Chapter 22

22

H eavy clouds heralding rain filled the sky the following morning when Adrian entered Green Park. He strode onto the nearest path and toward a bench where the lady he'd come to meet waited.

Dressed in a lilac pelisse, Miss Fairchild sat with an older woman – a maid, he presumed, whose purpose it was to chaperone her. As if sensing his approach, Miss Fairchild glanced his way and stood in order to greet him.

He tipped his hat. "Miss Fairchild. I wonder if you might be in the mood for a stroll."

"An excellent idea." She gestured for her maid to follow and fell into step beside him. "Thank you for coming to meet me."

He dropped a look in her direction. "I'm hoping you'll tell me something to help me track down your sister's killer. In which case, it is I who should thank you."

Miss Fairchild gave him a pained look, sniffed, and gulped down a breath before saying, "Gwendolyn's death came as a shock. I still expect her to walk through the door any moment."

"My sympathies." A pause allowed the words to bear weight. "Having lost my own sister to the same monster, I know the pain you've been forced to endure."

"My parents have placed their faith in the law, but it has been several months with additional murders and no hint of Bow Street stopping the killer. My hope is that you might do so instead, and if there's the slightest chance you'll meet with success, I'll happily lend my support. Provided of course that I may count upon your discretion regarding what I'm about to say."

"Of course," he promised. "You have my word."

"Very well." She drew a ragged breath. "What no one knows is that Gwendolyn was engaged in a secret romance with the Marquess of Lundquist at the time of her death. According to what she told me, he disapproved of her friends and demanded she end her associations with them. When she refused, he grew angry and jealous. I fear..."

"You fear Lundquist's jealousy led him to kill her?"

"That, and his need for control. He made it clear to her that she wasn't allowed to dance with anyone else – an impossible demand to make of any young lady without it raising suspicion. So she ignored it and accepted the repercussion."

"Which was?"

Miss Fairchild sent her gaze across the park. "He was rough with her the last time they met in private. She came home with bruises."

Adrian gritted his teeth as anger rolled through him. "I'm sorry."

"No more than I, Mr. Croft." She glanced at him through watery eyes. "I knew what had happened, but rather than tell our parents, I kept my sister's secret."

"If it eases your mind, I don't believe speaking up would have changed anything." Adrian set his hand against her arm in the hope of offering some small measure of comfort. "The man we seek selected women he believed to be without morals. Your sister's tryst with Lundquist must have caused him to think of her in such terms, in which case accusing Lundquist of violent behavior would not have served any purpose, besides ruining her reputation. It wouldn't have changed the killer's opinion of her."

"The killer being Lundquist." A remark intended to make him commit to her line of thinking.

He refused to do so. "Possibly."

"Mr. Croft." Her voice was raw with emotion. "Gwendolyn was the first victim. Given the fact that Lundquist was the only man who could have known she wasn't as innocent as she appeared, it stands to good reason that he took her life before setting his sights on additional women."

"You're certain she met with no other men?"

"I know how this sounds, but my sister was good and kind. She wasn't a…a whore."

"Of course not."

They walked a few more paces before Miss Fairchild drew to a halt and faced him. She raised her chin. "I know it's him. I can feel it in my bones."

Hardly enough to condemn the man. Not without knowing more. He released her arm and took a step back. "You've been most helpful, Miss Fairchild."

"I trust you'll make sure he pays?"

"I'll do my best to see justice served," Adrian promised. He bid her farewell and departed, his intention to stop by Lundquist House next. The time had come for him to confront the marquess and, he hoped, acquire additional insight. One way or another, he would find the answers he sought.

A slow drizzle started as he turned onto Piccadilly. It dampened the air and beaded on Adrian's jacket. As he strode, he turned up his collar to protect the back of his neck. Had Lundquist House been farther away he'd have ordered a hackney, but it seemed ridiculous when the walk could be accomplished in less than ten minutes.

Although a wet sheen had already settled on all visible surfaces by the time he turned onto Clarges Street, the area still bustled with activity.

It wasn't unusual. Londoners were accustomed to stepping out in drearier weather than this.

When he'd gone another five yards, a soft prick of heightened awareness settled against the nape of his neck, stirring the hair at the base of his skull. It was a feeling Adrian was all too familiar with - one he'd experienced numerous times before and knew to heed.

It urged him to send a swift glance over his shoulder. Which was all it took for him to note the two men who stood out. Not because they looked different from any other working-class men milling about, but because of the dogged gleam in their eyes.

These were hounds on the hunt, probably possessing more muscle than brains and carrying blades they'd want to show off.

