Chapter 39

39

A drian arrived at The Toothless Cat Inn well in advance of the scheduled time, just to be sure the killer wouldn't be there to see him. The late afternoon light was beginning to dim. A group of dockyard workers passed him on their way in. He took a moment to survey the building's exterior and its location before he followed, just in case an escape route would be required later.

"Has a room been rented under the name of Carmichael?" Adrian slipped a few coins to the innkeeper when the man crossed his arms and held his tongue. The faintest nod confirmed it. "Which one?"

Additional coins got him the answer he wanted and made sure the occupant in the adjoining room was moved elsewhere so Adrian could have it instead. A maid showed him to the small space which was crowded by a simple bed, table, and chair.

Adrian crossed to the window and peered out into the murky side street that ran between the tavern and the building next door. The ground wasn't far – he could easily make the jump if needed, but he couldn't expect Samantha to do the same. The only exit available to her would be through the tavern.

Raising his gaze, he spotted a woman through one of the opposite windows. She pulled a small boy into her lap and proceeded to feed him, the oil lamp on the table they sat at making the pair stand out against the dark shadows behind them.

The room to the left of them showed an old man reading a book by candlelight while the room to the right remained dark, either because the occupants weren't yet home or had already gone to bed.

Satisfied nothing looked out of place, he turned to the maid. "What's on the menu this evening?"

"There's a mutton stew, roast chicken, or pork on the spit. All with boiled potatoes and stewed mushrooms."

"I'll have the pork and a mug of ale," Adrian told her.

It didn't take long for the food to arrive, the fragrant aroma filling the room and increasing his hunger. He paid the maid and waited for her to leave before taking a seat at the table and digging into his meal.

* * *

Like a hunter tracking its prey, the Mayfair Murderer stood in the darkness, patiently waiting to see if his bait would have the desired effect. He leaned against a tree – one of many that stood in the center of Wilton Crescent – his gaze firmly trained on Avernail House, where Nigel Lawrence resided.

The letter he'd paid a young scamp to deliver had been filled with passion and longing. It spoke of a desperate need for comfort, the uncertainty of what was to come, and a plea for help in the face of potential rejection. Signed with Miss Carmichael's name, it offered Nigel exactly what he'd been dreaming of since the first time he'd seen her.

He'd not have the strength to resist.

Sure enough, the front door opened at nine thirty. Casually attired, Nigel stepped down onto the pavement and headed east. The murderer followed at a distance, all the way to Oxford Street where Nigel hailed a hackney.

The next one stopped in response to his own raised hand.

"Where to?" asked the driver.

"Just follow that carriage." If his suspicions were correct, Croft would believe Nigel to be the killer. He'd attack him, creating the perfect excuse to banish Croft from existence.

If he was wrong, Miss Carmichael's immoral nature would be confirmed, in which case he'd take great pleasure in spilling her blood.

His stomach tightened in anticipation. He hoped she'd be the one whose life he claimed. It had already been too long since he'd last known the rousing control of turning bliss into terror.

* * *

Adrian paced the constrictive space of his rented room with impatience. Restlessness kept him from sitting still. He'd finished his meal an hour ago and had since been waiting for something to happen.

During which he'd turned over every decision he'd made this past week a thousand times. He should have done this without Samantha. Involving her had been selfish and stupid. But she'd convinced him and he'd agreed because her plan had seemed so easy. Until it came to the moment of truth and every conceivable thing that could go wrong began playing out in his head.

Gritting his teeth, he checked the time on his pocket watch. Still five minutes until the designated hour. He ought to meet her when she arrived, inform her he'd changed his mind, send her home.

If any harm came to her, he'd never forgive himself.

He shoved his watch into his pocket and started toward the door, only to pause at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Then came the muffled sound of Samantha's voice as she thanked whoever had shown her upstairs.

It was too late. Adrian's gut clenched. The plan was already underway.

* * *

The room Samantha entered was dimly lit by her oil lamp's low-burning flame. A dry and musty smell tempted her to open the window, but the air she'd inhaled in the street outside made her reconsider. Smoky, with a lingering stench of refuse, it would be worse than the dust and mildew she presently breathed.

Her heart pulsed in anticipation of what was to come.

With lethal blades strapped to each thigh, an additional one concealed in the sleeve of her spencer, a pistol tucked into her skirt pocket, and razor-sharp hairpins, she was prepared for whatever came next. Her only weakness lay in her pretense. She wouldn't be able to use the skill carved into her bones, but having the weapons on hand gave her comfort.

