Deceiving the Viscount

Chapter 6

"Healey, you can't be leaving just yet! There's still a pot to be won!" Garrett raised his hand and waved it above his shoulder in a firm goodbye to whoever had shouted at him as he made for the door.

All around him, the shouts of consternations and cheers of exuberance interspersed, creating a cacophony his aching head needed a break from. He left behind the plush rugs, round tables filled with the elite men and their money, and headed for the main doors.

After he instructed the footman manning the door to pass his driver the top hat and gloves that were currently being held by said footman, he stepped out into the London streets. Not waiting for his carriage to be called around — he wondered why he'd chosen it when a curricle would have sufficed; certainly it would have been less cumbersome in this horrendous traffic — he began his stroll down St James's Street. Also, he hoped the walk might do his pounding head some good. Besides, he knew his driver would still be able to spot him from the perch and eventually catch up. If not, the carriage and his servants would find their own way back eventually.

The night was still early yet — by the ton's standard at least — despite it being nearly a hour more to midnight. If he'd been so inclined, he'd have stayed longer at Brooks's but something was bothering him. He knew not what, just that his head pained him and he wanted his bed.

Rotating his shoulders under his dark brown evening coat, he shook out his hands, hoping the blood flowing faster would aid in releasing some of the tension in his neck. Maybe that was what caused the pain. Or it could likely be the restless energy coursing through him. He wished he could be at Gentleman Jackson's but the boxing saloon wasn't open at this late hour. Maybe he should call upon his brother-in-law and persuade him to engage in a bit of sport. He knew Dover liked fencing and the occasional bare-knuckled fight.

Slightly cheered at the prospect of ridding himself of this bothersome head ache, his steps seemed to feel lighter each time. He glanced about, noting the men that strolled about him. His eye caught the lone cloaked figure standing under a lamppost some distance away on the opposite side of the road, hood up and back facing him. Usually he'd think nothing of it, but the way she was standing — no man would wear a hooded cloak — made him pause. That, and the fact that there were two men — drunken ruffians from the looks of it — who were approaching her with leers on their faces.

He changed directions and headed for them swiftly. And not a moment too soon for one of them reached out and grabbed her arm to pull her towards him, the lecherous grin on his gaunt face illuminated by the firelight.

Her protests had the undesired effect of encouraging them rather than dissuading them. Their laughter — which rang loudly in his ears despite them being a ways away — suddenly turned to angry growls when she kicked the one holding her such that he doubled over, holding onto his crotch.

The other man — who was slightly stocky than the one currently bent over — lunged for her and would have nearly caught her if Garrett hadn't rammed into him from the side. He stumbled and fell on behind, indignant curses slurring from his lips.

"Leave now or I will call the constable on you."

The man was either drunker than previously thought or he was of slow mind because he got to his feet — after a great deal of swaying — and lifted his fists into a boxing stance.

Garrett sighed. Fighting this man would be like kicking a wet, bedraggled puppy caught in a storm. And the animal would still look infinitely better than the person opposite him.

Sidestepping the drunkard neatly when he rushed forward, Garrett turned and grabbed the man's collar, and with his other hand on the man's breeches, used his momentum to pitch him forward so he landed on the footpath.