Free A Christmas Gambol by Joan Smith

north, the greenery and fine buildings petered out into commercial establishments, finally degenerating into hovels.
    “I have never seen anything like this!” Cicely exclaimed, staring around her in disbelief when Fairly announced uncertainly that he figured they were now at Seven Dials.
    It made the poorhouse at home look opulent by comparison. The doors on the hovels hung crookedly, some of them on one hinge. The holes where windows had once rested were covered in oilskin or rags or brown paper. Clusters of bedraggled humanity sat on the doorsteps, huddled together for warmth, their very postures a picture of despair. What must the interior of those hovels be like, that they braved the wintry blasts to escape them? Perhaps it was the daylight that drew them, as the shacks had no glazed windows.
    Some of the women had children in their arms. Most of them held a bottle of what Fairly assured her was Blue Ruin, from which they took frequent drinks. Blue Ruin shops abounded. Children roamed the streets in packs, too dispirited to play. They had the feral air of wild animals, as they slouched along, looking over their shoulders. Several fully grown men were also there.
    Fairly had his ruffians waiting at the corner of Neal Street, the location chosen because of its proximity to Bow Street. He would let the lads escape, of course, but he might report them to Bow Street, to lend an air of authenticity to the attack. If, on the other hand, as he hoped, Cicely was completely overwrought, he would stay with her in the carriage, comforting her in his arms until she was sufficiently recovered to don Meg’s bonnet and go for a strut on New Bond Street, where she was bound to relate his heroism to anyone they met.
    “Shall we get out and have a look around?” he asked as the carriage approached Neal Street.
    “I fear that would not be wise,” Cicely said. “A cutpurse would have your money before we’d gone two steps.”
    “I came prepared,” he said, lifting a stout cudgel from the floor.
    She was surprised at the dandy’s willingness to involve himself in a brawl. “We might be outnumbered,” she said. “I just wanted to see the place. It’s worse than I imagined.” Certainly her heroine’s courage would be put to the test in this domestic hell.
    “You need not fear, Cicely. I shall protect you,” he said and pulled the drawstring, against her repeated opposition.
    “No, really. This is most unwise, Fairly.”
    “It will provide excellent research for you, seeing how a gentleman handles these fellows,” he insisted.
    “But how will they handle a lady?”
    “Ha-ha. Come along,” he said, his patience wearing thin.
    Cicely stuffed her reticule in the pocket of the carriage, picked up Fairly’s malacca cane and got out, looking all around her. Fairly spotted his hired henchmen and began strutting toward them. The men exchanged a quiet word and began advancing.
    “Come, Fairly,” Cicely said, tugging at his elbow. “This is folly. I have seen how brave you are.”
    “There are only two of them,” he said with an air of braggadocio as he quickened his pace, winking at his cohorts.
    “But they’re huge!”
    He had paid them a pound each, in advance. They were Lord Henry Milvern’s prize bruisers. Henry had assured him they would do as agreed. Fairly raised his cudgel menacingly and said, “Stand aside, lads.”
    “Who gave you the street, mister?” one of them answered.
    The bigger of the men raised his fists and feinted a blow at Fairly’s chin. Fairly dodged, lifted his cudgel, and lowered it lightly on the bruiser’s shoulder. The other bruiser grabbed Fairly’s left arm, yanked it behind his back, and said, “Hand over your rhino and we’ll not kill you.”
    “Scoundrel!” Fairly said, tearing his arm free. “Desist, I say. Out of my way.”
    He flailed his cudgel in the air, landing the second attacker a grazing blow on the elbow. The first made another attack. Fairly fought it off with