Chapter Two

Catamount sat in his office at the Bow Street Runners' headquarters, the atmosphere outside his door charged with urgency and the low hum of activity. A stack of papers sat before him, the file on the Revivalists open and haunting. Three years had passed since the tragic attack on Seven Dials, and the wounds inflicted on his heart were still raw.

His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the polished surface of the desk. The loss of his Julie that night had left him hollow, aching for justice and closure. The memories of that dreadful attack played like a haunting melody in the recesses of his mind. "Julie," he whispered, the syllables heavy with grief. His eyes lingered on a faded likeness of her, tucked within the pages of the file—one of his that he had placed there. Julie's laughter, her warmth—those were the things he carried within him, a bittersweet burden that fueled his determination to capture the Revivalists. "They won't escape justice. I swear it," he muttered to himself, the words a solemn vow. He clenched his jaw with resolve as he traced the details of the Seven Dials attack in the file. Faces of the victims, the devastation wrought by the Revivalists—it all etched a painful tableau in his memory.

The Revivalists, those aristocratic madmen who had terrorized London, were still at large, their malevolent presence casting a shadow over the city. "Three years, and they've eluded capture. But not for much longer," he declared, the timbre of his voice resonating with unwavering commitment. He clenched his hand into a fist, nails digging into his palm as he steeled himself against the ache of his loss. You would think he'd be used to it by now.

The activity outside his office door intensified, the clamor of voices and hurried footsteps a constant reminder of the importance of his mission. Catamount's gaze shifted from the file to the city beyond his window—a city he had sworn to protect. As he continued to sift through the evidence, memories of Julie—her vibrant spirit, and the promises they had made—taunted him. The room pulsed with his unspoken anguish.

As he sat back in his chair, the weight of the past pressed heavily on his shoulders. The room, filled with the muted sounds of activity outside, seemed to close in around him. Anger, weariness, and cynicism mingled in his gut as he stared at the file before him. "Julie," he murmured once more, the name a whispered lament that hung in the air. The ache of her absence felt like a perpetual wound, a hole in his being that would never heal. He missed her with a depth that words could hardly capture.

A soft knock interrupted the heavy silence, and Lieutenant Harcourt entered cautiously. His expression showed respect and concern as he approached Catamount's desk. "Captain, I hope I'm not disturbing you," Harcourt began.

Catamount sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Speak your mind, lieutenant. I've grown accustomed to disturbances."

Harcourt hesitated for a moment before continuing. "The men are restless, sir. They're looking to you for direction. The Revivalists' latest attack in Spitalfields has stirred unease, and the city is on edge."

A cynical smile played on Catamount's lips. "Unease? London has been on edge for years. The Revivalists' reign of terror sees to that."

His lieutenant nodded, acknowledging the bitter truth. "We've received reports of increased activity, whispers in the shadows. The people want justice, sir."

Justice . Julie's name echoed in his mind again, a reminder of the justice denied to her. Catamount leaned back, studying Harcourt with a tired gaze. "Justice is a scarce commodity, lieutenant. The Revivalists are elusive, cunning. But we'll press on."

Harcourt shifted uncomfortably, sensing the weight of his captain's burden. "The men need a leader, sir. Someone to inspire confidence and quell the rising fear."

Catamount's eyes narrowed, his cynicism deepening. "Fear is a potent weapon, lieutenant. It lingers in the shadows, waiting to be exploited. But I'll address the men. Tell them to prepare for what lies ahead."

Harcourt saluted. "Very good." He turned to leave but stopped. "I keep hearing the men call you baron," he said, turning back around. "What am I missing?"

Catamount smirked and waved a dismissive hand. "Merely the tedious and long explanation of a highly complicated entailed title bestowed upon me."

His lieutenant nodded. "That you for sparing me."

"You're welcome."

Harcourt lingered near the door, his eyes fixed on Catamount's troubled expression. "What is it?"

"Something's bothering me about the Seven Dials attack, lieutenant," Catamount admitted, his voice low and measured. "There's a detail, a thread I can't quite unravel. It's been gnawing at me, keeping me awake at night."

Harcourt furrowed his brow. "Sir, you've dedicated everything to solving that case. What could be amiss?"

Catamount shook his head. "I can't put my finger on it. It's like a shadow just beyond reach. I've scrutinized every report, every statement, but there's a missing piece."

"Perhaps a fresh perspective, sir? Someone to review the case with a new set of eyes."

Catamount considered the suggestion, his mind grappling with the prospect of seeking external aid. "I've been through every detail countless times. It's not about fresh eyes, but about catching a glimpse of something I might have overlooked." He leaned back in his chair. "The loss of Julie clouds my judgment. I can't shake the feeling that there's more to the Seven Dials attack, something we've missed."

Harcourt stepped forward. "Captain, you can't shoulder this burden alone. The entire force is at your disposal. We'll find the truth of that night, sir."

