Voices drifted from the shop downstairs, snatches of laughter. I pulled myself slowly to my feet. Kitty was singing a ballad – loudly and somewhat off-key. A man begged her to spare his ears, and then they both laughed.
A shard of jealousy pierced my heart. It was John Eliot; I recognised his voice at once. Old, blissfully married, and round as a football. But still, he was alone with Kitty. I stole down the stairs, listening to their conversation. It was nothing – idle talk about the play and the devilish annoying people in the seats around them. I stood by the door and tortured myself for a few moments, even so. How could she sound so cheerful, when we had argued so badly just hours before? Did she not know that I had almost died tonight? That she could have come home to discover she had lost me for ever? Well, no. She did not know that, Tom. In fact you refused to tell her where you were going, if you recall.
Feeling somewhat foolish, I nudged open the door and bade them both a good evening.
‘Ah! Hawkins!’ Eliot exclaimed, rising to his feet and smiling warmly. They were seated at the table with a bottle of wine between them, lit only by a solitary candle.
‘So,’ Kitty said in a flat voice without turning around. ‘You are home.’ As if she did not care tuppence.
I took Eliot’s outstretched hand.
‘Brought her back for you, Hawkins,’ he said cheerfully, then lowered his voice. ‘She was in half a mind to stay with us tonight . . . Good God! ’ He squinted at me. ‘What’s wrong with your face, man?’
‘What’s this?’ Kitty scraped back her chair, then gasped in shock. ‘Tom!’ she cried, pushing Eliot aside and dragging me towards the candlelight. ‘Is that blood ?’ She touched my cravat, saw the deep gouges beneath. ‘Oh . . . You’re hurt . . .’
‘I’m fine,’ I sighed, secretly delighted.
‘Sam!’ she called and a dark figure released itself from the shadows. I had not even seen him hiding there. ‘Run across to Mrs Jenkins and fetch some ice. She took a load this morning.’ She pushed him from the room and ran half up the stairs. ‘Jenny!’ she yelled, in a voice that must have woken every Jenny in a five-mile radius. ‘Wake up! Mr Hawkins is hurt!’
A few minutes later I was settled on a low couch while Kitty washed the wounds at my throat with a scalding mix of brandy and hot water. I winced and gestured to the bowl. ‘Could I not drink that instead? It looks . . . medicinal.’
‘You’re filthy,’ she said, dabbing hard at one of the deeper cuts. ‘Have you been rolling around in the mud?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I was attacked in St James’s Park.’
Kitty’s brows rose sharply. ‘A highwayman?’
‘I’m not sure what he was. A mad man, perhaps.’
She nodded and continued tending my wounds. After a little while, she said, ‘I am a good, patient soul, am I not, Mr Eliot?’
Eliot had returned to the table, a glass of claret balanced on his fat belly. ‘A saint,’ he agreed.
‘Because I do know how you hate to be nagged , Tom. And of course I am not your wife, so it is not my place to ask, “and what took you to the park so late?” or “who did you expect to meet there?” It would be most indelicate of me to suggest that perhaps you should have taken me to the damned play this evening instead, as you bloody well promised. Gah!’ She scrubbed at a spot on my jaw. ‘Damn it. This dirt won’t come off.’
‘I think it’s a bruise,’ I said, weakly.
‘Oh. So it is.’ She stopped scrubbing. Touched her lips to it.
‘Kitty . . .’
‘This was James Fleet’s work, wasn’t it?’
I gave a small, grunt, admitting nothing.
‘It’s no great puzzle,’ Eliot called from the table. ‘Kitty mentioned your visit this afternoon . . .’
‘ . . . and then – all of a sudden – you had a secret, unexpected meeting,’ Kitty finished. She cupped a hand to my swollen jaw and held it there lightly.
A shard of jealousy pierced my heart. It was John Eliot; I recognised his voice at once. Old, blissfully married, and round as a football. But still, he was alone with Kitty. I stole down the stairs, listening to their conversation. It was nothing – idle talk about the play and the devilish annoying people in the seats around them. I stood by the door and tortured myself for a few moments, even so. How could she sound so cheerful, when we had argued so badly just hours before? Did she not know that I had almost died tonight? That she could have come home to discover she had lost me for ever? Well, no. She did not know that, Tom. In fact you refused to tell her where you were going, if you recall.
Feeling somewhat foolish, I nudged open the door and bade them both a good evening.
‘Ah! Hawkins!’ Eliot exclaimed, rising to his feet and smiling warmly. They were seated at the table with a bottle of wine between them, lit only by a solitary candle.
‘So,’ Kitty said in a flat voice without turning around. ‘You are home.’ As if she did not care tuppence.
I took Eliot’s outstretched hand.
‘Brought her back for you, Hawkins,’ he said cheerfully, then lowered his voice. ‘She was in half a mind to stay with us tonight . . . Good God! ’ He squinted at me. ‘What’s wrong with your face, man?’
‘What’s this?’ Kitty scraped back her chair, then gasped in shock. ‘Tom!’ she cried, pushing Eliot aside and dragging me towards the candlelight. ‘Is that blood ?’ She touched my cravat, saw the deep gouges beneath. ‘Oh . . . You’re hurt . . .’
‘I’m fine,’ I sighed, secretly delighted.
‘Sam!’ she called and a dark figure released itself from the shadows. I had not even seen him hiding there. ‘Run across to Mrs Jenkins and fetch some ice. She took a load this morning.’ She pushed him from the room and ran half up the stairs. ‘Jenny!’ she yelled, in a voice that must have woken every Jenny in a five-mile radius. ‘Wake up! Mr Hawkins is hurt!’
A few minutes later I was settled on a low couch while Kitty washed the wounds at my throat with a scalding mix of brandy and hot water. I winced and gestured to the bowl. ‘Could I not drink that instead? It looks . . . medicinal.’
‘You’re filthy,’ she said, dabbing hard at one of the deeper cuts. ‘Have you been rolling around in the mud?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I was attacked in St James’s Park.’
Kitty’s brows rose sharply. ‘A highwayman?’
‘I’m not sure what he was. A mad man, perhaps.’
She nodded and continued tending my wounds. After a little while, she said, ‘I am a good, patient soul, am I not, Mr Eliot?’
Eliot had returned to the table, a glass of claret balanced on his fat belly. ‘A saint,’ he agreed.
‘Because I do know how you hate to be nagged , Tom. And of course I am not your wife, so it is not my place to ask, “and what took you to the park so late?” or “who did you expect to meet there?” It would be most indelicate of me to suggest that perhaps you should have taken me to the damned play this evening instead, as you bloody well promised. Gah!’ She scrubbed at a spot on my jaw. ‘Damn it. This dirt won’t come off.’
‘I think it’s a bruise,’ I said, weakly.
‘Oh. So it is.’ She stopped scrubbing. Touched her lips to it.
‘Kitty . . .’
‘This was James Fleet’s work, wasn’t it?’
I gave a small, grunt, admitting nothing.
‘It’s no great puzzle,’ Eliot called from the table. ‘Kitty mentioned your visit this afternoon . . .’
‘ . . . and then – all of a sudden – you had a secret, unexpected meeting,’ Kitty finished. She cupped a hand to my swollen jaw and held it there lightly.
Similar Books
