Chapter 32

32

I t took a good couple of hours for Adrian to return from his unpleasant journey. Elks greeted him and Murry in the foyer before conveying a message.

"Marsdale stopped by an hour ago. He said to tell you he'd be at the Hog Tail Tavern until eleven, if you'd like to join him there for a drink."

"My bath will have to wait until later then," Adrian said, walking to the stairs and proceeding to climb them two steps at a time.

He'd been looking forward to washing the filth from his conscience, but Edward was family, so if he wanted company, Adrian would deliver. It had been a while since they'd last spoken. A lot had happened during that time. "Help me freshen up, Murry. I want to be on my way within fifteen minutes."

It was nearing ten by the time he strode into the noisy alehouse. He surveyed the space, but it was so packed with patrons near the front where the ale was served, he'd have needed to stand on a stool in order to find anyone.

Pushing forward, he squeezed his way past a series of tables until he reached a more open spot. He turned, his gaze catching the bounce of two dice being used in a game of hazard. A roar of laughter erupted behind his left shoulder before someone shouted for one of the barmaids to fetch additional tankards of ale.

He could use a drink of his own to silence the censorious thoughts flooding his brain. The blank-eyed stares of the men he'd killed remained in his mind's eye, taunting him – reminding him how he had failed in his promise to Evie.

No. He shook off the voice that taunted him. Those men had deserved what they got. He'd not minced words when he'd threatened them in the alley. They'd chosen to ignore him and now they'd paid the price.

Besides, they were no different from the other men he'd killed while enforcing his father's will.

Perhaps not, but this time, you made the call entirely by yourself.

Clenching his jaw, he rounded a wooden post and was happy to spot his friend's familiar profile. He stood with a few other people – Lords Glendale, Ottersburg and Midhurst, as well as Mr. Nigel Lawrence.

Adrian stepped forward, swept his hat from his head, and greeted them each in turn – ever conscious of their gazes assessing the bruises on his face. No one commented on it, however. In fact, the only one who showed any interest in his arrival was Edward. Understandable, since they were friends. The rest were, as his father had put it, a potential means to an end.

None of them argued when Adrian proposed he and Edward excuse themselves from the group. Moving away from the others, they found a table in a far corner, and grabbed an extra chair.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Edward asked once they'd settled into their seats. He gestured with his hand to gain a barmaid's attention. "Looks like your face may have met with a fist."

The barmaid arrived and Adrian ordered them both a couple of drinks.

"Remember my accident with the low hanging beam?" When Edward nodded, Adrian confessed, "I was actually attacked by a couple of thugs."

"What?" The question was spoken in anger – anger on Adrian's behalf. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Adrian shrugged. "The same men attacked me again today. They were after the files I inherited from my father."

"And they came after you twice." Edward stared at him in dismay. "You realize this means they'll be likely to try again, right?"

"They won't."

The barmaid returned. She placed two mugs on the table and took the one Edward was done with before walking off.

"How do you know?" Edward asked, his hard gaze boring straight through Adrian.

"Because I made sure of it."

Edward blew out a breath and sank against his seat. "Don't tell me anything more. I don't want to know but…damn it, you should have told Bow Street to handle this."

"That wasn't an option." Good lord, the very idea of involving the authorities in his private affairs was enough to make his skin itch. He drank a measure of ale.

"Look, our friendship is based on me not knowing what you're involved with, so all I'll say is this: Knowing who your father was, I'm fairly sure you didn't send those men who attacked you off to Bath on holiday. Which worries me, because if you get caught doing something…questionable…I'm not sure I'll have the power to save you."

"I understand, and I appreciate your concern." He genuinely meant it. "Please don't worry."

"How can I not?" Incredulity filled Edward's eyes. "With your sister gone you're…" He shook his head. "Just promise me you'll be careful."

"Always."

Edward didn't look fully convinced. Concern was still etched on his brow, but when he spoke next his thoughts had clearly shifted. "They say time heals all wounds, but I miss Evie more with each passing day."

Edward's use of Evelyn's pet name came as a jarring surprise. It shouldn't have, Adrian reflected, and yet the intimacy and loss it conveyed was poignant.

A sad smile tugged at Edward's lips. "If only I'd told her how I felt."

If only.

Maybe he would have married her and she would still be alive today. Adrian swallowed that thought when he took his next sip and opted for offering comfort instead. "I'm sure she knew."

"Maybe," Edward conceded. His gaze suddenly darkened. "I want her killer to hang."

"He'll do more than that," Adrian vowed.

The comment brought Edward's head up with a snap. He stared across the table between them, his knuckles bright as he gripped his mug. "You promised me less than ten minutes ago that you'd stay out of danger. Let Bow Street handle this matter so they don't find cause to go after you as well."

"As much as I appreciate your concern, Evie was my sister. Bow Street is doing bugger all to catch the man who, may I remind you, butchered her throat. So I will do whatever I can to sniff him out. And once I do, the bastard will rue the day he was born."

Noting how pale Edward looked, Adrian realized he'd probably said too much. A notion he thought on at greater length later when he returned home. Edward was like the brother he'd never had. They'd always gotten along. But only because he'd kept the ugly part of himself and all his dark family secrets carefully tucked away so his friend wouldn't see.

It occurred to him now how exhausting that was, constantly having to tiptoe around the edges for fear of what Edward might think. Or worse, what his moral compass might prompt him to do.