A bitter smile touched Catamount's lips. "Truth, lieutenant, is a slippery thing. But we'll do what we can. Notify the men—prepare them for heightened surveillance. We can't afford any missteps."

Harcourt saluted once more before leaving the room, leaving Catamount alone with the weight of his thoughts. The room felt suffocating, the air heavy with the unresolved mysteries that lingered in the aftermath of the Seven Dials attack. The elusive truth seemed to dance just out of reach, taunting him in the silence of his sleepless nights.

Catamount tossed the file on his desk with frustration, and the parchment rustled in protest against the polished surface. Scrubbing a large, callused hand over his face, he felt the weariness settle deep within his bones. The burdens of the past and the relentless pursuit of justice had taken their toll. "Christ, I'm tired," he muttered to himself, the words a gritty admission of his soul-deep exhaustion. He longed for nights when sleep wasn't elusive, and dreams didn't weave a tapestry of memories he wished he could forget.

His gaze drifted back to the file, the details of the attack staring back at him like accusing specters. Leaning back in his chair, he muttered aloud, as if the walls held the key to the truth that eluded him, "What is it that's not sitting right?" The question hung in the air, unanswered. He retraced the events of that fateful night, trying to pinpoint the detail that eluded him, the thread that remained just out of reach.

Julie's face, her laughter, haunted him like a phantom. "What did I miss, my love?" he whispered, as if she could hear him from beyond the veil. He longed for the comfort of her presence, the warmth that had been stolen from him by the Revivalists.

With a heavy sigh, Catamount raked a hand through his shaggy hair again. The file lay open before him, unanswered questions gnawing at him. The road ahead seemed endless, the pursuit of justice an unrelenting journey through the labyrinth of the past.

"Is the captain in his office? I'm taking him to lunch."

Catamount looked up at the sound of the familiar voice, a welcome distraction from his brooding thoughts. Standing in the doorway was his brother, Crawford, the new Earl of Castlebury, with his pale blue eyes and glossy auburn hair. Dapper as ever, Crawford exuded an air of sophistication that contrasted with Catamount's worn demeanor.

"Ah, the prodigal brother appears," Catamount said, managing a faint smile. "Late lunch, you say? I'm afraid the only thing on my plate is the lingering mystery of the Seven Dials attack."

Crawford strolled into the room, scanning the papers scattered across Catamount's desk. "Still haunted by that, are you? You need a break, Cat. London won't fall apart if you step away for a moment, I promise."

Catamount leaned back in his chair, studying his brother's concerned expression. "The city might not crumble, but justice eludes us. There's something about that night… something I can't grasp. It's grinding at me and keeping me up at night."

Crawford pulled up a chair, his posture elegant even in casual conversation. "You've been working tirelessly, Cat. Perhaps a respite is in order. Clear your mind. You look like you could use some fresh air."

Catamount sighed. "Maybe you're right. A late lunch wouldn't go amiss. I probably do need to step away from this for a moment."

Crawford came to him and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, old chap. A change of scenery might do wonders for your perspective."

"But I can't. I have to keep working."

"Cat, you can't keep pushing yourself like this," his brother insisted. "You're starting to look like a ghost, and I doubt you've had a decent meal in days."

Catamount shrugged off Crawford's hand from his shoulder, his gaze fixed on the bustling activity of Bow Street through the window beyond them. "I'll eat later. The city needs safekeeping."

Crawford's expression softened. "Justice won't be served if you're running on fumes. You're no good to anyone if you collapse from exhaustion."

"I can handle it," Catamount retorted, his voice clipped. "I won't let Julie's memory be tarnished by letting these murderers go free."

His brother sighed. "Cat, Julie wouldn't want to see you destroy yourself over this. Taking a break doesn't mean you're giving up. It means you're giving yourself a chance to regroup."

"I don't need a break. I need answers. I need to make sure no one else suffers the way Julie did."

Crawford shook his head. "I just worry about you, that's all. You're not invincible."

Catamount's scowl remained. "I appreciate your concern, but I've got work to do. You can go to lunch without me."

"Fine. But you'll join us at the Meadowlark Tavern later for drinks. Rainville and Damon will be there. It's not negotiable."

Catamount continued to scowl but nodded begrudgingly. "I'll make an appearance. But don't expect me to stay long. There's work to be done."

His brother gave a satisfied smile, knowing that getting Catamount to agree to even a brief respite was a small victory. "Excellent. The change might do you some good. We'll be waiting for you."

With that, Crawford left Catamount to his duties. As the door closed, Catamount sighed, his mind already drifting back to the unsolved mysteries and the shadows of the past that refused to release their grip.

The promise of drinks at the Meadowlark Tavern loomed in the distance, a rare opportunity for camaraderie. Reluctantly, he acknowledged that a brief diversion might be what he needed, even if only to appease his concerned brother.