The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [53]

A fat, sweaty man in a waterman’s doublet cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Have you come to see a handsome cock, slut?’ He grabbed his breeches.

‘Aye, but I’ll take the last one standing,’ Kitty yelled back. ‘Not the first one spent in the ring.’

The waterman’s jaw dropped, and then he guffawed with laughter, raising his fists in approval. Nothing a Thames boatman appreciates more than a filthy mouth. The crowd roared with him, but there were as many protests as cheers. I drew Kitty closer. ‘You might be safer outside with Jed,’ I whispered in her ear. Scenes such as this could turn ugly very fast.

The landlord grabbed me by the coat. ‘Out. Both of you. Unless you want a blade in the ribs…’

A shot rang out. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then chaos, as men ducked beneath tables or pulled out their own daggers and pistols.

‘Fuck,’ the landlord breathed, lifting his gaze to a bench at the back of the room. A man in a dark velvet coat stood on the bench with a pistol in his hand, smoke trailing from the barrel. A gentleman with a mad man’s face, lips twisted in a humourless grin. Howard.

The men who had drawn their own weapons groaned or sat back down upon seeing him. Perhaps because he was a nobleman – or perhaps because his reputation was well known in such a place. Either way, no one had the appetite for a fight.

He stared at me for a long, terrifying moment, as if he might eat me alive. Then he relaxed, and tucked his pistol back into his coat. ‘Let ’em through, Smith,’ he barked at the landlord. His manner was rough, but his voice had the clear, irresistible authority of a courtier. Smith obeyed at once, cursing under his breath as he led us across the room.

Howard was sitting above the ring on a raised platform, attended by a gang of five men. Two I recognised as his chairmen, the rest were gentlemen – of a fashion. Howard watched me without a word as I clambered up to meet him, his face curiously blank. I tensed as he stepped forward, jaw aching at the memory of his last punch. At least there was no powder left in his pistol. If he attacked us I could pull Kitty back into the crowds and out of the tavern in a flash. I was sure she knew the back alleys around here better than Charles Howard.

‘You’re a brave man…’ he said, taking a long swig from a bottle of claret.

I said nothing, watching him closely. Ready to run.

‘…bringing such a fine jade here.’ He bowed towards Kitty, then returned his gaze to me. His eyes seemed to glow in the candlelight – the gleam of a man standing on a precipice for the sheer hell of it. ‘What’s your name, sir?’

I stared at him. Was it possible? Did he not recognise me? ‘Thomas Hawkins,’ I replied, too astonished and relieved to lie. I gave a short bow.

‘A gentleman,’ he said, voice thick with sarcasm. ‘Well then, sir – join us.’ He gestured to his chairmen to leave the bench. As they rose, the young rake propped between them slid boneless to the floor and lay still. Howard put a foot beneath the boy’s ribs and rolled him out of the way.

The rest of the party was drunk too, bottles littered beneath the bench, but Howard seemed steady enough. Well, he had enjoyed years of practice – he was in his early fifties now, though he looked much older. I thought he must have been a handsome man in his youth, but he had ruined himself by decades of wild living. His face was bloated and sallow, with burst veins across his nose and cheeks.

‘My thanks for your help, sir,’ I said, nodding at the bulge of his pistol beneath his coat. ‘You must permit me to buy another bottle or two…’ A debauch would be a good way to extract useful information from Howard – if I could remain sober myself.

‘Put a guinea on the Irish bitch when she comes on and we’re even,’ he said, grabbing my shoulder and giving it a mighty squeeze. I buckled a little, and let out a silent whimper. I still ached from the morning’s torture. I smiled and nodded through the pain, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant. He welcomed Kitty with a surprisingly charming bow, while I settled down upon the bench, marvelling at my good fortune. He truly didn’t remember me from the fight in the park. Well – it had been dark and he had been fearsome drunk. And I had knocked him senseless. There was still a cut upon his brow even now, scabbed and bruised. With luck I’d knocked the memory clean out of him.

He took another swig, studying me closely. ‘I feel I know you from somewhere, Hawkins…’

The blood drained to my toes. ‘The gaming tables, perhaps…?’

He scratched his jaw. ‘Perhaps.’ He took Kitty’s arm and escorted her to the bench, settling her beside him. I gritted my teeth as he patted her hand, forcing myself to hide my revulsion. And yet there was some ghost of gallantry in his behaviour – some echo of a younger man more able to dissemble and present a gentlemanly appearance. There was the actor who had fooled Henrietta into marriage – the dashing captain wooing a sheltered young girl half his age. An orphan from a noble family with a fair fortune. He must have been licking his chops behind his hand. How long had he waited to reveal his true nature? A few days after the wedding at most, I wagered. A few days before the beast ripped its way into the open. Poor Henrietta. Only sixteen. She must have been terrified.