By contrast, Miss Carmichael seemed more inclined to safeguard his secrets. Maybe. He took a moment to explore that thought. Unlike Edward, she'd encouraged him to seek vengeance on Evie's behalf. Hell, she was trying to help him track down the killer.

He sipped the tea he'd ordered before retiring, his heart finding a steadier rhythm the more he thought on the woman who'd come to his aid in the midst of a fight. Unique was one way to describe her. Brave was another. As were resilient, remarkable, surprising, attractive, compelling, and…

He could not wait to see her again tomorrow.

* * *

Having opted for a snug pair of breeches, a comfortable shirt and jacket, Samantha accompanied Wycliffe into a narrow street. The hooded mask she wore concealed all but her eyes, the daggers tucked into her sleeves a welcome reminder that she could protect herself from whatever danger she might be about to face.

Wycliffe had not been specific. He'd merely informed her that he was about to meet with a disgruntled business associate. Things might get rough. It was her job to keep him safe.

They crossed to a shadowy doorway and Wycliffe gave the door a few solid knocks. It opened a smidgen and someone peered out through the gap, took quick stock of them, then pulled the door wide to grant them entry.

Samantha followed Wycliffe inside, her attention on the man who'd let them in. His thick arms stretched the sleeves of his jacket taut, his broad torso forcing the garment to gape at the front. Built from pure muscle, he'd prove a dangerous foe if she had to fight him.

"This way," he said, his voice gruff.

He led them through a hallway toward another door and out into a courtyard lit only by the occasional touch of moonlight. Two other men stood here, both of solid build, though one appeared slightly shorter.

"Who's your friend, Wycliffe?"

Samantha tilted her head, her eyes on the shorter man as he stepped closer. She knew that voice but couldn't quite place it.

"One of the older lads," Wycliffe said. "The right side of his face melted a few years ago in a fire, so he keeps it hidden from view."

A moment of silence to gauge this response, and then, "Where's my delivery?"

"Still on the ship. The boy I sent to collect it was caught trying to find it." The last was spoken with bitterness, the only indication Wycliffe regretted the loss.

"Then I've really no use for you, have I?" The shorter man gestured toward his protectors, the slight movement allowing a sliver of moonlight to touch his face.

Samantha sucked in a breath as she recognized Wrengate, his hard eyes glinting with merciless calm. A thousand questions filled her head all at once, all of them just as quickly forgotten when Wrengate's men charged. She sensed rather than saw Wycliffe move, her own attention on shifting away from the fist that was flying toward her.

She ducked, spun, and grabbed her attacker's ankles, then pushed herself upright so her momentum could send him headfirst into a sprawl. A curse followed before he leapt back into action. His speed was impressive for a man his size.

Another fist flew and she darted sideways, careful not to get struck since one blow would probably kill her. Something crashed and a grunt followed. Ignoring the sound, she kept her gaze trained on the beast she'd been paired with.

He lunged and attempted to grab her while she swung her leg, kicking her foot toward his groin with as much force as she could muster. A roar of pain shook the surrounding buildings and yet he remained upright.

Rage twisted his features, the cruelty in his eyes warning her she wouldn't leave here alive. Metal glinted in the next instant, the dagger he'd unsheathed arcing toward her with menacing swiftness.

Instinct ripped through her veins. Her hands moved, curling around smooth wood and pulling twin blades free from her sleeves as she dropped to one knee. Her attacker's blade met with nothing but air while she thrust hers upward, straight into his belly.

A swift stab, just as she'd practiced again and again with those burlap sacks Harlowe had filled with hay. It felt no different – soft and yielding. She pulled them free and dodged the body now falling toward the ground with a choked-out groan.

Still he moved, shifting onto one forearm and turning while cursing her to perdition. Footsteps hitting the ground behind her was all the warning she got before his companion was there with death in his eyes, his arm rising to showcase the dagger he wielded.

Samantha lowered her stance, one hand preparing to block him as the other shot forward, straight into his throat. His eyes bulged, a spray of blood wetting her face before he buckled.

She wiped it away with the back of her hand and shifted her gaze to the other man. His chest rose and fell with strained breaths before he went limp.

There was no telling how long she stood there, hands trembling while coming to terms with what had transpired. All she knew was that Wycliffe was gone. A cat's screech eventually snapped her out of her stupor.

Crouching, she wiped her blades clean on the dead men's clothes, sheathed them, and started making her way back to her lodgings. Her debt had been paid ten times over. If Wycliffe ever asked anything of her again, she'd carve him into little pieces.

* * *

The hallway clock at Stanton House chimed the eleventh hour as Clive Newton donned his hat. He was on his way out to meet with some friends, but turned back when his father's voice, coming from the study, drew his attention because of the door being left ajar.

"Is there anything to suggest Croft might know we're involved?" Papa asked.

"No." The answer was clearly spoken by Owen and was followed by a more muffled comment.

Curious to know what they might be discussing, Clive moved a bit closer.

"Damn him and those files," Papa cursed. A thud followed, suggesting he'd slammed his fist into his desk. "I'd hoped he'd be different from his father, but the threat he issued Mr. Abernathy is added proof that he's chosen to take up where the old bastard left off."

A brief hesitation before Owen asked, "What else has he done?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Perhaps," Owen began, only to lock eyes with Clive through the gap in the door. He quickly shut it, preventing Clive from discerning anything more.