Page 17 of West End Earl
Blood dripped, metallic and thick on her tongue. Someone rolled her over like a limp doll, removing her coat, while someone else slipped her free from her waistcoat. Rough tugs at her feet left her lying in the street wearing nothing but torn trousers, a filthy lawn shirt, and a single glove. Blinking to focus, she attempted to identify her attackers. With this big of a group, it might be some of Merceron’s men after all.
“Takes a hit better than expected, eh? Who’d have thunk it from such a skinny rat,” said a gravelly voice. Another knock to the head threatened to take her under. A nervous chuckle made her force one eyelid open and narrow her gaze through the murky shadows crowding her vision.
“Nelson?”
The butcher’s son met her gaze for only a split second before shuffling back a few steps. “Sorry, Mr. Hardwick,” Nelson mumbled.
The last thought before she lost consciousness was that the butcher would hear about this tomorrow.
***
When she came to, considerably gentler hands were picking her up under the arms, carrying her inside. Mrs. Carver fretted in high, sharp tones somewhere nearby.
Not everything translated through the haze of throbbing pain, but Phee caught “Lad works for a fancy man. Take a message to Hill Street, by Berkeley Square. Lord Carlyle.”
Damn. She’d never hear the end of it from Cal. The man worried like a mother hen already, feeding her and clothing her in carefully curated donations of perfectly fine castoffs.
“No,” she tried to say. But her voice came out thready and feeble, too quiet to be heard over the din.
The shouted inquiries from her fellow building residents made her brain rattle in her skull, but their concern was sweet in a way. In some houses, everyone would have slammed their door shut, hoping to block the bad luck from rubbing off on them. Mrs. Carver ran a friendlier ship. People in this building tried to help one another with their resources or talents. Phee leaned heavily on one of the hands holding her, then lurched to her feet, using a wall for support when her body tried to tip the opposite direction.
“’M fine.”
“Ye sure, lad?” Ah, the helping hand belonged to Barry from downstairs.
Phee nodded, then immediately regretted it when it felt like her brain sloshed against the inside of her forehead. “Just need to sleep. Thank you for your help. Oh, and Barry? Did your brother write back yet?” Several residents of the building came to Phee to dictate letters to their sweethearts or family and have the replies read aloud. Barry’s brother usually replied within a month. She searched her aching head, trying to think of anything other than how much she bloody hurt. It had been six weeks since Barry’s last letter.
“This afternoon. Thank ye for asking after it in your condition. I’ll come around in a day or two if’n ye don’ mind.” Barry helped her unlock the door to her room when her hand scraped the key over the keyhole without sliding it in. “Here, lad. Ye rest now.”
Throwing the lock behind her, she swayed, then caught herself against the wall. Out of habit, even in her injured state, she made a cursory sweep of the room to make sure everything was as she’d left it. A bed, four walls, and a plain but sturdy wood chair with a mismatched tufted footstool by the fire composed the living space.
Adam Hardwick was a simple man living a simple life on a very strict budget. But only for a little while longer.
After pulling the drapes closed, Phee slumped in the chair. A few pokes in the fireplace brought heat blazing to life, and the warmth hit her body like a shock. She reached to remove her hat and came away empty. That was right. Her lovely new hat either topped someone from the gang or had rolled into the gutter. What a waste. With slow, deliberate motions, Phee removed her single glove finger by finger so as not to ruin the fine leather more than it already was. Then she stared at it. What the hell would she do with one glove?
The trousers fell into a pile by the fire. They’d have to wait for their cleaning, because her head was threatening to fall off. One ear hadn’t stopped ringing since the first blow. The shirt joined the trousers, leaving her in smalls and the linen wrap around her chest. Any other night loosening the linen would be a priority.
Not tonight. Tonight, her pillow held far more appeal than unbinding her breasts. If it weren’t for distinctly plump nipples that made their presence known through thin shirts, she could have gotten away without binding altogether. Pulling a blanket over her shoulders, Phee fell into oblivion.
***
“Damned little fool.” The words were rough, but the hands accompanying them were gentle as he smoothed her hair back from the place she’d been hit.
Cracking one eye open, Phee winced to see Cal standing over her. Mrs. Carver must have let him in, but there was no sign of her landlady now. The privileges of aristos, entering private homes by nothing more than the power of their names. Cal turned around and retrieved a lantern. Lighting the wick, he lowered the light to her face.
She slammed her eyes closed. “Bloody hell, Cal. Get that away from me.”
“You need a doctor,” he said.
Oh God, not a doctor. People on the street might not look past a skinny frame and male clothing, but an actual examination of her body would mean the end of everything. The end of Adam. “No doctor.”
Cool air brushed her shoulders as Cal pulled the covers back, then paused.
Blast. The binding. Panic punched past the pain and the fog of sleep. Phee clutched at the blanket, trying to cover herself. Her head protested the movement.
“Already wrapped the ribs,” she mumbled. “I’ll be fine. Need to sleep. You didn’t have to come out here.”
“At least you managed that much,” he grumbled. “Where else did they hit you? Any stab wounds? Cuts or bullet holes?”
