Chapter Twenty-Seven

S ix o'clock arrived far too fast, and Caro felt no more prepared to meet Sherman as she stood in the dark storeroom of their friend's bookshop than she had that morning when she read the note. Albeit for entirely different reasons.

After the duke and silver dragon left that morning, every other customer in the place bought her books, and she'd signed each one. Three of the women had even told her, "Well done, Blanche." The moment had been bittersweet.

And then Constance had placed her hands on her hips and asked, "What about Sherman?"

Hattie quickly surmised that the duke had been the "friend" they were helping. But given that Hattie was a vault with iron-tight lips that never spilled secrets, Caro wasn't concerned. Connie had once joked that Hattie spoke to no one except God—and she might even keep secrets from him.

In the end, they decided to see it through. Not because they had anything to gain from revenge against Sherman Snyder, but because countless women were not able to seek revenge against him and men like him. After all, if the cousins had the opportunity to remove one predator from London and didn't take it, then they weren't the kind of people they claimed to be.

So, for the sake of his victims and to spare future women he would hurt, the cousins arrived at the Matthews Bookstore as planned and got into position.

A single lantern with its wick trimmed low burned on the far wall, casting barely enough light to see. As it was, Caro could just make out the vague shape of a body in the corner. By its location, she knew that dark shadow was Hattie, armed with rope and a cricket bat as an emergency weapon. Please, God, don't make us have to bludgeon the man.

Although Connie would be thrilled about that, and Caro knew her cousin could use another reason to smile.

Caro stood at the wall, where she'd be almost hidden by the door but not impeded by it. In the middle of the room, just beyond where the beam of light from the bookstore would land when the door opened, sat a simple wood chair.

Outside, Eliza Matthews's voice was a light lilt, playing her part to perfection. "You can't stay long. If my father finds out I let this meeting happen, I'll never hear the end of it."

As the latch in the door released, a triangle of light illuminated Constance. Wearing Hattie's black cloak with the hood up to shield her face and hair, she wore the dark-green gown they'd picked up from the secondhand seller a few blocks from the shop. While the cost had been dear, the effect was vital to creating the several seconds needed to make this whole mad caper a success.

Light shone on exactly what they needed it to—Constance's considerable bosom, on display and framed rather nicely by the extremely low-cut gown and cloak pulled back on her shoulders. Between lack of light and dark fabrics, the high, rounded globes of her pale breasts shone like twin half-moons in the night.

"What is this about?" A man of average height—thank you, Lord, as Caro was the one responsible for throwing the sack over his head—entered the room.

Eliza hissed, "Five minutes, and not a second more. I mean it," then pulled the door closed.

They pounced. Caro tugged the flour sack over his head, then moved aside as Hattie yanked the man's arms behind him and tied his wrists with a rope. They'd practiced the maneuver last night, but this might have been her fastest time yet.

Practice might make perfect after all.

Constance pushed him into the chair, then proceeded to wrap him in rope they'd left on the floor for exactly this purpose. Around his torso to the chair back, then around his lap and legs, until he and the wood were one and the same.

"What the fuck is this? Unhand me!" His struggles made the chair hop on the floor, but their knots held firm. Brash curses and crude oaths flowed in a vile river.

"He has quite a mouth on him, doesn't he?" Constance said.

"Who said that? The one with the tits? Who are you?" Sherman bellowed, but half-heartedly, as if he'd realized bluster would get him nowhere.

"Half the population has tits, odious man," Hattie said. She turned to Caro and gestured toward the rather nonthreatening picture Sherman made as the fight disappeared from his posture. " Your friend is going to be here soon, right? Because if he keeps talking, I might let the violent one hit him to shut him up." Connie's teeth flashed white in the dim room.

It seemed like hours had passed since Sherman walked in the door, but Caro knew it had only been minutes. Subduing the man had taken less time than expected, if she was honest. This afternoon she'd written to Holland, telling him when and where to meet, but she hadn't told him why.

Given the events of this morning, she didn't know if he would show up. Regardless, she and her cousins had decided on a course of action if the duke did not arrive as expected.

