Page 41 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
The first blow landed from nowhere, as he was closing the alley door silently behind him so as not to draw the attention of his landlady. More of a stumble really, a sharp strike against his leg. For a fleeting instant, Kit cursed himself for tripping over someone else’s rubbish in the gloom, unbalanced by his heavy bag. But stumbles didn’t push back or thump a second fist low in his belly, accompanied by a grunt. A hot flare of pain shot through his hip as he smacked against the damp wall. “What the…?” A third breathtaking whop to the small of his back had him lurching forwards.
“Oy! Get off!” Abandoning his bag, Kit thrashed indiscriminately at his unknown attacker, barrelling into him and knocking the other man off balance. For a moment, they scrapped, cheek to jowl, Kit’s head still reeling as he determinedly dodged the blows. Blood from a thick gash across his forehead spurted into his eye, and he lashed out half-blinded. One of his blows hit home as his assailant made a sound like a yelp, then hollered, bringing a new set of footsteps pounding down the alley.
Kit’s chest burned. The stink of the other man’s rank sweat mingled with the taste of his own blood. His attacker’s accomplice drew closer just as someone else shouted from the other end of the alley. Kit’s heart skipped with fear. One ruffian, he had a sparring chance against, two or three, and he was only staving off the inevitable.
The second man was bigger; Kit barely had time to brace before one swift boot to his flank had him breathing hard and choking on his own iron-tinged gobs of spit. A follow-up with an open fist, and Kit lost his footing completely, tumbling towards an ungainly sprawl across the cobbles.
The final lightning punch, a practised roundhouse swipe squarely on his temple as he was on the way down, he never even saw coming.
Chapter Twenty
“AN EXPRESS RIDERwaits in the parlour, my lord, with an urgent message for you. He’s ridden hell for leather from London.”
Exchanging a puzzled look with Lando, Pritchard took the proffered letter, roughly folded, from the trembling housemaid. Reassured that his beloved, rambunctious sons were in their usual high spirits, Lando would be taking to the road himself after a light breakfast. They were anticipating a leisurely ride, pausing for lunch during the change of horses and arriving back in Grosvenor Street with plenty of time to spare before nightfall. Lando was quite anticipating nightfall; he planned on spending it renewing and extending his acquaintance with Kit most thoroughly.
“Oh, God.” Pritchard clapped a hand over his mouth, his face ashen. “My lord, it’s from Jasper. We’re to come at once. Mr Angel has been attacked. He’s suffered a severe blow to the head. Your physician is tending to him now.”
For a second, Lando stared wide-eyed in disbelief before snatching at the note.A severe blow to the head? How could he have? Kit was staying at his house, sleeping in the rose bedchamber, and riding the grey mare in Regent’s Park. How on earth could he have been attacked?
But there it was in Jasper’s poor hand clear as day.
A severe blow to the head.
The paper fell from Lando’s fingers as a sudden tautness assailed his chest. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes, and he grabbed for the chair behind him, collapsing into it.His Kit, his darling Kit. For a sickening moment, as his thoughts tumbled into the abyss, Lando felt he might pass out.
Pritchard was first to gather his wits, turning to the housemaid. “You, girl. Send for a porter at once to help with the bags. Have the horses saddled and the earl’s carriage brought to the front. There’ll be a sovereign in it if we’re ready to leave within a quarter hour.”
Pritchard didn’t waste a second as the girl scurried away to begin tossing the remainder of their belongings into bags. Lando buried his face in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Now, now, my lord. We’ll have none of that.” Pritchard efficiently folded away Lando’s shaving things. “Your Mr Angel is made of strong stuff. He’s had Jasper’s boot on his backside twice and still come back for more. There weren’t many Frenchies who could boast that.”
“A severe blow to the head.” Lando could summon little more than a whisper. “That could mean…”
“It could mean nothing more than a cheerful clip round the ear,” Pritchard interrupted. “You know how Jasper overeggs the pudding. Mr Angel will be sitting up in bed drinking ale and demanding to know what all the fuss is about by the time we get there.” He held out Lando’s travelling coat. “If his lordship would please stand up, we can get this on and be on our way.”
Lando hoped to God Pritchard was right. Kit Angel brought lightness to his soul. He was like the sun, warming his bones from the inside out. With his charm, his touch, his kiss, his damned earring and ribbons, he’d driven darkness from Lando’s heart, taking his melancholia of the past three years with it. In a single, throbbing moment of sheer terror as Pritchard eased the coat around his trembling body, Lando knew love.
And was petrified of losing it.
“He will be fine, my lord. I promise.”
As Pritchard climbed into the carriage, he paused to address the inn’s groom. “The express rider. Tell him to take some food, exchange horses, then ride directly to Rossingley and ask for Mr Robert Langford. Mr Langford will see he’s well compensated for his efforts.” His eyes darted across to his employer, mutely folded in on himself in a corner of the landau, and Lando gave a tiny nod. “And ask him to tell Mr Langford to ride to his lordship’s London house with all haste.”
As roomy and comfortable as his crested carriage was, for once, Lando regretted they hadn’t travelled in the phaeton or on horseback. As he was needful of Pritchard’s comforting presence, his valet sat alongside him as the horses flew over ruts and swerved around bends back towards London. More than once, Lando’s tense gaze met the calm grey eyes of his loyal valet, drawing strength from them. It was all he could do not to clutch the other’s hand. Nonetheless, by the time they reached Grosvenor Street, he was more composed though no less concerned.
His butler, Hargreaves, greeted him at the door.
“Where is he?” Lando was already marching towards the sweeping staircase, barely breaking stride to remove his hat and gloves.
“In the rose bedchamber, my lord. The physician departed not an hour ago. He has left instructions for his care and will return tomorrow. Mr Angel’s condition remains unchanged.”
Thank goodness. So he was alive.
Lando, his heart thudding, was met with near darkness as he pushed open the door. Faded sunlight filtered through the draped windows, dappling the heavy oak bed moored in the middle of the room and casting long shadows over the man lain very still upon it. He froze in the doorway, not daring to take another step, trembling with fear at what he might find—a fear of the kind he’d hoped never to experience again.
“He’s going to live,” pronounced a gruff voice. “Daft pillock.”
Lando’s gaze swung to an armchair stationed near the head of the bed, finding Jasper in attendance.
