A Daring Liaison(83)
His admission was a deep snarl. “Blast ye, Hunter! Ye’ve got more lives than a cat.” He crouched, his arms out to his sides as he measured for another attack. “Ye done this to spite me, didn’t ye, ye blighter?”
Done what? What the—
“I mighta let ye go, but now yer gonna have t’ die.”
The wicked looking blade came up again and slashed outward to define an arc across what would have been Charles’s belly if he hadn’t ducked and slipped under Gibbons’s arm to come up behind him. He knew better than to get close enough for the man to make another cut. He already felt the wet flow of blood down his side.
“You came looking for me, Gibbons. I’ve done nothing to you.”
“Ye killed my brother.”
“Is this about Artie? Damn, Gibbons! You shot me and killed Booth. I was home having a ball dug out of my shoulder. I couldn’t have killed him.”
“’Twere one of yer brothers, then. Or Farrell. I’ll kill ye all.”
“You’ll be dead first.”
A wild gleam lit Gibbons’s eyes. “Yer blood will cover the street, Hunter. Count on it.”
“Empty threats, Gibbons.”
Gibbons’s filthy lip curled, his anger making him incautious.
Charles rallied for another lunge and knocked Gibbons’s arm out of the way. But the knife was a part of him and he did not release it.
Gibbons loomed over him, hatred in every line of his body. He was getting ready to slash when he glanced up and scowled, then broke into a run. Charles followed the moment Gibbons turned and made for an alleyway.
Richardson rushed by him. “You’re hurt. Stay out of the way!”
Hurt? Charles stopped long enough to feel his side, now stinging like fury, and when he looked up they were gone. A crowd had begun to gather and Wycliffe took his arm to drag him inside the building.
“The bastard will not give up,” he muttered.
Once they were in Wycliffe’s office, he shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat to examine the damage. His white shirt was stained with blood along his left side. He pulled the tattered remains from his waistband and bared the flesh. Not deep, but wide. The blood was already beginning to thicken to a sticky consistency.
Wycliffe took the whiskey bottle from his desk drawer and poured some on his handkerchief. “Good God, Hunter. Are you trying to make Georgiana a widow already?”
Charles winced as Wycliffe applied the handkerchief to his side. “I’ve been trying to kill the sod for months now. He’s slippery. Knows every hole and crib in Whitechapel. He’s been invisible for the past six months, and now he’s coming after me every time my back is turned. He must be desperate to have me dead.”
Wycliffe called his clerk and told him to bring a shirt for Charles, then turned back to him. “We are getting closer to finding where he’s been holing up. We have it narrowed down to three blocks near Halfpenny Lane.”
“You will let me know when you get to within one block?”
“Our usual informants will not talk. They are afraid of Gibbons. They know he’ll come after them if he suspects they’ve betrayed him.”
Charles inspected his side again. With the blood cleaned, he could see that the cut should have stitches but would heal without them. Bandages would suffice. He wondered how he would explain this to Georgiana. She’d be certain her “curse” was responsible.
Wycliffe wound gauze strips around him several times and secured the end by tucking it in the folds. His clerk returned with a clean shirt and Wycliffe tossed it to him. “Have Crosley return it to my house, will you?”
Charles laughed. “Does this confirm the rumors that you live here?”
Wycliffe grinned. “I’ve found it is always convenient to have a fresh change of clothes. I believe I might have a jacket that would fit you, though not a waistcoat.”
Charles tucked the shirt into his breeches. “I’ll take the jacket and be grateful. What news have you?”
Wycliffe scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. “That’s Hathaway’s address. He’s rented a room there. The watch hasn’t seen him yet. And—” he sighed and shot Charles a worried look “—Foxworthy was released this morning with a warning to stay away from your wife. Charles, it won’t be long before she is arrested. Tonight or tomorrow morning, likely.”
Charles folded the paper and put it in his waistcoat pocket. “How much time will it buy if I send Georgiana to the hunting lodge in Scotland?”