Momentarily surprised, then realizing he’d been thwarted, Nunsworth bellowed with rage.
Kit grabbed the tongs and spun as Nunsworth raised the bar again—this time angling to where Sylvia cowered, her other hand still tied to the railing despite her frantic tugging.
His features contorted with black fury, Nunsworth started a vicious downward swing—aiming at the back of Sylvia’s head.
Kit lunged between Sylvia and Nunsworth.
With the tongs gripped between his hands, Kit caught the iron bar on the tongs’s long handles.
The force behind the blow drove him down to one knee, but he gritted his teeth, straightened his arms and braced them, then surged upward, to his feet, flinging Nunsworth back.
Nunsworth staggered, but didn’t fall. He shrieked in frustration and, this time swinging the bar from the side, eyes slitted in fury, came for Kit.
Again, Kit caught the bar on the tongs, the force jarring through his arms and shoulders.
Nunsworth shrieked like a banshee and fell into a frenzy, hammering down blows so quickly it was all Kit could do to meet them.
He couldn’t turn the tide. In strength, he and Nunsworth were evenly matched, at least with Nunsworth in a destructive fury. All Kit could do was grit his teeth and pray the man’s energy flagged soon.
Where was Smiggs?
Through the all-but-continuous clangs as Kit fended off Nunsworth’s assaults, Kit heard banging—on the front door.
Nunsworth had barred it; Smiggs couldn’t get through.
Then Nunsworth jerked and staggered forward half a step.
Sylvia was still frantically trying to get her right hand free. From her position behind Kit, with her gaze trained on the battle and a prayer on her lips that the demented beast that was Nunsworth wouldn’t break through Kit’s dogged guard, she caught sudden movement in the shadows. On a blink of disbelief, she saw the lad from earlier wielding a metal pole; he’d whacked Nunsworth across the back of his legs with it.
But Nunsworth regained his footing. Now even closer to Kit, Nunsworth clenched his teeth in a rictus grin and brought the iron bar down with punishing force.
Kit got the tongs up just in time, catching the bar on the long iron handles with a deafening clang.
Then the muscles in Kit’s arms bunched, and once again, he flung Nunsworth back.
Before Nunsworth could recover, Ollie—Ollie!—rushed past Kit. Arms extended, with all his boy’s might, Ollie shoved Nunsworth in the chest.
Just as the lad swung his pole, this time, catching Nunsworth squarely across the backs of his knees.
Nunsworth teetered, but still didn’t fall.
Sylvia saw her chance; she could just reach. She slid down and lashed out with her bound feet, sweeping Nunsworth’s boots from beneath him.
His expression dissolving into one of shock, Nunsworth toppled backward. Arms flailing, the iron bar flying from his grasp, he lost his balance and fell heavily on his back.
Before anyone else could move, another slight figure darted in, and Ned upended a metal pail of ashes, pail and all, over Nunsworth’s head.
Coughing and spluttering, Nunsworth collapsed on the floor. Ned had shoved the pail down hard, and it appeared to be stuck on Nunsworth’s head. The pail thudded on the floor as Kit’s groom rushed up.
Kit glanced back at Sylvia. Her gaze was locked on Nunsworth. She was—thank God—unhurt.
He looked at Smiggs, who had run around and entered via the rear hatch, then at the three boys—all standing around their fallen foe as if daring him to try to get up.
Nunsworth obliged and tried to struggle up—and Jack thumped the pail hard with his rod. Nunsworth yelped and fell back, and all three boys smiled grimly.
Kit felt the tension of battle leaching from him. He lowered the tongs. “Well done, boys! Keep an eye on him.”
Their gazes ferociously intent, they did; not one of the three even glanced at Kit to acknowledge the order.