Chapter Ten

The damp, barely lit holding cells of the Bow Street Runners' headquarters exuded an air of foreboding as Catamount descended into their depths. The echoes of muffled sounds and distant footsteps reverberated off the cold stone walls. Behind the thick iron bars, a lone figure slouched against the damp stones, shackled and battered from Damon's solid arse kicking.

Catamount approached with the confidence of a veteran detective, taking everything in and assessing, memorizing. The clinking of keys resonated in the corridor as the turnkey unlocked the cell, granting him access to the captive inside.

"What's your name?" Catamount demanded when he stepped in, his voice sharp and authoritative.

The captive, a disheveled man with a bruised face, shot a defiant glare at him. "Don't matter none. I ain't tellin' you nothin'. Not my name or nothin'."

Catamount leaned in toward him. "You attacked my men in St. Giles. You'll talk, whether you want to or not." His fingers brushed against the battered edge of a file he held detailing the man's assault. "You don't want a one-way trip to Newgate, do you? Because I can make that happen."

The man's bravado wavered, and he spat out a stream of curses. "You weaselcock! You can't prove nothin'."

"Maybe not yet. But I can make your stay in the cells a living hell until we get what we need. And I can charge you with assaulting an officer. Me ."

"But I didn't clock you! That weren't me!"

As the interrogation unfolded, Catamount employed a mix of intimidation and persuasion tactics. He pried information from the man, piece by piece, leveraging his expertise as a relentless detective. Their conversation reverberated through the cold, unforgiving cells as it grew heated.

Catamount's sleeves were rolled up, revealing the sinewy strength in his arms as he leaned against the bars. The scent of dampness and desperation clung to the air as the gritty reality of detective work unfolded in the bowels of the Runners' headquarters. He was unyielding in his quest for answers.

"You're covering for them, aren't you? What's your connection to the Revivalists?"

The man spat on the ground. "I don't know what you're talkin' about. They don't deal with folks like me. They're purebloods, they are. I ain't one of 'em. Me and my gang—we admire them, that's all."

Catamount leaned back, the cold metal bars pressing against his shoulders. "Purebloods or not, they attack innocent people. I aim to bring them to justice, and you're going to help me."

A sly grin twisted the man's lips. "You can't touch 'em. They're above the law. You're wastin' your time."

With a sudden, swift motion, Catamount launched forward and grabbed the collar of the man's shirt, his face inches away. "I don't care if they think they're above the law. Nobody is. You're going to tell me everything you know about the Revivalists, or you'll find out just how creative I can get in making your stay here unbearable. I have very little patience for people like you." Then, maintaining his firm grip on the man's collar, he leaned in even further. "Give me names. Since you love and admire them so much. Who's running the Revivalists? Tell me the nobles behind this, and maybe, just maybe, I'll put in a word to lighten your sentence. It's the only chance you've got."

The man hesitated, glancing around the dingy cell as if considering the offer. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he muttered, "Lord Harrington and his wife, Lady Eleanor. They're the ones pulling the strings."

Catamount committed the names to memory. "Good. Now, you better be truthful about this. I'll be watching, and if you've fed me lies, your fate won't be any better than the last man who lied to me."

"What happened to him?"

"He's dead." Catamount's eyes narrowed suddenly with thought. "So it's a woman behind the Revivalists all along. I did not expect that."

The man's lips curled into a sly smile, and he met Catamount's gaze with a defiant glint in his eyes, his laughter taunting. "Sorry, captain, but you've got it all wrong. The Revivalists, they're a noble bunch, purebloods through and through. No women involved. Just a club for gentlemen with a taste for the thrill of the forbidden."

Catamount realized the man was feeding him a pack of lies. "You just named Lady Eleanor!" he growled, his temper flaring. Frustration boiled within him. "You're playing games, and I'm running out of patience. Tell me right now who's pulling the strings behind the Revivalists, or you'll find out just how much I can push before you break."

The man's smirk wavered for a split second, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. Yet he remained defiant, a challenge gleaming in his eyes.

"Just tell us who's leading the Revivalists, and maybe we can cut a deal," Catamount growled, his patience wearing thin.

The thug chuckled, a mirthless sound that grated on Catamount's nerves. "You think I'd betray my heroes for a deal with the likes of you?"