What he had no idea of was who might have sent them after him or what they might want.

He flattened his mouth and fisted his hands. Lundquist was his priority. He didn't have time for pesky thugs. Then again, he did want to know who they worked for and what they meant to accomplish.

With a curse, he turned at the next intersection and slipped into the first alley he found. It was littered with discarded crates and refuse that must have been dumped there several weeks prior if the stench was any indication. Not even the rain could wash it away.

Grimacing, he pressed his back against the wall, then waited for the men to appear.

They did so soon enough. The tallest of the pair - a stocky fellow with a round face that showcased a bulbous nose – arrived first. His companion's features were slightly more angular, the sharp red line slashing his cheek a souvenir from a previous fight.

Adrian grabbed them both by the scruff of their necks and shoved them against the filthy brick wall. It only worked because he'd taken them by surprise. Once they gathered their wits, he'd lose the advantage. A few seconds was all it would take. If that.

"What do you want?" he snarled, his fingers digging against their grimy cravats. Water droplets settled upon his face, dampening his skin as the drizzle worsened.

Chubbycheeks grinned, revealing an incomplete set of stained teeth. "Ye'll see soon enough."

Adrian wasn't allowed time to ponder his meaning before Scarface slammed his forehead straight into Adrian's.

The impact sent his hat tumbling and made his teeth rattle. Thankfully, instinct born from experience and endless hours of training with Murry enabled a swift and instinctive response.

Fists curling more firmly around the cravats, he dropped to a crouch. The action forced both men off balance and sent them stumbling. Aided by the momentum, Adrian swung himself forward between them while releasing his hold in the process.

He swiveled around as he started to rise, moving fast while doing his best to block out the pain in his head. Once upright, he launched himself at the nearest assailant, thrusting his fist into Chubbycheeks's jaw before he'd regained his footing.

A grunt accompanied the crunch of bone, the force of the blow knocking Chubbycheeks back while bloodstained spittle flew through the dank air. But the time it had taken to complete the strike allowed Scarface to land a punch to Adrian's gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

Despite the force, he remained on his feet, but barely managed to gulp down a breath before both men advanced together. He flexed his fingers in anticipation of their next move. It came soon enough, though not as quickly as he might have feared. The thugs lacked swiftness and finesse, which made it possible for him to dodge their attacks and block their blows as long as he kept his wits about him.

"Damned toff," Chubbycheeks growled when Adrian nimbly avoided a punch to the sternum while countering with a hard blow to the man's shoulder.

"You'd be wise to know who you're after," Adrian told him, his knuckles cracking as they found Scarface's nose. "I've more in common with Wycliffe than with the Prince Regent."

It occurred to him too late that engaging in chatter was foolish. Doing so broke his concentration and slowed his movements just enough to let Chubbycheeks smash his knuckles against the edge of Adrian's eye-socket.

The pain was instant – a sharp sting and a fierce ache that told him the skin had been split. He rounded on his attacker with carefully controlled rage, sending an upward jab into his chin with so much force, it felled him.

"What the hell?" Scarface muttered when Chubbycheeks landed against the wet ground, a groan the only indication he wasn't dead.

Adrian didn't bother explaining how timing, twisting the hips, or coming in at just the right angle could knock someone out. Instead, he took advantage of his remaining opponent's dismay and repeated the strike.

It would take a moment for the men to regain their bearings. Adrian stared at them and wondered once more who they worked for. He needed that answer.

Dropping into a crouch, he searched their pockets, retrieving a few bits and bobs before finding the blades he'd been certain they carried. They hadn't attempted to use them though, which surely meant they'd not meant him any serious harm.

Water dripped from his hair and onto his brow. Swiping the heel of his hand against the edge of his right eye, he wiped away the blood that pooled there before it could trickle over his cheek. It had been a while since he'd taken this kind of beating, the stale taste it left in his mouth prompting him to spit on the ground.

He rubbed his nose and grabbed the blades, positioning them so the tips touched the underside of each man's jaw.

Chubbycheeks came around first, eyes widening with alarm when he realized he might soon get skewered. He sucked in a breath and stared up into Adrian's face with what looked like deep resentment, anger, and fear.

"I'll ask you again. What do you want?" When Chubbycheeks didn't respond, opting instead for a glare, Adrian pressed the tip of the blade more firmly against him. A drop of crimson gathered around it. "Keep in mind, I'll not ask again."

"Your files." Scarface, who'd regained consciousness too, hissed the words. "We was to get them from ye."

