Chapter Eight

H e chose a chair in the back—not to hide—just to observe others without being noticed. The walk inside and across the large room had fetched enough scrutiny to make him sweat. Heads had turned, and conversations stopped as men stared. Many gave him nods and greetings, but those were a blur as Hart focused on getting to the pair of leather armchairs in the back corner of the main room. Composing his features into a haughty mask of indifference was as natural as breathing. For once, Hart was grateful to his father for his strong, if distant, example of how the Duke of Hartwick should comport himself.

As he settled back into the chair, a servant appeared at his elbow, causing him to jolt embarrassingly.

“What can I get for you this evening?”

“Brandy, three fingers.” Why was he so damn jittery these days?

“Right away, Your Grace.”

Hart finally took stock of the room. Brooks’s main room was long and narrow. The green walls were lined with portraits of its founding members and large paintings of lush landscapes. Raucous laughter and colorful swearing travelled across the room from several large circular tables where men gathered to gamble away a pleasant evening. Along the edges were smaller clusters of chairs from which a low hum of conversation buzzed. Thick embroidered Turkish rugs covered the dark wood floors and muffled the constant murmur of voices. Hart had a membership at White’s as well but had always preferred the lively energy here at Brook’s.

His drink offered on a small silver tray appeared at his elbow. Hart took a large gulp of his favorite brandy. “Bring another along shortly.” The man nodded and disappeared. Hart took a more measured sip. Who was here tonight? No one he knew. Some men he recognized but did not socialize with. Wait, no, he’d recognize that bald spot anywhere—Comstock. His old friend sat at one of the large tables, his back to Hart. The men were playing cards, a large mound of coins piled in the middle of the table.

The man across from Comstock nodded toward Hart. Comstock twisted in his seat to glance over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed. Then he rose, swayed a bit on his feet for a moment before steadying, and began to walk toward Hart.

Hart straightened and finished off his drink. His friend looked more perplexed than threatening. Hart took that as a good sign. “Good evening, Comstock.”

Comstock came to a stop in front of him. “Hartwick, I didn’t know you were back in town. And it’s Galey now.”

“Yes, of course. My apologies, Lord Galey. Won’t you have a seat?” He gestured to the chair next to him.

Comstock hesitated but then sat down with a sigh. “I really want to hate you. But you look like shit.”

Taken aback, Hart said nothing for a moment. When he found his voice, he asked, “Why do you hate me?”

“Because you’re alive, and he is dead.”

“I did try to get him out of the carriage, but it all happened in a moment, and I was thrown back by the blast.”

“Can you tell me what happened? Why were you in my father’s carriage?”

Hart debated how much to tell him, but really, if anyone deserved to know the why of it, it was the man’s son. He glanced around the room. Anyone could observe the two of them talking, but they had some modicum of privacy from being overheard. Besides, the time for discretion was over; he wanted answers, and he didn’t care if people knew his suspicions.

“Your father asked me to meet him that night. He had answers for me surrounding the murder of my father and brother.”

Comstock’s eyes widened. “I thought they died in robbery.”

“I have had my suspicions about it being not a random act of thievery. Then I received the note from your father. He never got the chance to tell me the exact details just that he knew who did it, and he couldn’t live with the guilt of not telling the truth.”

“I don’t believe you.” His friend shook his head. “My father was incredibly honorable. He would never be a part of any murder.”

“I didn’t say he was a part of it. He said he knew who did it, and they were incredibly influential. That they had eyes and ears everywhere. Then the window of the carriage was smashed, and a crockery bomb sailed into the carriage. Your father yelled, ‘They know.’ I jumped out, turned to reach for him, and then the whole world exploded.” Hart reached for his second drink and drained the glass. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save him.”

Comstock was silent for several long moments. Then he turned his gaze to Hart. “I know you would have if you could have.” He gestured to Hart’s face. “Is this the worst of it?”

Hart shook his head. “No.”

Comstock nodded. He raised a hand at a passing attendant. “I’ll have what he is having.”

The attendant turned to Hart. “And for you, Your Grace?”

Hart nodded. When the servant left, Hart turned to Comstock. “I am going to find out who is responsible for these murders. I will have vengeance.”

A smile cracked open across Comstock’s face for the first time. “I have no doubt you will, Your Grace.”

*

Hart stumbled outside into the alley. Damn, he needed to piss. As he fumbled with the buttons on his falls, he lost his balance. Slapping a hand on the brick of the building, he cursed his friend. He’d forgotten how much that bastard could drink. He laid his head against his forearm and drained his bladder. Buttoning back up proved to be just as challenging. Hart peered around blurrily. Now, where was his carriage?

