When Lord Wetherington came at him again, Allan went for the nose a second time. It cracked even louder this time, and blood started to spurt out of it.
Allan had hurt his hand with the strength of the blow and had to shake out his knuckles, trying to relieve the sudden ache.
“Might I recommend aimin’ somewhere further south to do some permanent damage, Allan?” Gerard started shouting advice.
“Gerard!” Stephen snapped. “This isn’t helping.”
“Well, I’d be cheerin’ ye on if it was Dorothy we were lookin’ for. My money’s on Allan by the way. Where’s yers?”
“Gerard!”
He was not the only one. As Allan thrust Lord Wetherington down onto his back on the floor, he heard other men in the club now placing bets. Allan seemed to be getting most bets by a long shot. Lord Wetherington may have been tall, but he evidently had little experience in a fight. His face was now covered in so much blood from the broken nose that he was struggling to see anything or fight back properly.
“Listen to me,” Allan hissed, bending over Lord Wetherington. He got hold of the man’s cravat and used it to jerk Wetherington’s face up off the floor, just enough so he could be sure the Viscount was looking him in the eye and paying attention. “You will leave England. Go to the continent, the Americas, Australia for all I care.”
“You have to be —” Lord Wetherington’s blood-garbled words were cut off as Allan delivered another blow into his stomach.
“Ye bettin’, Stephen?” Gerard called.
“I won’t get good odds now.”
Allan didn’t look back at the pair of them. He just continued to pummel down on Lord Wetherington.
“All right, all right!” Lord Wetherington’s words were difficult to hear over the tumult, but the pitiful look was plain to see.
Allan paused, staring down at Lord Wetherington with one hand still tightly clasped on the man’s cravat.
“Leave,” Allan hissed again. “Or next time, I will not stop.”
For a second, Lord Wetherington said nothing then he nodded. It was quick, jerking movement, a moment of relenting.
“Good.” Allan stood. He walked over Lord Wetherington, treating him like the rubbish he knew the man to be. “Let’s leave,” he barked at his friends.
“What?” Stephen said in surprise.
“Lord Wetherington doesnae ken where she is, or under that beatin’, he would have told him,” Gerard said, racing along behind Allan.
As Allan stepped out of the club, he felt Stephen and Gerard close behind him. His blood was still pumping fast, the rage still emanating through his body. When he reached the carriage, he pulled himself inside quickly, sitting opposite Gerard and Stepehen and staring down at his bruised knuckles.
“Well done,” Gerard said approvingly.
“Well done!?” Stephen spluttered. “He could be done for assault.”
“They will nae charge him.” Gerard shook his head. “Besides, looks like Lord Wetherington is goin’ to run as fast as he can out of this country now.”
“Good,” Allan said with satisfaction. “Then he can never hurt Frederica again.”
“Great. What exactly have we learned tonight? Hmm?” Stephen said impatiently.
“We’ve learned that he threatened her.” Allan looked up from his bruised knuckles. “Did you not see his reaction when I mentioned she was gone? He had such satisfaction to hear she had left me. We know he was behind this but not where she’s gone.”
Allan sighed with relief and hung his head forward again. At least Frederica wasn’t at the Viscount’s mercy. At least, she couldn’t be hurt by Lord Wetherington now.
“What now then?” Stephen asked.
“I’d say first,” Gerard paused, looking at Allan, “ye need to get that cleaned up.”
“My hand? It’s fine.” Allan shook out the bruised knuckles.
