Ash passed his lordship a towel folded around chipped ice. “You will hurt less if you limit the swelling now.”
“Pugilism,” Tavistock said, sinking into the chair behind the desk and applying the ice to his cheek. “Fencing, riding out. I asked around at Jackson’s for a few defensive maneuvers not covered in the usual prize ring rules. I never expected to use that knowledge, but a fellow wants to be prepared for every eventuality.”
Ash disappeared into the bedroom and emerged with a fresh shirt and cravat. “These will be loose on you, though not by much. Have we buttons, Sycamore?”
Sycamore took the knife from his boot and sliced off two buttons from his morning coat. “We have buttons.” He opened the desk’s bottom drawer and produced a small sewing kit. “A fellow wants to be prepared for every eventuality.”
Tavistock looked at him as if he’d conjured a pot of gold sovereigns from a bowl of marbles. “I knew a stop here was well advised, but what on earth do I tell Step-mama? She will say I am associating with the wrong sorts, and she might not be far from the mark.”
Ash gathered up the clean shirt to ease down over Tavistock’s head. “Your waistcoat can wait until we’ve fed you and refilled your flask. Coffee or ale with luncheon?”
“Tea, if you have it. The old breadbasket is feeling a bit tentative.”
“Tea it is.” Ash sent Sycamore a look and decamped in the direction of the kitchen.
“If the old breadbasket is tentative,” Sycamore said as he tucked gold sleeve buttons into the marquess’s cuffs, “does that mean somebody kneed you in the gut?”
“I avoided the blow, but one can only twist so far when being held by the arms. Do you know what went through my mind when I was being pummeled?”
“You did some pummeling too, my lord.” Sycamore fashioned a second towel full of ice. “For your lip.”
“I did, didn’t I? I had the oddest thought: These louts didn’t smell as louts ought. The last time I was set upon by toughs, the stench was almost worse than the blows. This lot was by no means a trio of dandies, but they had some acquaintance with soap and water. I shall hurt tomorrow, won’t I?”
“Wonderfully, and worse the day after, but breathe deeply anyway. Aches like hell, but keeps the lungs clear. I’d avoid laudanum, because you took a few blows to the head, but willow bark tea can’t hurt, and further applications of arnica to the cuts and bruises won’t either.”
“May I tell you something, Mr. Dorning?”
“You may.”
“I wasn’t frightened when I realized what was afoot. Jackson says I have good science, decent reach, and some speed for a pampered puppy. That’s high praise from such as he. I was eager to show those fellows what I knew, and in broad daylight, all they could do was rob me and leave me in that alley.”
Sycamore wrapped an arm around the marquess’s shoulders, kissed his crown, then scrubbed his knuckles over blond curls. Courage was giving way to sense, and that was always a bad moment.
“But you’re feeling a touch of the collywobbles now, is that it?” Sycamore certainly was. “What if one of them had had a knife, or they’d thought to bring a fourth? You could be lying with your throat slit and nobody the wiser.”
“One of them did have a knife. I kicked it out of his hand, but still… not very sporting of them. Three against one and a knife. What is London coming to, and in St. James’s itself? Bad form, Mr. Dorning.”
Sycamore dumped the last of the ice onto the soil of the nearest potted fern. “Will you be sick? No shame in it if you are. I’m feeling tentative myself.” He set the empty basin on the desk. One of them had had a knife…
“No, but neither will I frequent that alley again anytime soon.”
Ash returned bearing a tray of beef barley soup, buttered bread with the crusts cut off, and a pot of tea. “Soft food for a sore jaw,” he said. “A week from now, you’ll be back to regular rations.”
Tavistock set aside his ice compresses long enough to eat, while Sycamore sewed the replacement buttons onto the marquess’s coat. Tavistock was, all things considered, recovering well—the blessings of youth—while Sycamore was growing more upset.
London streets were not safe, hence the ongoing clamor for a regular city police force. Tavistock had already made the point, however, that if anywhere ought to be safe, it was the hallowed streets of St. James’s. London’s dandies, gents, and Corinthians congregated there and would mete out swift retribution to any violating the peace and safety of the neighborhood.
And yet, somebody had. Three somebodies.
“I’ll send you home in the coach,” Sycamore said, “and we won’t expect to see you here until next week.”
“But I’m fine,” Tavistock said, rising so that Ash could help him into his waistcoat. “A bit bashed up, but truly none the worse for a little scrapping.”
“What will you tell her ladyship?” Sycamore asked, passing Ash the fresh cravat.
“That I had a few good rounds at Jackson’s? That my sparring partner was too enthusiastic?”
Ash was the only married man in the room, so Sycamore let him reply. “Tell her the truth, Tavistock. You were set upon by toughs, you fended them off. Do you still have your purse?”
“I don’t often carry anything more than a few coins.”
Typical lordling, his credit was good everywhere. Sycamore pushed Ash aside and tied the marquess’s cravat. His lordship preferred some style to his appointments, as Sycamore did.
“Tell her ladyship the truth,” Sycamore said. “She can sense when you lie, and I suspect you don’t lie well. You fended off some street thieves and stopped by here for lunch.”
“I lie quite convincingly,” Tavistock said as Sycamore affixed a gold cravat pin among the folds of linen and lace. “Nobody expects me to because I resemble such a dratted choirboy
