Page 37 of Just a Little Daring

“You!” the prick raged, purple with indignation. “You bloody bastard. You did this!”

Before anyone could react, he’d lunged at August, his friends looking as though they’d be delighted to take a hand in pummelling him too. August blocked a fist that would have broken his nose and dodged a surprisingly neat left. The fellow was handy with his fists, but then, so was August.

To his relief, and before the other three men could take him down, Ash and Sylvester waded into the fray.

“Go back to the hotel!” he yelled at Vivien and the other two ladies, who really ought not be subjected to such a scene.

“Not on your life!” she yelled back. “Oh, August, watch out!”

August ducked and struck out, delivering a punch to the solar plexus that had the fellow staggering back and sitting down hard on the ground.

“Oh! Nicely done!” Vivien exclaimed, apparently egging him on.

Unfortunately, the devil got up again.

August glanced around to see Sylvester grappling with a big fellow and, with some surprise, that Ash had knocked down his opponent and was holding off another with ease. Well, well. Those dreadful waistcoats he adored did not prepare one for the fact Ash could fight like a demon.

A shrill whistle and shouts alerted them to the fact they ought not be brawling in full view of the public as two constables ran full pelt towards them.

“Ash! Get the ladies out of here,” August yelled, as Ash’s opponent had already beat a retreat.

Ash nodded, herded up the women, ignoring their protests and shepherding them away with speed. The last thing they needed was to be caught up with such scandalous behaviour that would no doubt damage their pristine reputations. The prick had taken his chance to scarper too, but Sylvester and the big brute he was wrangling with were too caught up in the moment to heed the warnings to flee. August waded in, pushing his way between them, and caught a clip to the jaw that snapped his head back. Sylvester steadied him as he staggered.

“Oi, cut that out! You there, halt!”

The big fellow took to his heels with the second constable legging it after him. A little dazed from the blow, August had neither the time to run nor the inclination to abandon Sylvester, who was breathing hard and wiping his bloody nose on a torn sleeve.

“Right, my fine fellows. You’re down to the station with me,” the constable said with a grim smile.

Sylvester nodded and waved a hand at the fellow. “As you like, Constable, only… give a fellow a chance to catch his breath.”

August sighed and leaned wearily against the wall. Well, this was just bloody marvellous.

11th April 1841, The Police Station Holding Cells, Brighton.

August shifted uncomfortably upon the hard bench, which comprised the only furniture in the holding cell the constable had happily thrown them into. He rubbed his jaw with tentative fingers, wincing a little. No loose teeth at least, thank the Lord. Sylvester sprawled beside him, head back against the wall, eyes closed. He looked like he had been wrestling a bear, with his nose all bloody and his coat ripped at the seams, but appeared otherwise unconcerned by his predicament. It seemed he was as used to the routine as August was. Over the years and usually in company with Bainbridge, Dare and Raphe, August had seen the inside of more cells than he cared to recall. That was without mentioning the ones he’d spent time in on behalf of his sister or to use her nom de guerre, Anna bloody Brown. August sighed and regarded the corner of the cell where what had, at first glance, appeared to be a malodorous pile of filthy clothing snored gently and without apparent worry.

The tromp of heavy footsteps and the jangle of keys had August sitting up somewhat straighter, and he elbowed Sylvester, who stirred and mutter. The snoring in the corner continued.

“Oh, Christ,” August grumbled, starting to his feet with alacrity as he saw not only the constable who had escorted them here, but Viscount Cavendish. Vivien’s father.

“That them, your lordship?”

“I believe so,” Cavendish replied, eyeing August and Sylvester.

His expression was impossible to read, and August prayed he’d not blush like a schoolboy, for he felt horribly as if he was in short trousers again and about to get his backside tanned.

“Right, come on then, lads. His lordship has paid your bail, so you mind your manners else you’ll find yourselves back ‘ere afore too long.”

“Thank you, Constable,” August said, approaching Lord Cavendish. “My lord,” he began miserably.

Cavendish silenced him with a curt wave of his hand. “Save it for now. I’d say you need a drink, and I want one. Come along with you.”

Realising he was being saved from the humiliation of a set down in front of the constable, August did as he was told. Sylvester, the lucky dog, was allowed to go off on his merry way, whilst Cavendish invited August to accompany him to the private parlour of a tavern. August strongly doubted it was an invitation he could refuse.

It was a cosy room with thick, low beams and comfortable seating, and a fire had been lit to ward off the chill of the thick stone walls despite the unseasonal warmth outside. They were supplied with brandy, glasses and plates of bread and butter, cold meats and cheese, and left alone.

“Help yourself,” Cavendish said, gesturing to the plates and pouring them both a drink.