Ready to storm out in exasperation, Catamount froze when the man's tone shifted, a dark edge creeping into his words.

"Ah, Captain Castlebury, the great Bow Street Runner. A man haunted by the ghosts of the past. Or should I say, haunted by a certain woman ?"

Catamount's knuckles whitened as the mention of Julie sliced through the air like a blade. He fixed the man with a steely gaze. "You don't know anything about her," Catamount spat, his voice low and dangerous.

The man leaned back. "Oh, I know more than you think. Maybe you should ask yourself why she's still haunting you. Or better yet, why you couldn't protect her that night."

Catamount's breath caught, the wounds of the past suddenly raw and exposed once more. He stood there, unexpectedly grappling with the weight of his loss,

The holding cell seemed to close in around him, the echoes of Julie's absence resounding in the stark silence. Catamount's fists clenched, the desire for violence bubbling beneath his surface. A surge of fury coursed through him, but he fought to maintain control.

"You seem mighty interested in that French dressmaker lady these days," the man taunted him, a cruel gleam in his eyes. "Captain Catamount Castlebury, sniffing around where he shouldn't."

His gaze locked on the smirking thug. The desire to lash out, to wipe that mocking grin off the man's face, clawed at him. Yet he knew the importance of keeping a semblance of composure. He took a deep breath, the controlled fa?ade of the experienced detective settling back into place. "I'm here for justice, not your baseless provocations," Catamount retorted. "You spread the word. Tell the Revivalists that Catamount Castlebury is coming for them. They can't escape me."

The man's eyes widened, and he swallowed—hard. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

Catamount's gaze sharpened as a sudden realization hit him. "Bloody hell!" he cursed.

In an instant, the man's face contorted, and he began foaming at the mouth.

Catamount's grip tightened on the thug's collar as he yelled, "I won't let them win! You hear me?" The words echoed through the grimy confines of the holding cell, a defiant declaration against the poisonous gambit the man had chosen.

Desperation and frustration surged within Catamount as the man convulsed in his grasp. The poison pill had stolen his chance to uncover the Revivalists. His only lead gone.

Back to square one.

He released the lifeless form then straightened up, taking a deep breath to compose himself. The cell felt suffocating, and the weight of the unanswered questions pressed down on him. He turned on his heel, leaving the holding cell behind, his mind already calculating the next move in the dangerous game the Revivalists were hellbent on continuing.

As he stepped out into the corridors, his jaw began to twitch. The hunt for the Revivalists had taken an unexpected turn, but it hadn't dimmed the fire within him. If anything, it fueled the determination to dismantle the nefarious group that had haunted him for far too long.

Juliette .

Bollocks, he'd nearly forgotten.

They'd been watching him with Juliette.

"Damn," he spat, striding through the lobby.

He left the building, driven by a relentless urgency. The evening shadows clung to the cobblestone streets and his senses were on high alert as he arrived at Juliette's modiste shop. He wasted no time, the sense of urgency propelling his steps toward the door, leaving him blinded to all else around him. His fist hammered on the wood, each rap echoing through the quiet street. Breathless, he awaited her response.

The door to her shop swung open, revealing Juliette, her expression a mixture of surprise and concern. Her modiste's apron hinted at the day's work, but her eyes held a glimmer of relief. "Captain Castlebury? Thank goodness you're here!" she exclaimed. "I was just on my way to Bow Street."

Catamount, his chest rising and falling with the intensity of his feelings, met her gaze. "They know you're connected to me," he stated. "The Revivalists. They know."

Fear flickered in Juliette's beautiful hazel eyes, mirroring the concern surely etched on his face. The threat had become palpable, a sinister presence looming over the modiste shop. As they stood in the doorway, the air crackled around them with unspoken tension.

Catamount's resolve solidified. "I won't let them harm you," he vowed. "I'm moving in," he suddenly declared, his tone flat and eyes deadly serious.

"Captain, you can't just—" she began, but he cut her off with a stern look.

"I can and I will," he asserted. "They know about you and me. I won't let them use you against me. It's not negotiable. Besides, I see the broken window next to me. You're getting a roommate."

The quiet resolve in his voice brooked no argument.