They were her safety net, an assurance that all would be well. Even if she had to knock Adrian out and chase down the killer herself.

She flexed her fingers, rotated her shoulders, took a deep breath. The noise from the tap-room downstairs increased as more people arrived. A good thing, since it would prevent anyone from hearing a scuffle upstairs.

Additional minutes passed. She lowered herself to the edge of the bed and stared at the door. Either the killer was purposefully late, or he'd changed his mind about showing up.

Her limbs were stiff with anticipation. The need for action, built on the hope of finally reaching some sort of conclusion, coiled firmly around her. Slowing her breaths, she forced herself into a state of calm, a quiet before the storm. Her fingers slid over the blade pressing snugly against her left forearm. It would take less than a second for her to retrieve it.

A knock finally came – three solid taps against the wood.

Pulse leaping, she stood, and crossed to the door. "Yes?"

"It's me," a hushed voice spoke. "Nigel Lawrence."

She took a sharp breath and turned the key, the lock producing a scraping sound before it clicked into place. The door swung open and Samantha stepped back, inviting the man who stood before her to make his approach.

His eyes, a rich shade of toffee, danced with a hint of amusement and keen expectation. Dark brown locks of mussed hair swept his brow as he took off his hat and entered the room. His elegant jawline complimented the straight line of his nose and the mischievous slant of his mouth.

Undoubtedly, Nigel Lawrence was beautifully built.

Of greater note was his debonair manner, which lacked the cold calculation she would have expected. A clever trick to lure his prey closer.

His gaze swept the length of her body with interest. "I must say, your invitation to meet surprised me."

She smiled sweetly. "I made no such invitation. It was you who invited me."

He gave her a funny look. A chuckle followed. "If that is how you wish to perceive it, I'll make no dispute. All that matters is that we are here. Christ, you've no idea how many times I've dreamt about this."

"About what, exactly?" She knew the answer, but was curious to know if he'd actually say it.

"Come now, Miss Carmichael. Samantha . There's no need for you to play coy. I know the sort of woman you are and what you're after."

"Really?" She began sliding her hidden blade into her right hand.

"Rest assured, I'll see to your needs with complete discretion." He nudged the door shut, locked it, and licked his lips. His eyes gleamed with ready desire. "I'll take no issue with the number of men I share you with. Just as long as—"

One swift motion was all it took for the tip of her blade to find Mr. Lawrence's throat. He stiffened, eyes wide and whatever he'd planned on saying forgotten. Samantha watched as he swallowed, the action shifting the elegant knot of his white cravat.

She'd stain it with blood if he made any sudden movements.

"Like I said, I didn't invite you here, Mr. Lawrence." Her grip on the dagger's mother-of-pearl handle tightened. This was the man who'd slit women's throats without second thought. He'd delighted in their deaths. Every cell in her body ignited until liquid steel poured through her veins. She'd gut him where he stood if given the slightest excuse to do so. "You invited me."

"No. I didn't." The words shook and his body trembled even as somebody tested the door from the opposite side. Adrian. "If it's proof you require, I'll show you the letter."

No such chance occurred before the door shook in response to a powerful force. Wood splintered as Adrian came crashing into the room with all the ferocity of a demonic beast. In one swift movement he'd regained his footing and launched himself squarely at Mr. Lawrence.

One second he was standing before Samantha, looking as though he might piss himself out of fear. The next, he was being pressed into the ground by Adrian's weight and feeling the pain of each blow delivered.

An ugly crunch sounded, grunts of exertion mingled with anguished gasps. Bone connected with bone and blood started flowing. Samantha stared at the blind rage gripping the man who ought to mean nothing to her, and recognized it as though it were her own.

And yet, something felt off. Mr. Lawrence's mention of her invitation to him and what he'd said since. His being here had compelled her to make an assumption. But what if she'd made a mistake? What if her confidence in the plan she'd devised prevented her from seeing how it could be used against her?

She didn't want to believe it, but Mr. Lawrence had mentioned a letter and—

"Adrian." Deaf to her plea, he closed his hand around Mr. Lawrence's throat. The man clawed at him, legs kicking as he fought to break himself free. Adrian's fingers just tightened. A murderous smile of pure satisfaction curled his lips, baring his teeth. Samantha grabbed his shoulder and shook him as hard as she could. "Stop and listen for just one second. Adrian. I think there's a chance we've got the wrong man."