At least Miss Carville was in good hands. Now Rex could start unraveling the knots in her tangled circumstances. Nanny seemed confident he could. The stew was indeed good and filling, and Murchison had packed some of his old, comfortable domes. His leg felt better for the hot bath and the rest.
He had no more excuses for staying in, or for not finding his cousin Daniel.
Chapter Six
The footman who was sent to find Daniel came back with his current address, but not his present whereabouts.
"One of the other boarders says as how Mr. Stamfield oftentimes drinks and dices at Dirty Sal's, a low den in Seven Dials where no gentleman less'n his size and reputation would dare walk," the footman reported. "I wouldn't put one foot there."
Rex had no choice but to leave Miss Carville alone with the servants although he worried about her welfare with such watchdogs: a philandering butler and a cowardly footman, a sniveling kitchen maid and a pimply potboy, a masquerading French valet, a housekeeper who could not cook, and a bent old nanny. Meanwhile the real watchdog, Verity, hid under the bed at the first sign of trouble.
They'd have to do, Rex decided as he tucked a pistol into his waistband and secured a dagger in his boot. His jackass of a cousin had to be stopped from committing suicide in a slum. That, too, was now Rex's responsibility. Last week he'd been riding and sailing, with nothing but his thoughts and his dog for company. Granted his thoughts were dismal, but now he was in the metropolis, with people depending on him again, fools that they were. He'd sworn to take orders from no one, be beholden to no one, and have no one's welfare depending on him and his one freakish talent.
Once again, his wants and wishes were blown about like leaves in autumn.
"Shall I call for your carriage, my lord?" Dodd asked, all respectful in hopes of keeping his position.
"No, the crested coach would be set upon instantly, if it could fit through the narrow streets, and a horse would be stolen as soon as I dismounted. I'll take a hackney as far as the driver will carry me and walk the rest of the way." He practiced sliding the case off the cane he carried, revealing the sword hidden within. His clothes were plain country wear, with no gleaming rings or fancy buckles to tempt the denizens of London's underworld, but if anyone should challenge him, he'd be ready. He half wished some thug would try to pick his pocket or steal his purse. Heaven help the poor bastard.
Maybe the scum who hid in alleys had unspoken talents of their own, like reading danger in the set of a man's jaw, or seeing murderous intents like sparks in his eyes. No one bothered Rex. For a coin, a street urchin led him straight to Dirty Sal's, after asking twice to be sure the toff really wanted to go inside that sinkhole. For another coin, the boy offered to take a message to the gent's family, for when he didn't come out.
Rex tossed him a coin without answering, and stepped through a cloud of smoke and sour ale and sweat. He waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom and his nose to the stench, while he kept his back to the wall near the doorway. The gaming tables were full. So were the spaces at the long plank bar against the opposite wall. Rex could not make out every face, or see into every corner, but Daniel's size usually made him more easily spotted than most. Rex noticed a man with an eye patch leading a woman in a loose blouse up rickety stairs to the floor above. Perhaps Daniel was taking his pleasure-and the pox-there instead of at the dice tables. The viscount ordered a mug of ale while he waited. The barmaid leaned forward so he could see where she tucked his coin, and offered him more than a drink. He smiled and shook his head.
From his position, Rex could overhear some of the conversation at a nearby card table. Without even trying to pick colors from their words, Rex knew at a glance which of the players were cheating. They were all cheating. Marked decks, hidden cards, signals passed across the table-just a friendly game among pals. An argument ensued over how many aces were in the pack. Heated words turned to a shove, which turned to a punch, which pushed a chap at the next table into dropping his dice, which came up sixes for the fifth time, which led to more shouts, more punches, and more of a melee, with his cousin Daniel in the middle. Of course.
Chairs were flying, tables were overturned, the barkeep was swinging a club, and Dirty Sal herself-or so Rex thought she must be-was waving a musket around.
Now this was the very entertainment Rex had been missing. Slashing out with his cane, he cleared a path to his cousin and got between him and the owner of the establishment, who appeared ready to shoot the next rotter who broke a chair. If there was one glass left unbroken at the end of the night, that would be a miracle.
"I've got your back," Rex shouted over the din of the fight.
Daniel turned and grinned, using his thick upraised arm to fend off a tossed stool. "Just like old times, you little nit. You need me to save your skin."
"Hah!" Rex punched a ferret-faced man in the midsection.
Daniel threw another combatant aside as easily as he'd thrown the stool. Rex used his cane to trip a charging drunk. Daniel banged together the heads of a pair of men who did not have seven teeth between them-and Rex lobbed a pitcher of ale at Dirty Sal and her musket, dampening the powder enough to render the fight less deadly.
Daniel laughed his loud, deep laugh, and Rex had to laugh, too. The Inquisitors were together again, in the middle of a fine rowdydow.
When it looked as though the establishment's regulars were going to join forces against the newcomers, Rex shouted, "Had enough?"
"Unless you want to go one on one, little coz."
"Not this minute, bullyboy. We need to talk."
"Not here."
A French cannon wouldn't be heard in the place. The cousins waded toward the door, dodging fists and punching back when they couldn't, sticking close together. "Just like old times, eh?"
Rex shook his hair out of his eyes. "Better. No one is shooting at us anymore."
Daniel suddenly stopped just as they reached the street. Unmindful of the fighting spilling out of the doorway behind them, he took Rex's chin in his broad hand and turned it to the lantern hanging by the entry, so he could see the scar. Then he looked at Rex's leg and the cane now bearing his weight, while Rex stayed quiet, breathing hard. "I should have been there with you. This wouldn't have happened."
Rex pulled away and started to walk across the street from the gambling hell. He hid his limp as much as possible. "No, we both would have been shot. No one saw the Frenchies creeping around camp until too late."
"I should have been there," Daniel insisted in his mulish way. "Your father told me to look after you."
"Dash it, I was not a child needing a nursemaid. And your mother and sister needed you at home."
Rex was watching his cousin, not the fight at their backs, so he never saw the thug come at him with a raised bottle. Daniel did and bellowed. Rex turned in time to feel the brunt of the bottle on his nose. Daniel roared a curse, dove at the man, and started pounding at him on the ground.
"Let him go. I don't think my nose is broken," Rex said, trying to stop the bleeding with a thin monogrammed square.
Daniel lumbered to his feet and handed over a sturdy spotted handkerchief. "You shouldn't have called me a useless dumb lummox."
"I didn't mean it."
"I knew that. Didn't like hearing it anyway."
"You were too damn stubborn to go home any other way."
"I am not stubborn, damn you!" Daniel drew his hamhock fist back and made sure Rex's nose was broken this time.
"Oh, hell," Rex muttered through the kerchief, which was joined by Daniel's neckcloth, then his own. "I thought my father told you to look after me."
"I am," Daniel said, hauling Rex to his feet and pulling him along before the Watch came. "You are too damned handsome for your own good."