25. We Need to Talk

WE NEED TO TALK

" S odding runner," Leopold cursed as he limped into the cellar with Fitz at his side. A good couple of hours had passed since he'd been knocked out of the boat. Still dripping with salt water and frozen to the center of his bones, he hadn't experienced such discomfort since his time on the docks.

"So bloody stupid."

This time he cursed himself. Because of his carelessness, they'd only managed to dump half the tea. Even worse, they'd lost the ship.

If Leopold hadn't gone flying overboard, the plan, once they'd finished disposing of all the tea of course, would have been to row out to the main ship so they could overtake what remained of Crossings' hired crew. There likely would have been a minor skirmish, but Leopold had two large rowboats full of his best men, and the other crew would have already been down several of their own. They would have won.

And possibly negotiated the cooperation of a high-level witness.

But Leopold had gone flying bloody overboard.

His men, rather than abandon Leopold for the fish to eat, had abandoned the mission instead. Frustrating as the situation was, he couldn't fault them for their loyalty, but enough time had passed while they were searching for their leader that the ship's captain must have realized something was off, and he and the rest of Crossings' goods had escaped unimpeded.

"We did spill a fair amount of tea, Boss," Fitz, who'd been silent as they hiked up the tunnel, finally offered. "No one could have known there was another bloke hiding under there."

"I should have."

Leopold had failed to notice the runner hiding on the floor beneath one of the seats. He should have been more thorough, but everything had gone so smoothly up to that point that he had lowered his guard.

"It was the right call." Fitz defended Ace for the umpteenth time. "If it had been any of us, you'd have done the same."

Leopold sighed, though when pain squeezed his ribs, he immediately regretted it.

"No. I know," he said. "I don't blame them."

Because Leopold's incredibly loyal gang of men could not have known that Leopold would regain consciousness shortly after hitting the water, or that, when he realized the tide was pulling him out to sea, he would have to swim parallel to the beach a ways before heading for the shore.

He was a little worse for wear but, aside from an embarrassing bump on his head and a few cuts and bruises from the rocks, he had sustained no major injuries.

They'd ascended from the cellar now, and the only sounds were Leopold's and Fitz's footsteps on the hard floor. Although Leopold would have loved to have something hot to eat and drink—anything but tea, that was—he'd have to settle for a few shots of the whisky he kept in the wardrobe in his chamber.

And in a few hours, he'd break his fast with Amelia.

Amelia.

When he'd coughed out that first mouthful of saltwater, she was the first thing he'd thought of. And when he'd seen how far he'd drifted from the cliffs, the question of who would protect her if he didn't make it back had kept him swimming.

Even when the muscles in his arms had burned with exhaustion. Even when he'd nearly gotten himself knocked out again by one of the rocks.

Her father wasn't capable of protecting her. And her brother wasn't even in the country.

Malum might have stepped up, he supposed—a man who owned and operated a bloody brothel.

Oh, hell no.

And so he'd swam, fighting the tide which hadn't turned completely. By the time he'd crawled onto the sand and up the side of the cliff, he'd nearly collapsed.

But then he'd had to climb back down and call off the search for his body.

Leopold's lips quirked up. Even in his current condition, he still found humor in the shocked looks on their faces. It was as though he'd returned from the dead.

"You don't look so good, Boss." Fitz had stopped while Leopold locked the door behind him. "Should I wake Mr. Stubbs and send him up to your chamber?"

"Like a bloody valet?" Leopold scoffed at the idea. And then, dropping one hand on his right-hand man's shoulder, he gave him a reassuring squeeze. "I'll be fine," he said. "And you're right. We did dump a fair amount of tea."

Fitz gave a little nervous laugh, highly uncharacteristic of him.

"Go to bed, Fitz," Leopold said. "We'll do a postmortem on the entire debacle tomorrow."

"If you say so, Boss." Fitz, who preferred a small chamber on the ground floor, hesitated, his expression twisted in concern.

"Go on, then." Leopold forced his voice to sound strong. He couldn't have the people who depended on him thinking he was made of sugar.

Finally, Fitz acquiesced and left him to it.

Leopold took each step one at a time, and by the time he stood on the landing, he was contemplating whether or not he was going to bother stripping his clothes off. He might just have to sleep in his damp clothes—which reeked of brine and tea. Not even close to ideal, but he'd be lucky to make it to his bed. He wouldn't bother lighting any candles, he'd just stumble across the room and collapse.

But when he opened the door to his chamber, all of the candles were already lit, emitting a flickering, warm glow. His first thought was that Bessie had left them burning for him. He'd have to have a talk with her about that. As thoughtful as the gesture was, he had a hard and fast rule about leaving open candles burning unattended.

Leopold closed the door behind him, but then…

"We need to talk." The voice nearly sent him jumping out of his skin. Before he could attack what he assumed must be one of his enemies, he registered that the voice was a little demanding, but not threatening.

And also… it was feminine.

"Amelia?" What the devil?

"You keep walking out on me." She rose from the chair she'd been hiding in. "I figured if I came here, we wouldn't be interrupted."