“Excellent point, brother.” Jasper withdrew a sinister-looking blade from his boot. “Don’t think I recall a date for the promise to begin. Mayhap it’ll be tomorrow.”
Old man Bradley spied them and came running toward them like an angry bull.
“It had better be tomorrow,” Hart said, pulling out his own blade in case it came down to that.
Fists usually sufficed with the Bradleys, but a chap never knew. And it was always wise to possess more weapons than one’s opponent.
Jasper threw himself into the commotion first, fists flying as he caught one of the Bradley brothers in the jaw.
Wolf lowered his shoulder and connected with Papa Bradley, leaving him coughing and doubled over as the wind was knocked from his lungs.
Hart slipped into the fracas himself, landing a blow to aid Randall in defending himself from a different, knife-wielding Bradley. One kick to the hand was all it took, and the blade clattered to the ground. Randall pressed his advantage, delivering a quick blow to his opponent’s midsection.
“Coming at you from behind!” the guard warned Hart in just enough time.
Hart spun around as another Bradley barreled toward him. There was not sufficient time to avoid contact, so he lowered his shoulder, connecting with his opponent in a painful clash. Thankfully, he stayed on his feet, despite the force of the blow. He had the advantage of a taller, broader form over the Bradley he was facing.
“Christ there are a lot of you,” Hart muttered, wondering how many sons Old Man Bradley had. They all had a look to them that was unmistakable: beady eyes, long noses, dark hair that was as long and thin as it was greasy.
“Bleeding Sutton bastards!” snarled the Bradley, twirling his blade in his hand as he squared off with Hart. “You killed Abe, and now I’m going to make you easy, you fucking arsehole.”
Abraham Bradley.
The dead man was not just a cull working for the Bradleys. He was a bleeding Bradley himself, and if memory served, Abe had been the second eldest.
These shocking realizations hit him the moment before the Bradley opposite him struck, arm wielding the blade raised high with the intention to make him easy—kill him—just as he had claimed. Hart feinted to his left and landed a fist to the bastard’s jaw instead, doing his utmost to keep the blade from slicing through his flesh.
In the next instant, another body came hurtling into his. Fiery pain sparked through him, but he was a machine now, fists pummeling, body ready to protect and defend. This was his bleeding territory, his family, their livelihood. And he would fight to the death if necessary.
* * *
Something was wrong.
Emma did not entirely understand the cant of the East End, but she could well appreciate the gist of what the man in the hall had been saying when he had interrupted the heated moment between herself and Hart. She had told herself it was a reprieve, that she should be grateful. But she could not seem to quell the steadily rising fear he was at risk.
Unless she was mistaken, put to bed with a mattock did not sound like a particularly auspicious method of description for the gentleman who was outside and had been tucked up with a spade. No indeed, she was reasonably certain the man in question was dead.
But dead how?
Murdered, she would suspect, for there had been a mention of the watchmen.
A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the cold fire in the grate, long since sputtered out. Thanks to the mantel clock, she knew at least two hours had passed since Hart had left. She had occupied her time by changing into another of the gowns his sister had kindly provided. She owed poor Lily a new gown, and she was not certain how she was going to offer recompense, considering she did not have a ha’penny to her name.
Frowning, arms clasped about her waist, she paced the length of the chamber for what seemed like the hundredth time. She had already memorized every detail, from the angle of the chair settled before his inelegant writing desk, its legs slightly battered from overuse, to the inkwell and jaunty quill, to how many pieces of paper were within the drawer, and even the positioning of the spine on the lone volume of poetry by the bed. The spine was worn, nearly cracked from what must have been frequent readings over the course of many nights.
She had caught herself wondering if he read in his bed at night by a candle. Or if he read in the morning, if he began his day with a poem before greeting the sun. How fanciful a notion it was, and utterly at odds with everything she knew of Mr. Hart Sutton thus far. And yet, the little book of poetry was there, near his bed, within arm’s reach. What a conundrum he was, a complex mix of cold and harsh, yet tender and considerate. He was the man who had torn her dress from her body in his desire for her, and yet he was also the same man who had given her his bed whilst he slept on the floor.
But where was he?
She…missed him. The realization startled her, nearly tripped her in her circumnavigation of the chamber as she ground to a halt. She missed Hart. She had known him for scarcely any time, and yet, in this strange new world of hers, he was the only familiar part.
What if something terrible had happened to him as well? If a man had been murdered, as she feared, what would that mean for Hart? She paced to the window, but as before, her view contained only a sea of passing carriages and figures. Night would soon descend, but there was no sign of either Hart or any of the guards or others she had seen thus far.
She could not bear to keep waiting.