An Indecent Gambit

Chapter One: Not Fair

The murmuring of voices and the movement of bodies filtered through James Redwood's senses for some time before he realized he was awake and not alone. He tried to open his eyes and found them gummed together. Then his ears, in better condition, discerned one of the murmuring voices to be his mother's, and he lay very, very still.

"If no permanent damage is done, then we have something to be grateful for. Perhaps this will even knock some sense into him."

"Judging by his injuries, whatever happened could hardly be his fault." A deeper, masculine voice, unfamiliar to James.

"I find where James is concerned, it is always his fault."

There was a brief, awkward silence. There often was, after Mrs Redwood had spoken.

"Assigning blame will not help him recover," the stranger said tentatively.

"Nor will it hinder. But come, Doctor, your carriage is ready, so I will see you out."

The voices faded away and James relaxed. He crawled one hand painfully over the blankets to his face and rubbed. That hurt, but he managed to get one eye ungummed and found himself looking at the ceiling of his old bedroom in his parents' house. The constellation of ink-stains still marked the ceiling from the time he had occupied himself in punitive detention by playing darts with his quill. He had earned another punishment from his mother for that. He propped himself up on shaking elbows and squinted around the room. The plain oak furniture and white-linen dressings his mother favoured were exactly as he had left them five years ago. What on earth was he doing here?

Pain snaked hotly down the back of his skull and memory returned to him: the men approaching him on Kew Bridge, blocking his curricle from passing. How many had there been? Four? Five? Too many for him to resist when they had dragged him down onto the damp, cold stones. Too many for him to do anything but attempt to crawl away as they had thrashed him with cudgels and whips until he could not move. Then they had gone, and left him whimpering on the ground until unconsciousness had claimed him.

At least, James told himself, he was alive.

On the other hand, judging by his mother's tone, death might have been preferable.

He slid his feet tentatively to the floor and tested his weight on them. It took two tries before he could stand, but evidently no limbs were broken. He thought his ribs might be though, and the throbbing ache about his nose did not bode well.

He limped to the dresser and peered at his reflection. Even with one eye shut and his vision blurred, it was only slightly less than monstrous. His fine, regular features were lumpy and misshapen. A plaster was pasted over his nose, which was at least twice the size he remembered it having been. The flesh around his right eye was purple and swollen shut. His left was merely puffy and red, weeping slightly from a cut that cleaved his eyebrow and ran down onto his cheek. He bared his teeth and counted them anxiously. They were all still there, very white and neat. One faint mercy.

Above that misfortunate vision, his fair hair was matted with mud and blood and sweat. James opened the top drawer of the dresser, found an old hairbrush, and set gingerly to work. With only one eye and his limbs stiff with pain, it was hard going. He was trying to reach the hair at the back of his head when there was a sharp footstep in the passage and his mother opened the door — as always, without knocking. She stopped in the doorway and gaped at him. James ignored her.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mrs Redwood demanded.

"Brushing my hair, Mother."

"Go back to bed this instant!"