“Good evening, guv.” A gravelly voice came from behind him.

Hart tried to turn to face the voice but stumbled to the right. A sharp slice of pain seared his side. He yelped and jerked backward, his back hitting the wall.

“Stop moving, you,” the voice grumbled.

A large, meaty hand gripped his shoulder. Through a haze of alcohol and pain, Hart stared down at the dark hair that covered the man’s knuckles. This hand was going to kill him. This was how it would finally end. Damnation, Lucy had been right. He hated it when she was right.

Almost of its own volition, his hand found the cane resting against the wall next to him. He bashed the brass topper against the man’s head. Only his aim missed, and he bashed the side of the attacker’s shoulder instead. The knife the man held clattered to the ground though.

“Hey! Get off him,” another voice yelled out.

Hart and his attacker both turned their heads toward the sound. A carriage had pulled up, and three men dressed in evening clothes were emerging from its dark interior.

The hand on his shoulder disappeared. So did the man attached to it, vanishing into the shadows like vapor. Hart placed a hand against the tearing pain in his side. Warm and wet; he was definitely bleeding. The three gentlemen who had saved him approached. Relief poured through him at their familiar faces.

Danvers was the first to speak. “Good god, man. Are you all right?”

Hart pulled his hand back and stared at the blood covering it. “I don’t think so.”

“Shit. Hartwick, is that you?” Quincy gripped his arm to steady him.

“It’s him. Quick, get him back inside.”

“No, get my driver. Don’t want to make a scene.” The idea of going back inside the club, bleeding all over the expensive carpets, was horrifying. He didn’t want any more attention than he’d already endured this evening.

“Nonsense.” He grabbed Hart’s other arm. “We’ll go in here at the back and shuttle you to a private room. The manager will call a doctor. I’m not putting you in a carriage injured.” Danvers and Quincy muscled him back through the back door to the club.

“Jesus, Hartwick. I didn’t even hear that you were back in town. Where have you been?” Danvers asked when they were safely in one of the many private lounges the club offered.

“Recovering,” Hart wheezed out. Fuck, his right side throbbed.

Danvers’s gaze raked over him. Then he reached forward to pull back Hart’s jacket. His lips pursed together in a thin line. “I had no idea the extent of your injuries. No one did. You just disappeared.”

Hart batted his hands away.

“I just need to see how bad. Was it a knife?”

“Yes. Leave it. It’s fine,” Hart growled. He didn’t want anyone touching him.

Quincy walked into the room. “The doctor is being sent for. Heyward went to tell your coachman what’s happened. I ordered us a bottle of whisky.”

The idea of more alcohol made Hart’s stomach roil. He closed his eyes against the sensation. When he opened them, both men had taken seats across from him and were staring at him.

“What?” Hart said testily.

The two exchanged a look.

Danvers shrugged. “Nothing.”

Hart sighed. He might as well get this over with. They wouldn’t let it go for long. “Listen, the blast that killed Lord Galey also hit me.” He gestured to the right side of his face. “This is from the shards of exploding crockery. And the burns cover much of my right side.”

“Shit,” Quincy muttered.

A sharp knock rang out, and the door opened. A servant hurried into the room with a bottle of whisky and four glasses on a tray. The man pulled out a folded towel and handed it to Hart. “Press this against the wound until the doctor arrives.”

Hart unbuttoned his waistcoat and peeled it back to see the extent of the knife wound. His white shirt was soaked with blood, so there was no way to see how bad the cut was. He gratefully took the towel and did as he was told. It hurt like hell, but the throbbing abated somewhat. His alcoholic haze was quickly draining, leaving his head throbbing along with his side. Where was Thomas? He wanted to go home.

“Hart, when did you get back into town?” Danvers asked.

“Last week.”

“You should have sent around a note. Lots has happened. We’d be happy to have a drink and fill you in.”

“I’m not really ready to step back into society.” Hart raised a hand, gesturing widely to his person.

“What? Because of the scars? We don’t care about that. Besides, at least we’ll have a chance with the ladies now that you’re so ugly.” Quincy guffawed.

Danvers joined in, jovially slapping Quincy on the back. But the two of them weren’t laughing at him; they were just being their typical asshole selves. And far from being insulted, Hart laughed, too. Except laughing hurt like a damn bitch, and his laugh turned into a wheeze. Danvers poured him a drink, and against his better judgement, he threw it back.