3. Chapter Three

Chapter three

H ugh awoke on the floor of a carriage. Blurry men spoke around him, their words jumbled and indecipherable. The back-and-forth rocking of the vehicle might have been comforting if his head wasn’t throbbing.

What in the bloody hell had happened?

The edges of his memory slowly filled in until a complete image formed. Someone had smashed him in the back of his skull with what was probably a pistol. Do not move, his mind whispered to the fingers itching to check his injury. If his captors knew he was awake, they might knock him out again. The bloody arsewipes.

As the voices became more coherent, he closed his eyes and concentrated.

“But we cannot take him to her ladyship right now. Not during the masquerade ball. ”

“We are to take him to the cellar. She will see him in the morning,” said another bloke.

Her ladyship ? A masquerade ball? What the bloody hell? Some aristocrat had him followed and knocked out? But who?

Squinting, he tried to peek out of one eye, a pointless endeavor in the dark.

Bollocks. This might just be the very worst day of his life. He had started his morning searching for a thief who’d stolen a horse when he witnessed a bloke punching a woman in the face. Hugh had given the devil a taste of his own medicine, rearranging his nose, depriving him of a few teeth, bruising his ribs, and breaking his leg. In his humble opinion, a man who beat on women deserved much worse. He’d given the woman all of his blunt and told her to start a new life. No female deserved to have a man raise his hand to her. Ever.

But no good deed goes unpunished, for later that afternoon, he had been called into his superior’s office for a dressing down and a warning. He’d been forced to hand over his weapon and threatened with termination at his next offense.

“You went too far, Fletcher. You always go too far. We’re bloody lawmen, not vigilantes,” Magistrate Jonathon Thomas declared. He’d insisted Hugh take a fortnight’s respite from work to ponder his priorities and get his shite together .

Thomas had gone so far as to waggle his index finger in Hugh’s face. “Fletcher, one more issue, and you will find yourself terminated.” He held out his palm. “Your weapon, please.”

Since Hugh had no other choice, he’d relinquished his pistol and left the magistrate’s office feeling like slug slime. Then came the real kick in the arse. His bloody landlord had locked him out of his own dwelling. Hugh tried to explain his current predicament and why he was behind on rent to no avail. In the end, he’d lost his temper and punched his landlord in the mouth. His possessions were probably ash by now.

Seeing as how he would continue to aggressively stand up to men who harmed women, children, and animals, he probably needed to find a different line of work. And the real bee in his trousers? He hadn’t caught the damnable horse thief.

Maybe he should return to Brighton and help his mother run their family’s seaside inn. Although, with his temper, he’d make a shite innkeeper.

The carriage halted. Keeping his lids pinched tight, Hugh remained limp as three men roughly dragged him from the vehicle. Cradling him from underneath, they carried him as if he were a corpse. Again, he tried to peer through a half-open eye.

An embroidered LSC emblem glittered in the moonlight. It seemed the arrogant Capes had captured him. He should have known. He would beat the bloody pricks to gory piles as soon as they let down their guard.

He internally moaned at his ridiculous need to win every battle. It was in his best interest to wait until they turned their backs. He would sneak off into the dark. Stealthy and fast. Yes, that was the plan.

“Hey, ye blimey fools, he’s ours,” someone hollered from in front of them.

Whoever had ahold of his torso let go, and Hugh’s head hit the ground.

“Fuck,” he grunted as his eyes popped open. So much for his captors thinking he was still incoherent.

“Move aside and let us pass,” the Cape who dumped him on his head said. “You do not want to cause a commotion during the party. Her ladyship will be highly displeased. ”

“We do not work for her ladyship, and his lordship wants him unharmed,” said the giraffe. “If we has to shoot you bloody arrogant fools between the eyes, we will.”

“Not if we shot you first.”

Hugh’s arse and calves hit the hard earth. He hissed in a breath and rolled to his side to watch the hubble-bubble.

The five men faced off, circling each other, their low stances ready to attack. He should be flattered that he was the center of such a rumpus, and if his head stopped thumping, he might find their peacocking and posturing amusing. The brouhaha juxtaposed against the elegant home in the background, lanterns twinkling while an orchestra played a lively tune, was positively Shakespearean.

The tall ruffian charged the man who seemed to be in charge of the Capes. Both men tumbled to the ground. The other Capes leaped upon the man with the silly mustache, punching him with violent force. He kicked high, sending one of his assailants backward.

While an all-out-five-man battle raged around him, Hugh should make his escape. He crawled onto his knees and pushed himself to stand. He steadied himself, and then he was off, sprinting across the lawn.

He did not slow down until he approached the main house. Fancily-clad guests in masks were everywhere. He crept along the tree line, searching for a place to hide.

“Ye blimey fuck weasels, the Bow Street Runner is gone,” someone yelled.

Hugh crouched behind a tree and planned his next move.