"And you thought attacking me would be the best way to do so?"

"Better than breaking in and searching the house in an effort to steal them. Complicated that, what with yer servants and such. Simpler takin' ye hostage and askin' fer them in exchange."

The man did have a point. "Who hired you?"

"Can't say."

Dissatisfied with the answer, Adrian pierced Scarface's skin as well.

"We don't know," Chubbycheeks croaked when Scarface winced in pain. He blinked against the raindrops. "Never saw 'is face. He wore a hooded cloak when 'e approached us two nights ago. Was at the Mad Bull.

Adrian knew of the place—a tavern in the east end. It was known for hosting bare-knuckle boxing matches and dog fights. He tilted his head. "How were you to deliver the files to this man if you don't even know what he looks like or where to find him?"

"Said 'e'd find us."

"If you're lying…" He watched the tips of both blades disappear beneath flesh. The resulting blood stained the edge of their white cravats.

"We're…not," Chubbycheeks rasped. "Swear it."

There was nothing more to be learned then, besides the fact that someone was after his files.

Rain began falling in earnest while he considered his next course of action. It smeared the dirt in the alley and made him long for a bath. First, he had to decide on what to do with his attackers.

Common sense told him he'd be a fool if he let them go. He ought to slit their throats to make sure they'd never confront him again. His fingers tightened around each blade's wooden handle. It would be quick and easy. Most importantly, it would help prevent future threats.

Body tense, he flexed his muscles while rain danced over his head. A strenuous sigh worked its way up his throat before he eventually pulled the blades back and stood.

He couldn't do it. Not this time.

While Evie's murder might stop him from severing ties with the life he hated, it need not stop him from trying to do better. There was a choice here between killing these men and letting them go, and although he feared he might later regret his decision, he didn't want more blood on his hands.

Not when it could be avoided.

"Get up. Both of you."

The men scrambled to their feet, coughing and sputtering while clutching their throats.

"Be warned," Adrian told them between gritted teeth. "If you ever attempt to cross me again, it will be the last thing you do before you die. Now get out of here. Before I decide to kill you anyway."

Swaying slightly on unsteady feet, they glanced at the knives in Adrian's hands. For one absurd moment it looked like they might be stupid enough to ask if he'd give them back. But then Chubbycheeks gave an unhappy snort, swinging around and presenting his back as he staggered out of the alley.

Scarface followed without further comment.

Adrian shoved both knives into his coat pocket and went to fetch his hat. After returning it to his head he retrieved a handkerchief which he used to wipe his face. As expected, it came away bloody.

Eager to return home so he could tend to his wounds and freshen up, he set his course for Portman Square. Lundquist House would have to wait for another day. Turning up like this, like some sort of madman, would hardly be conducive.

Instead, he needed to clean up and gather his thoughts before he continued his investigation. The soles of his shoes clicked along the wet pavement, splashing water from occasional puddles.

Today's altercation revealed he had yet another foe to contend with.

A coincidence?

He couldn't be sure.

Perhaps he was looking at separate cases. There was no doubt in his mind that nearly every man of consequence in the country would feel threatened by all the information contained in those files. Information that could be used against them for all sorts of gain.

Maybe the real question was how many of them knew the files existed?

He burst through the front door of Croft House ten minutes later. "Murry!"

His valet arrived at a run, eyes widening when he saw Adrian's bruised face. "What's happened?"

"I'll explain later," Adrian said. "First, I need you to help me move the files so they're harder to find. Summon the rest of the staff after that. I want the house on high alert until further notice."

"Of course." Murry's face tightened with concern, but he gave a brisk nod. "Right away."

Adrian's mind raced as he and Murry transferred the files to a secret storage room located behind the book case in the upstairs drawing room. His father had been the last one to use them as leverage and he'd been dead for six months. So why the sudden interest?

When the question continued to plague him, he put it to Murry. The valet closed the book case and regarded Adrian with steady consideration.

"Does anyone know of your effort to hunt down your sister's killer?"

Adrian stared at him. He'd not been discreet. Anyone who bothered paying attention to what went on would know he was trying to do so. "You think the murderer fears the files could aid in his capture? Because of the information they contain?"

"It's just a guess."

"A correct one, perhaps."

"Or perhaps not." Murry shrugged. "Those files have been used against a lot of people over the years. It's possible one of them simply decided now was the time to try and grab them."

"If that's the case, I hope the individual has learned I'm not to be trifled with."

But if the other possibility were true and it was the killer, Adrian prayed he'd make another attempt so he could catch him once and for all.