Dropping the pistol and shoving his cane to the loop on his greatcoat, Rakecombe drew his own blade hidden beneath his many layers.
The other lowlife had a dagger and flipped it from hand to hand as villains were wont to do in a display of pitiful bravado.
Black hair flopped over the pug-nosed man’s forehead, and Rakecombe noted that although his clothes were down at heel, they were not the common blackguard variety either.
Groaning came from the filthy cobbles, but he concentrated on the dagger in front of him which flashed then hid as a lantern shuddered in the breeze, casting dark shade and flickering light.
He waited.
The villain struck, impatient as they always were, and Rakecombe veered, slicing out before swirling around, readied in a curved stance.
“Fils de pute,” pug nose spat, and dread snaked in his stomach. It could be no coincidence that a Frenchman stalked this same street on this night.
Now it was Rakecombe who’d little patience, and diving forward, he deftly grabbed the man’s thin wrist whilst striking him fully in the face with the hilt of his dagger. He needed this Frenchman alive.
A tinge of pain grazed his own arm but ignoring it, he slammed in another clout and twisted pug nose’s wrist until he shrieked, knife clattering to the ground, and Rakecombe was forced to release him.
“Morceau de merde,” the whoreson cried defiantly, kicking out before scuttling away, tugging his accomplice with him.
Another chilling groan prevented Rakecombe from giving chase, the agonised voice recognisable, and he kneeled in the grime to tend to the fallen man.
“Bluey?” With desperation, he grabbed his collar. “Can you hear me? Where are you hurt?”
“Stomach… Can’t…”
Rakecombe cursed, not able to see the wound in this dimly lit street, but well able to feel the warm liquid seeping over his fingers. Depending on where the knife had entered, a gut wound could be fatal, and he unwound his cravat, stuffing it in wherever he could feel and then binding it tight around his midriff.
“Take me to…” Bluey reached out a bloodied hand and pulled Rakecombe’s head near, whispering, “Charles Street… Drury Lane. Six…find Harry–”
Nothing could be done here, so he hauled him over his shoulder as gently as he could, Bluey grunting in pain nevertheless before falling as a dead-weight – probably for the best as Drury Lane was a fair distance over someone’s shoulder with a wound to the gizzards.
He strode briskly, feeling wary eyes upon him from cramped doorways and squalid windows. Some scraggy harlot shot out of his way, her dull gaze having seen it all before.
A night long past invaded his thoughts, when the body in his arms hadn’t been a wounded man but his lifeless sister.
He shook his head. A whimper from Bluey.
Dwelling on long-ago errors did little except bring forth more anger, more sorrow. He set his mind to work, questions burning.
How had they found out about the assignation? What information did Bluey have? Was this Stafford’s doing?
Finally, he turned down Charles Street and number six emerged. Not a hovel but a clean-looking place with large shutters and a solid entrance.
The abode was so tightly bolted that no light glimmered around the edges of its wooden protection, and he hammered on the door for what seemed an eternity until a slat drew back. Candlelight momentarily blinded him before an eye peered out.
“What d’yer want?” a harsh voice snapped.
“Bluey’s hurt. He asked for this house.” The eye didn’t blink or move. “We’re looking for Harry?”
With that, the slat thumped shut and then came the sound of a dozen or so bolts being pulled. He was dragged into the house and the door slammed behind him.
In front stood…
A pretty woman, slender, with a long blond plait falling over one shoulder, clothed in a white gown and wrap, the lantern light causing an angelic glow. Distress and terror lit her eyes before she straightened her shoulders and bustled them into another room.
He laid Bluey on the ample couch whilst the woman dashed to a cupboard and collected a bunch of white linens.
Blood drenched Bluey’s jacket and Rakecombe threw off his own coat, pulling his knife out. The woman halted in her step but rushed once more as he began divesting Bluey of his clothes, slitting the material in one swoop.
