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A door opened. Loud footsteps hurtling towards him. He discerned a large figure, built like a bull, with an almost bald head.
A sickening punch, straight into his face. He reeled back, feeling blood gush like a stream from his nose.
“Enough,” growled the man. “Be quiet. Or you will be sorry.”
He fell to his side, clawing the floor. The blood wouldn’t stop; it was all over his face. He didn’t even have the strength to raise a hand to his face to stem the flow.
The door slammed. He was alone again.
His head reeled. He had never felt more alone in his life. And he still didn’t have any idea why he was here or what this person wanted with him.
* * *
Patricia shivered, tightening the cloak around her body. It had grown colder. And she could see the beginning of fog, rising as if like magic from the ground and swirling around the gas streetlights.
A sliver of fear entered her heart. Even though she was with Lord Reynolds and Lord Reading she was afraid. She had never walked these streets of London in the dark and it was a revelation. One that she fervently wished had never been revealed to her.
The well to do ambience of Bond Street was long gone. These streets were narrower, and they were filthy. Only a few streetlights illuminated the way compared to the fashionable streets. Patricia knew that it all depended upon wealth. Since the advent of gas street lighting, only the affluent areas were well serviced. The poorer parts of London had to make do with only a few scattered here and there, which made them dangerous places after dark.
There were random fires and dark figures in ragged coats huddled around them, warming their hands. A few drunken men lurched along clutching bottles of gin. They were a truly hideous sight.
She shuddered as they passed one such man, belching violently, before he turned away and vomited into a gutter. Lord Reynolds gripped her arm, turning her away from the sight.
“You truly should not be here,” he said, his face grim. “London can be a vile place at this time of night. I should not like my own wife to be walking these streets.” He paused. “You should be in the carriage.”
Patricia tried to quash the fear inside of her. She was the one who had insisted that she accompany the gentlemen to look for Jackson. She couldn’t turn squeamish now and faint like a delicate lady. What good would she be?
She took a deep breath. “I assure you I am quite well, Lord Reynolds. We need as many eyes as possible to look for him, and it is far easier to do it on the street than from a carriage.” She paused. “I am not a delicate flower. Please do not concern yourself with me.”
The gentleman didn’t look convinced. But at that moment, he was distracted by Lord Reading approaching a man hovering beneath a large streetlamp, who looked just a trifle less in his cups than many others they had passed.
“Have you seen a gentleman pass in the last hours?” he asked. “He is rather the worse for strong drink. We would pay you for any helpful information on his whereabouts.”
The man scratched a scraggly grey beard. His small eyes looked glassy. He belched once, causing Lord Reading to turn away for a moment with a slightly disgusted expression upon his face. Patricia didn’t blame him in the least. The man reeked of gin and other quite alarming odours.
“I did see a toff walking along,” said the man, grinning suddenly, exposing a row of blackened teeth. “He looked out of place here, just as ye all do.”
“What did he look like?” asked Patricia swiftly. “Please, can you describe him? We need to know if he is my husband.”
The man scratched his beard again. “Tall.” He swept out his hands in front of him. “Wide shoulders. Black hair.” His eyes suddenly lit up. “And an ugly scar across his face. He looked like he had been a bad fight once upon a time, that’s for sure.”
“It’s him,” said Patricia quickly, turning to Lord Reynolds.
“Which way did he go?” asked Lord Reynolds. “There shall be a shilling for your trouble.”
The man stuck out a thumb, indicating another street. “That way. Towards Cheapside. He was stumbling a bit, looking like he didn’t know where he was. That’s all I know.”
Lord Reynolds nodded, flicking him a coin. “We are most obliged.”
The man smiled again. It was a frightening sight. “Ye shouldn’t have a lady like that on these streets at night, governor. It ain’t quite the area for theatre and cream cakes, if you know what I mean.” He leered at Patricia. “There’s only one type of woman whose walking these streets at night and they ain’t ladies.”
“Much obliged for the advice,” said Lord Reading stiffly, leading them away.
They huddled on the corner, gazing down the street that the old drunk had indicated. It was even narrower than the last. It was crammed with dark, two-story buildings so rickety they looked in danger of collapsing, almost touching each other across the street. There wasn’t much movement. Patricia saw people scurrying like rats through the darkness, obviously eager to be on their way through it as quickly as possible.
They continued down it with the carriage following at a discreet distance. Patricia almost fell but gripped Lord Reynolds arm tightly. The cobblestones were slick with moisture and damp. A sudden cry sounded in the air, a screech, like a wailing cat. Fear overcame her again. This street was so dark; she could only see one streetlamp along it, the gas hissing and sputtering looking like it was just about to expire.
A woman suddenly emerged from the shadows and made Patricia jump. Her face was in shadow, but Patricia could see she had bright, carrot-colored hair. She was wearing a cheap, tight vermilion gown.
