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Edward knew that if he tried to scream for help, he’d end up with a knife through something vital before the words left his mouth. Besides, it was probably just Jackson’s boys, who’d only ask Dandy to hold him down while they took off one his fingers, too.

There was another knock. No-one spoke, nothing moved except Edward’s shaking chest, the blood running down his neck. His vision blurred and blackened with spots of faintness. The pain was biting now, blocking everything out. 

“Mr Valance?” a voice called. It had a soft, country accent and didn’t sound like one of Bully’s boys.

Sharp Rick looked at him directly and shook his head.

“I know you are at home, Mr Valance. Is everything well in there?”

Edward tried not to breathe, tried not to think about the blood soaking into his shirt. The pain was making him lightheaded, and Bruiser’s grip seemed about to tear his chest across.

There was a rattling as whoever was outside tried the latch. It seemed the idiots had forgotten to bolt it.

Dickie Thornton would never have made an error like that.

Even as the door opened, Dandy’s knife was away from his ear, wiped and concealed. 

“Behave yourself now, Mr Valance,” said Bruiser in his ear, and he dropped Edward’s arms, shoved him forward a step. 

It took everything Edward had not to go down. He swallowed the bile that filled his mouth and swayed, staggering, as a grey-faced man with formidable whiskers stepped into the room, followed by two flunkies in Forthenby livery. With eyes that missed nothing, Grey-face looked about him. 

“Not interrupting anything, am I, Mr Valance?” he asked in a low, reverent ---shire voice.

“No, no. Gracious, no.” Edward tried to ignore the blood trickling down his neck. “We’re all friends here, er...”

“Hedge, sir” said Grey-face with a bow, and a mournful expression. “Steward to the Forthenby estate.”

“Hedge,” said Edward. There was a band of black crepe around the hat under Hedge’s arm, another around his arm. “May I introduce Mr...” He realised that no-one actually knew Sharp Rick’s last name. “Richards,” he improvised, “and his companions, Mr Bairn and Mr... Peterson.”

Hedge looked at the three in turn with a constable’s slow measuring appraisal, as though he could see every felony these men had ever committed written upon their faces. At length, he said, “I see.”

“Very good to see you, Hedge,” said Edward, and staggered, managing to catch himself on the bed-frame, “I hope the news from Forthenby is not grave.”

“I regret to inform you, sir, that Lord Forthenby was lost while crossing the Irish sea to visit his old school fellow, the Archbishop R---. I present my deepest condolences.”

“Oh.” Edward arranged his face to look sad, though frankly he had more pressing concerns at the moment than the watery grave of Uncle Eddy. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Hedge.”

“Travelling with him, at that time, sir, was his son, the Viscount Hartel who, I regret to say, was also lost at sea.”

“Good God,” said Edward, because he’d always got on with cousin Ned. “You have my condolences, Hedge. That must be a terrible blow. Thank you for coming down to tell me. If you’d, er, if you would be able to forward me the travel costs, I’d be honoured to attend the funeral.”

Hedge’s look took on a tinge of disappointment, “That was not the reason for my visit, sir.”

“No? I’m sorry, Hedge, I’m all at sixes and sevens. Gentlemen,” he spoke to the gallery of rogues cluttering the room, “if we might be able to conclude our business at another time? This is a matter of a personal and somewhat delicate nature.”

Sharp Rick, who hadn’t stood when Hedge came into the room, adopted the obsequious insolence he used with constables of the watch, magistrates, and young men who came to him for their first loan, “Far be it for me to intrude on such personal tragedy, Mr Valance, but our business with you is very pressing.” 

Dandy smiled like the flash of a razor in the dark.

“I don’t believe I understand,” said Hedge.

“He means we’re staying,” said Dandy. 

Well, it had been worth a shot.

Edward needed to sit down or he would hit the ground, but Dickie had broken the only other chair. It seemed there was no alternative but to muscle it out. “Well, Hedge,” he said, “you have your commission. By all means, deliver it.”

“Properly, sir,” said Hedge, with a touch more of that disappointment, “this should have been done at Forthenby Hall, where you would have been summoned by letter. But you have proved rather difficult to locate.”

“Tell us about it,” sniggered Bruiser, and Hedge gave him another of those looks that fitted him for the gallows.

“Don’t follow,” said Edward. 

“With the death of the Viscount Hartel, sir, you are sole heir to the Forthenby estate.”

“What?” 

“At the death of your uncle and your cousin, sir, the estates, titles, and incomes of the Forthenby land pass to you.”

“No, that can’t be right. Surely Lotte comes in before I do.”

“The Lady Charlotte Valance, while receiving a substantial beneficence, cannot inherit. The Forthenby estate passes solely along the male line.”

“Bloody hell,” said Edward, and touched tentative fingers to the cut on his ear. When he was steady on his feet again, he said, “What about Charley? I mean, Sir Charles? My brother?”

“The idiosyncrasies of your late father’s will, sir, will not affect the Forthenby succession.” Hedge bowed. 

