury Street. Or rather, rooms under a house there.”
“Whose house?” Bury Street was in the heart of St. James’s, which had once been the area of utmost fashion, before Mayfair rose to take its place.
Bartholomew shrugged. “Who knows? Most have been turned into clubs or flats. I doubt the gents in the rooms above even know that cellar is there. It was walled off, as though separated from the house long ago.”
Interesting. Likely Arthur had discovered the hidden space and commandeered it for his own purposes. Hawes had known to run there in attempt to escape me.
I’d hoped the carriage was taking me home, but Gibbons must have ordered it to Curzon Street. We halted before Denis’s house, and Downie and Bartholomew helped me from the coach and inside.
I was taken to the kitchen again, where Downie began to doctor my wounds. Denis was nowhere in evidence.
Brewster arrived as the large cook had one hand on my head to steady me, while Downie stitched up a deep cut on my face.
“Should have waited for me, guv,” was the first thing Brewster growled as he entered.
“I did not believe Mr. Hawes would pose me any trouble.” I grimaced as Downie tugged painfully at the threads. “I wasn’t aware he was in league with Mr. Arthur.”
“Found this.” Brewster held up my walking stick, which I was grateful to see. It had been a gift from Donata, and I was very fond of it. “Next time, use it.”
“Thank you,” I said gravely. “I will try to remember.” Downie snorted a laugh, but Brewster’s scowl deepened.
“We couldn’t catch the blokes,” Brewster informed me. “They have their secret routes. Hideaway’s too close to His Nibs’ territories for me comfort.”
“His Nibs will have to attend to that without me,” I said. Downie tied off the stitching with patient fingers, and I winced again. “What has become of Mr. Hawes?”
“Upstairs.” Brewster pointed above our heads. “Surgeon sent for.”
If he meant the quiet, bald surgeon who was rather a genius, then Hawes would be well looked after. The fact they hadn’t waited for the surgeon to tend me meant they knew I’d mend without trouble. Many of Denis’s men were former pugilists used to wounds, knowing which were serious and which were minor.
“I need to speak to him,” I told Brewster.
“Finished.” Downie broke the last thread and stepped back, the cook releasing me.
I rose, my legs wobbling—I was grateful for the walking stick to steady me. I thanked Downie, who took my words cheerfully, and made my way upstairs, Brewster following.
Bartholomew hovered in the hall. I gave him an instruction, which he leapt away to fulfill, and then I continued up the stairs. Brewster stayed close by my shoulder as though ready to catch me if I fell.
Another of Denis’s large men guarded a door at the end of the landing on the second floor. He admitted us into a chamber where Hawes had been tucked into a bed. Hawes regarded me with red-rimmed eyes over the covers, his cheeks ashen.
“Am I done for?” he rasped.
“Not at all.” I took a brisk tone. “A very competent surgeon will soon arrive to put you right. But you must write your message first, in case he pours laudanum down your throat and renders you senseless.”
Hawes looked as though he’d welcome a hefty dose of the opiate on the moment. “I can’t travel to Finsbury Square, Captain. I can’t even walk.”
“You won’t have to. I will go and intercept the man myself.”
Hawes nodded in agreement, though he was not happy. “What will become of me?”
I sank my weary body to a straight-backed chair next to his bed. In this house, even that was comfortable. “If you help me apprehend the murderer, I will ask Mr. Denis to be kind to you. The killer will be arrested, so there will be no more reason to fear him. You might reconsider trusting Mr. Arthur, however.”
