Chapter 27

27

C old fury snapped at Samantha's nerves as she drove the carriage back into Town. The driver had been restrained and would soon be delivered to Bow Street.

Lucky him.

Had it been up to her, she'd have tortured him a few hours more for what he'd done to Adrian. Both men's wounds would have to be seen to quickly, however, so they couldn't afford to waste precious time.

She whipped the reins, acutely aware of her husband's slumped figure beside her. It wasn't until they'd tried to get the driver into the carriage that she'd realized how bad off Adrian was. His knees had nearly buckled, and that was when she'd seen the dark smear at his shoulder, illuminated by the light from the carriage lantern.

A shiver of dread rolled through her. For a second, she'd been back in The Toothless Cat Tavern, her body moving with instinctual purpose in her determination to shield Adrian's body from harm.

She'd had no chance to do so this time, her only consolation the knowledge that the wound's placement shouldn't be lethal as long as they stopped it from getting infected. Considering how often such things happened, she urged the horses onward in her haste to get Adrian home. She sent up countless prayers as they drove and thanked the heavens that every street leading to Bow Street was empty.

"He and two others attacked us," she told the Runners on duty while they helped unload the scoundrel from inside the carriage.

He stumbled onto the ground and snarled at her, but the length of cloth restraining his wrists held, even as he told the Runners, "It's them who ought to be apprehended for nearly murdering me."

One of the Runners noted the wound in the man's side and arched a brow at Samantha. "Is that true?"

"Yes. He killed our coachman and stabbed my husband. We had to overpower him somehow."

"You said there were two other men?" another Runner asked.

Samantha gave a swift nod. "We managed to chase them off, so I've no idea where they are now."

"Very well." The first Runner nudged the assailant toward the door leading into the Bow Street Magistrate's Court. "If you'll please accompany us inside, Mrs. Croft. I'd like to take your statement for the chief constable to review later."

"My apologies, but it will have to wait." She was already stepping back, adding distance as she made to return to the carriage.

"Procedure dictates that all events pertaining to criminal acts be put down in writing."

"I'm sure it does and I'm happy to help if you'll stop by the house tomorrow. Right now, however, I'm making sure my husband gets the treatment he needs."

"But—"

She turned, her foot landing hard on the carriage step, hands grabbing the guard rail as she hauled herself back onto the driver's bench. The Runner shouted at her but she blocked him out, her only focus on reaching Portman Square quickly. So she whipped the horses into a gallop, teeth clamping together when one of the wheels struck a pothole.

Adrian groaned beside her. She uttered a hasty apology but kept the carriage moving. It careened around a number of corners and nearly plowed into a couple of men who were crossing the street. They managed to leap clear of her path, their angry curses trailing behind as the carriage shot straight toward home.

Murry came running at Elks's insistence as soon as they arrived, the two men helping Adrian into the house while Stewart, the younger of the two footmen in their employ, was told to take care of the horses.

"What happened to Phelps?" Stewart asked when he took the reins from Samantha, his wide-eyed gaze searching the carriage.

"He was shot and thrown from the carriage at some point between Bloomsbury Square and Oxford Street. Once you've stabled the horses, I'd like you to head over there and see if you're able to find his body."

Stewart paled. "You think he's dead?"

"I expect so after what happened. I'm sorry."

"I'll make sure to find him," Stewart promised, all traces of softness vanishing beneath a hard veneer of anger.

Intent on returning to Adrian's side at once, Samantha thanked him and rushed indoors where she followed the sound of voices to the parlor. The sight she beheld when she paused in the doorway made her stomach contract. She forced a deep breath to steady her pulse even as the tips of her fingers started to tremble.

Murry and Elks had not wasted time, their efficiency that of two army surgeons trained to treat soldiers in the midst of a battle. Adrian's jacket, waistcoat, and shirt had all been removed in the brief time she'd taken to speak with the footman. He now sat astride a chair, facing backward, his knuckles white as he gripped the backrest. Elks, who stood before him with a drink between his hands, helped Adrian take the occasional sip while Murry probed the wound with a long metal tool.

Adrian gasped, eyes squeezing shut against the torment his valet was causing. A deeper movement and Adrian's muscles flexed as he gripped the chair harder, his anguish audible in his accompanying groan.

It physically pained Samantha to watch, even though she knew it had to be done. If fragments from Adrian's clothes remained inside him, the wound could fester.

Murry dabbed at the raw flesh with a cloth he'd rinsed in another glass, Adrian's twisted expression informing Samantha that alcohol was being used. Though she wanted to close her eyes and block out the sight, she crossed the floor and relieved Elks of his task so he could fetch a compress.

