Michelle Styles - Regency Bride

He lost sight of her when she rounded the gypsy caravan. Kit went down one aisle and then another, but nowhere did he see Hattie’s back. He started to circle around towards the ale tent, ignoring the shorter route by the cock and bear pits. Hattie with her strict sensibilities would never go there.

Let me go.

Her voice floated on the air.

Kit broke into a run. Near the cockpit, he saw her, surrounded by a group of farmhands who were the worse for wear with drink. Several of them gave coarse laughs and called out obscene suggestions.

Hattie’s hand beat against the largest one’s chest. Her straw bonnet had slipped off her head and lay abandoned in the mud. Kit cursed. Her predicament was all his fault.

He knew the dangers that a fair could bring and he’d been the one to allow her to wander about on her own. His mistake and he always owned up.

He glanced around. Four against one. The odds were not good, but he refused to stand by. Going and fetching the parish constable was not an option. But if he started something, others would join in and lend a hand.

‘Unhand that lady!’

‘Mind your business. We are having a bit of sport.’

Kit clenched his fists. His eyes flickered from face to face, memorising their features. He’d lost count of how many fights he’d experienced, but he knew how to fight and he was sober. ‘I doubt that is possible. She is with me. I look after my own. Unless you want to be seriously injured or worse, let her go now.’

The mountain of a man loosened his grip on Hattie. The primitive urge to tear him limb from limb filled Kit. He struggled to keep his temper. Cool and collected won fights—giving in to anger resulted in errors. He’d learnt that back at Eton when he’d tried to defend his mother’s name.

‘Who will stop me? You? On your own? I have won my last six bouts in the ring.’

A would-be pugilist who had had far too much to drink. Kit stifled a laugh. It was going to be easier than he thought.

‘It is a serious mistake to doubt my ability. My pugilist ability is renowned in London. Ask at any pub about Kit Foxton and see what they say.’

The mountain scratched his nose. ‘It ain’t known up here.’

‘We could have a bare-knuckle fight if you wish, but allow the lady to go about her business,’ Kit said in a deadly voice.

‘And you think to come from London and tell us our ways.’

‘You should respect your betters.’ The blood pumped through Kit’s veins. He looked forward to the fight. To do something. ‘Shall we have at it, here and now?’

The mountain shoved Hattie away from him. Kit breathed again. ‘If you wish.’

‘Kit …’ Hattie was suddenly very afraid ‘… he has a knife.’

‘Go, Hattie. Get help. This shouldn’t take long.’ He turned his head slightly and felt the first punch graze his temple. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. I don’t mind a fair fight, but not an unfair one. We start when we start and not before.’

He landed a punch squarely in the fat farmhand’s middle, brought his knee up and connected again. The man countered with a wild stab, but the knife missed by a hairbreadth. Kit punched again, harder, and the man collapsed on the ground. When the man was down on the ground, Kit stamped on his wrist and the knife dropped from his grip. Kit kicked the knife away.

‘Playing with knives can get you hurt.’ Kit picked him up by the lapels. ‘Are you ready to begin our fight?’

The man grunted and wildly flailed his arms. Kit landed a blow on the man’s jaw. The man gurgled slightly and lay back. Kit lowered him to the ground. It was easier than he thought. Kit dusted down his breeches and turned his back on the prone man. ‘Does anyone else have a quarrel with me?’

The three men looked at each other and began to back away. Cowards.

Kit gave them a look of utter contempt. ‘Next time, give the ladies more respect.’

‘I ain’t finished yet, Londoner.’ A fist came out of nowhere, landing in the middle of Kit’s back.

Kit crouched and began to fight in earnest as blow after blow rained down on his head. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the sound of a parish constable’s whistle.

The world turned black at the edges and a sharp pain went into his jaw, swiftly followed by a pain to the back of his head.

‘All my fault, Hattie, I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ he murmured. The world went black.

Hattie swallowed the scream and rushed over to where Kit lay in the dirt, heedless of the way her skirt swept into the thick mud, ready to defend him, now that he was defenceless.

She put her hand on his chest. He was still breathing. The attackers had either run off at the sound of the whistle or lay on the ground, groaning. The fight was over. Kit had won, but at what cost? He couldn’t be seriously hurt because of her folly, could he?

Hattie offered a silent prayer. She didn’t care what happened to her reputation or anything else as long as Kit was all right. This entire mess had happened because of her pride and her fear. She knew where the blame lay and she wanted to make amends. A shiver went through her.

‘Come on. Kit,’ she said. ‘We need to get you to the doctor.’

Kit mumbled incoherently and failed to rise.

‘Here now, what is going on?’ a burly parish constable demanded, bustling up. He gave another loud toot on his whistle. He started in surprise. ‘Mrs Wilkinson, what are you doing here? Messed up in this nonsense? It isn’t a sight for a lady such as yourself. Where is your family? Someone should be looking after you. It ain’t safe around here. Here is where the gaming happens. And the cockfighting. Your brother-in-law should have known better.’

Hattie heaved a sigh of relief. Mr Jessop was the parish constable for St Michael’s, rather than being from one of the other parishes. It made things much easier. She stood up and faced him.

‘I made a mistake and turned the wrong way. Thankfully, my guardian angel was looking after me and sent a protector.’

‘Where is he?’

‘There on the ground. Sir Christopher Foxton.’

Mr Jessop gaped. ‘Sir Christopher Foxton? He is involved? This is bad, very bad.’

Hattie noticed the other men turn white and start to edge away. A group of farmhands stood solidly behind Mr Jessop, preventing them from leaving.

‘These men attacked me and Sir Christopher defended my honour, Mr Jessop. What you see is the aftermath of battle, which I am delighted to say Sir Christopher won.’ Hattie rapidly explained the situation, giving an account that was accurate in all the particulars but skated over some of the details. There was no need to tell the constable about the quarrel which preceded the event. All he had to know was that Sir Christopher had defended her honour with great vigour.

‘In broad daylight?’ The parish constable’s eyes widened. He drew himself up. ‘What is the world coming to? You should have stayed to the main part of the fair, Mrs Wilkinson.’

‘They were insensible with drink.’ Hattie pressed her hands together and tried to keep her limbs from trembling. ‘It is lucky Sir Christopher happened by when he did.’

‘Do you wish to press charges?’

Hattie regarded the patch of spreading red on Kit’s chest and the way his face was swelling. A primitive urge to see the men hanged filled her. She pushed it away. ‘You must do as you see fit, Mr Jessop. It was a fight, but it is also the day of Stagshaw fair. You will have to speak with Sir Christopher when he is in a better state.’

‘I see, Mrs Wilkinson. No doubt there will be a few sore heads in the morning. A spell cooling off over in Hexham gaol will do them good.’

‘I wish to get medical help for Sir Christopher before anything else happens. Sir Christopher’s well-being is the most important thing.’