The flunkies bowed with him.

“While this is all very touching, your Earlship,” said Sharp Rick, “there remains the question of your little debt of honour.”

“The correct form of address,” Hedge said, “is my Lord.”

But Sharp Rick was done playing a supporting role and was in no mood for a lesson in court etiquette. “Bruiser,” he said. 

Bairns loomed. 

“Now, Bruiser here don’t give a bent groat whether this whoreson is Mr Edward Valance, the Lord Fartenby or the bloody nabob of Quim. He owes me and mine twenty quid. Got that?”

Hedge looked squarely past Sharp Rick as though he had not heard him. It took Edward a moment to realise that he was looking for direction.

“Pay the man, would you Hedge?” he said, trying to slip back into the tone one was supposed to take with servants and the like. It had been so long. “I’m a little out of funds at present.”

“As you say, My Lord.” Hedge took a promissory note from an inside pocket with an expression which suggested that, while he would never question or criticise a command, he would sooner be drawing a pistol. He placed the paper into Sharp Rick’s hand.

“A gentleman’s note ain’t worth torche-cul,” said Rick. “We want coin.”

“You will take that and depart,” said Hedge with an edge of reprimand, “or I shall be forced to summon a constable.”

Well, it had been nice while it lasted. Edward shut his eyes and waited for them to cut out Hedge’s tongue, and then whatever else they were going to do to him. A heavy exhaustion filled him. It was too much, now, all piled on top of each other. So much easier just to give it up, to surrender entirely. Dandy was already moving across the room, his knife out.

Hedge reached into his inside pocket. 

But Sharp Rick didn’t quite manage to ooze out a, “Glad you’re seeing sense, Mr Hedge” before Hedge had cocked the pistol and fired it. 

Dandy hit the floor as the sound of the discharge made the windows rock, blood spattering from his shoulder. “He shot me,” he squeaked, “the bastard shot me.” He was twitching in pain, his heels kicking the floor, the embroidered jacket that gave him his name was soaked worse than Edward’s own, and his face had gone incredibly pale.

Sharp Rick had a cruel, calculating look on his face, but by now the two flunkies had drawn pistols of their own and had them trained on him and Bruiser, while Hedge paid no attention to the kerfuffle and was reloading his own gun with the careful, precise motions of a man shooting at nothing more remarkable than rabbits.

“Do you still wish me to pay the gentleman, My Lord?” he asked, tamping down powder.

“What? Yes, yes! I think we should let him keep his note, Hedge.”

“Very good, my Lord.” He levelled his reloaded pistol at Sharp Rick. “You have your money, and can redeem it at your banking house. Now, I have made a recommendation that you depart, and I suggest that you abide by it.”

Sharp Rick nodded to Bruiser, who hauled a moaning Dandy Pete over his shoulder, and made to leave. “You’d better hope that note’s good, Valance.” 

There was a soft click as Hedge cocked his pistol.

Sharp Rick spat on to the floor, and was gone.

Edward staggered across the room, and fell into the chair. His neck was stiff with dried blood, his jacket, his good jacket, dammit, ruined by it. He put his head into his hands.

“Should I summon a surgeon, my Lord?’ said Hedge, who was apparently a giant-slayer.

“What? No. No, it’s just a scratch, Hedge. There’s some water in that jug, if you would.”

Hedge nodded, and one of the flunkeys poured some into a cup, while the other wet his own handkerchief and the pair of them stood in attendance while Edward cleaned the cut, and tried to steady himself with a drink of water. His vision swam.

“Perhaps this would be of more use to you, my Lord,” said Hedge - who seemed to deserve some rank in the heavenly host - holding out a hip flask. The cap was already off, and from the neck issued the sweet, rich smell of the best brandy.

Edward took a nip. “Thank you, Hedge.” It seared his mouth, and stopped the shaking, in the most, at least. 

“Will there be anything else, my Lord?”

“No. Thank you Hedge.” It was hard to get used to them leering over you like that, motionless and silent. He wondered how the blighters learned it. People in this part of town never stood still like that.

“In that case, my Lord, we will collect you at seven o’ clock tomorrow morning. Do you have a pocket watch about you, my Lord?"

“No, I, er, I’m afraid I have misplaced it.”

And, from his fob, Hedge drew out a small watch and passed it over without a pause. It was a good enough that, if he’d pawned it, Edward would be able to settle with Bully Jackson for at least for another month. 

No. No. He wouldn’t need to. Edward fumbled for proper, lordly indifference, and nodded as though he were being given something of no consequence. Then, because it suddenly seemed quite important, he asked, “Collect me?”

“For your journey to Forthenby Hall, sir. It will take several days. Do you wish Lucas or John to pack for you?”

“No. I...” He was having trouble formulating his thoughts. His head was burning with pain. “There’s very little to pack, Hedge.”

“Your man should be able to manage?”

“My... yes. As you say.”

“Very good, my Lord. With your leave?”

“Of course,” and he closed his eyes for a moment. 

When he opened them again, the room was empty.