It took an hour to finish cleaning Adrian up and get him into bed. After seeing to her own toilette, Samantha climbed in beside him, her thoughts on the culprit they'd handed over to Bow Street earlier. A part of her wished she had killed the man for what he'd done, though she had to acknowledge how drastic that would have been.

Still, she vowed to seek justice in some form or other. Tonight's incident could not go unpunished. She'd deal with the matter tomorrow, after she slept. But the tension thrumming through her kept her from sleep a long while after. With her gaze directed toward the ceiling, she listened to Adrian's steady breathing and prayed there would be no fever.

Eventually, when the dim light of dawn spilled beneath the edge of the curtains, she found the rest she needed.

And yet, it was only a little after eight in the morning when she woke. Her first task was to check Adrian's forehead, relief lightening her heart when she found him cool to the touch. With careful movements to keep from waking him from his deep slumber, she slid from the bed and proceeded to dress.

Two new daggers would have to be purchased. Regrettably, last night's attack had resulted in losing the one she'd received from Adrian as a gift. Yet another reason why she was so bloody angry. That fine piece of steel with its mother-of-pearl handle and exquisite etchings had been her most prized possession.

Shopping for its replacement wouldn't be easy. It would also have to wait a while. First, she had a call to make.

One hour later, after eating a hasty breakfast, she made her way to Stanton House with a purposeful stride. The building, located on Grosvenor Square, looked no different from all the ones flanking it. White, with matching cornices, balustrades, and stonework. The only difference was the brass number attached to the door.

Samantha gave the knocker a few loud raps and was soon admitted by the Stanton House butler.

"I'm afraid the viscount is out," the servant informed her a few minutes later after checking to see if his master was available to see her.

"Really?" Samantha glanced past the older man's shoulder and made her decision. "If you don't mind, I'd like to confirm that for myself."

She was already moving, sweeping past the butler before he could register her intent. In all likelihood, her lack of adherence to protocol shocked him so much he failed to respond with the swiftness required to stop her.

"Wait," he eventually managed. "You can't invade someone's home without invitation."

But she was now several steps ahead of him, her instinct steering her toward the first closed door to her left. She thrust it open, saw that the room – a parlor – was empty, and kept on walking.

"Mrs. Croft," said the butler, his voice much firmer now that he'd gathered his wits. His heels clicked with the effort to try and catch up. "Your behavior is utterly inappropriate. I must insist you leave this instant."

"In a moment," she told him, her hand reaching for another door handle. It turned in response to her touch, and the door swung open, revealing a study where cabinets sat against one wall, book cases against the other. An ornate desk was placed in the center, behind which she found the man she sought.

Stanton glanced up from whatever it was he was writing, his cool gaze meeting hers across the distance.

"Forgive me," said the butler, finally reaching Samantha. "I tried to tell her, but—"

"It's fine," Stanton said, the tone of his voice suggesting it was anything but. "Looks like I'll be speaking with Mrs. Croft after all. You may go."

"Should I ask a maid to bring up some tea?"

"No. I don't believe this… social call will be long enough for that. "

No doubt sensing the tension, the butler made a swift retreat, disappearing to some other part of the house. Samantha approached Stanton's desk, ignoring his refusal to stand since she rather liked the advantage her superior height gave her. The odious man even had the audacity to lean back in his armchair.

Halting before him, Samantha stared down into his chubby face with every bit of resentment she harbored. "I suspect my being here must come as quite the surprise."

"There's no denying that, considering the fact I specifically asked my butler to send you away."

So it was to be like that, was it? She wasn't really surprised. "You know that's not what I mean."

He tilted his head, his gaze studying and assessing. "What else might you be referring to?"

She couldn't help but scoff at his effort to try and deceive her. "The attack carried out last night on the Croft carriage."

Stanton froze, his attention on her as sharp as a fox on the hunt. "I know nothing of that."

His denial added fuel to her anger. She planted her palms on his desk and leaned forward with every bit of menace in her possession. "The attacker claimed otherwise. In fact, your calling card was found on his person."

"Do you have any idea how many people I've handed my calling card to over the years? It means nothing. A coincidence I can rectify if you'll allow me to speak with the villain. "

A skeptical laugh cracked in her throat. "So you can make sure he's silenced for good before he can make a statement in court? I don't think so."

"Now you listen to me," Stanton blurted, splotches of red appearing upon his fleshy cheeks. "This is my reputation we're speaking of here. I'll not have you tarnish it in any way. Certainly not when there's no truth to back up your story."

"My husband was stabbed during the attack," she informed him coolly, "his coachman killed. If you think for one second I'll let this slide, you're severely mistaken. In fact, now that I think of it, I'd not be surprised if you also hired the men who attacked my husband in May."

The slightest flicker of affirmation in Stanton's cool gaze informed her she'd struck a chord. The tension gripping her tightened in direct proportion to her rising anger. This was the man behind those thugs who'd shown up at Reed's Boxing Club, recklessly brandishing pistols without a care for anyone's safety. One would have killed her had he not been stopped by Murry.

Rather than deny his involvement, as she'd expected, Stanton pushed himself out of his chair so he could meet her head-on at eye level. Annoyance pulled his mouth into an unhappy line and caused his eyebrows to dip while creasing his brow.

"Did it ever occur to you that I may have acted with good reason?" The viscount spoke tersely but kept his voice level. "Your husband belongs behind bars, Mrs. Croft, if not at the gallows. While he may look the part of an upper-class gentleman, he's nothing more than a lowly criminal. Associates of his have been known to disappear, which is precisely what happened to the men I hired. I'd not be the least bit surprised if they're dead. Killed by his hand."

Samantha could only stare back mutely since she believed much the same. As such, it took her a second to find the presence of mind to say, "That's quite the accusation to make against a respectable member of Society."

Stanton scoffed and dropped back into his chair. "There's nothing respectable about Mr. Croft. He's a scoundrel through and through and can only be dealt with in the same underhanded manner he himself chooses to use."

His wording caught her attention. "How do you mean?"

"He was blackmailing me. That's how he gains his power and control. Same as his father and those before him. It's the Croft family way, though not one I was willing to be a victim of. That's why I sent those men – to try and reclaim the information your husband meant to use against me."

Samantha's mind whirled with this new information. It couldn't be right. The man she knew Adrian to be would not engage in such behavior. Unless he'd had good cause, a reason so compelling it forced his hand.

She lowered herself to one of the vacant chairs beside her and folded her hands in her lap. It was time to understand exactly what had occurred, which could only be done if she managed to leash her temper.

So she allowed herself a second to take a deep breath and expel it, then did her best to soften her voice when she asked, "Were you obstructing his effort to find his sister's murderer? If you knew your son was guilty and tried to prevent my husband from finding the proof he required, then that would explain why—"

"This conversation is over," Stanton snapped. "It's time for you to leave."

"But—"

"Bringing up my son was a grave mistake on your part, Mrs. Croft."

"I'm simply attempting to understand what happened."

"Allow me to tell you." Stanton gripped the armrests and leaned forward in his chair, agitation wafting off his bulky frame. "Your husband decided my son had committed those murders, and as a result, he had him killed. That is what happened. Now if you would please—"

"I'd like to see the blackmail letter he sent you."

Stanton appeared to be taken aback by her calmly spoken request. For a second, he seemed unsure as to how to respond, but then he huffed a breath and reached into one of his desk drawers. A piece of paper was handed to Samantha a moment later, the crease marks suggesting it had been unfolded and refolded numerous times.

She read the brief paragraph quickly, her attention lingering on the demand being made. Not only did it support her belief that Adrian wasn't behind this, it provided a clear indication of who was.

Placing the letter on Stanton's desk, she met his gaze squarely. "This wasn't written by my husband. His penmanship is different."

"An easy claim for anyone to make. Especially if your aim is to protect him." Stanton jabbed the paper with a podgy finger. "His name is there, in case you missed it."

"Then why not take it to the authorities? Let them deal with it?"

"Let's not pretend you don't know the answer to that."

The patronizing manner with which he spoke grated, but she acknowledged the truth in what he told her. He had no wish for anyone else to learn about the information the blackmail letter referred to – the by-blow he'd supposedly had with his late wife's sister.

"Fine, but that signature has been forged."

Disbelief parted Stanton's lips. He suddenly laughed. "Are you suggesting someone else is attempting to blackmail me and pin the deed on Croft?"

"Yes."

"But that's absurd."

"Is it?" She straightened her spine and raised her chin ever so slightly. "Seems like the perfect way to add pressure while passing the blame onto someone else. The letter mentions a time and place where you were supposed to meet the demands. I'm guessing you chose to ignore this?"

"Of course. There was no way in hell I was going to hand those documents over."

"And you received no further demands?" When Stanton shook his head, Samantha asked, "Have you never wondered why that might be?"

He shrugged. "I suppose I believed Croft must have realized I wasn't the easy target he'd hoped for."

"Again, it wasn't him. He had nothing to do with this, or he would have believed you were the one behind the attacks. But he had no inkling. He never so much as suspected you."

"I'm still convinced you're trying to pull the wool over my eyes. But let's suppose you're right. Who then would have done it?"

Samantha still didn't think the viscount believed her even after she told him. Not that cared. She was far more concerned with returning home and revealing all of her findings to Adrian. She'd have to make one additional stop first, however. It was time for her to fulfill her promise to Isak.