Stuck in a back room with her cousins and a man tied to a chair, Caro couldn't help but wonder how Dorian would react when he arrived. If he arrived.

"Is this it? You kidnap me, tie me up, then slowly kill me from boredom?"

"It's not kidnapping. We haven't taken you anywhere you didn't want to be," Constance said. "I could have stood here in this dress and you probably would have stayed put without the rope, and you know it."

"Ah, you're the one with the tits," he said.

Constance shook her head. "How you managed to woo anyone away from their spouse is beyond me. Once you open your mouth, it's obvious you're a pig."

"Is that what this is about? Is one of you a bloke? Fuck, if you're a husband or brother, I'm sorry. I'll leave her alone—I promise. Never speak to her again, no more letters. On my honor."

"An easy oath when you have no honor," Hattie growled, still clutching the cricket bat as she raised the wick on the lamp to chase away the shadows.

"Who exactly are you swearing to leave alone? Do you even know?" Hearing him speak made Caro's skin crawl.

"Uh… well. I can't help it if women think I'm irresistible. They line up, and who am I to deny them the comfort of a loving friend?"

"So you don't know who would hire us or who would want to dispose of you, because there are too many people on the list? You are a pig." Disgust dripped from Hattie's tone.

"Disposed of? Now, let's not get hasty, ladies—and gentleman, if there's one in the room keeping quiet."

Constance grinned at them. This is fun , she mouthed.

Hattie scrunched her face and mimed, Are you mad?

Constance shrugged.

The duke would be here any moment if he chose to come, and he would finally get the answers he sought.

Seeing him hurt had made the impact of a person like Sherman Snyder all too real. People like this man, who lived entirely selfish lives, uncaring of others except to use them for their own gain, made her sick. Literally sick to her stomach. That Dorian, or rather, the duke, might lump her into the category of people who'd hurt him might be a pain she carried forever. She needed to stop thinking of him as Dorian.

"Why do you do it, Sherman?" Caro asked.

"Because I can, you bitch. Why else?"

Acid churned with anger. Anger on behalf of the duke and every person Sherman had put through hell. Every broken heart that didn't have to happen. Every penny and pound stolen to support a villain. Sherman was a predator. But tied to a chair with a bag over his head, this predator was at his most vulnerable, and that gave her a vicious thrill she'd never experienced before.

"I'm glad you have the bat, Hattie. Caro would be using it right now, I think," Constance said.

Caro blinked and drew in a shuddering breath as if surfacing from underwater. At her sides, her fists ached from clenching. There were probably half-moons from her fingernails dug into her palms. "You're right. He deserves it, doesn't he?"

"And now he knows two names. Well done." Hattie threw up her hands, knocking the cricket bat on the ceiling. Their prisoner wasn't as relaxed as he'd like them to believe, because the thump of the bat made Sherman jump.

Light flooded the room when the door opened. Awareness shivered over Caro's skin an instant before a familiar voice cut through the air with the force of a whip. "Do I want to know what is going on?"

Dorian placed his hands on his hips and took in the scene before him. Caro stood between him and a man with a sack over his head, who'd been tied to a chair for some reason. The dark-haired cousin that didn't like him held a cricket bat, while Constance stood by wearing a gown cut in a way rarely seen outside brothels or Continental ballrooms.

Dorian carefully closed the door behind him, then approached Caro like he'd approach an easily spooked animal. God, it had only been hours, but it felt like years.

He'd hoped the note was an olive branch, a chance to discuss what had happened. While that clearly wasn't the case, he couldn't for the life of him fathom what he'd just walked into. "I haven't been bored even once since you walked into my library. But I have to ask. Who's the man in the chair?"

"Sherman Snyder," she said simply.

He felt his eyes go wide. No matter what his thoughts were about this woman right now—and God knew they were a muddled mess—there was no denying she was impressive. But then, he'd already known that. "How did you manage this?"

"I didn't do it for you. I did it for all the women he's hurt." She waved toward their captive. "You wanted answers. Ask away. Our only request is that you ensure he doesn't hurt anyone else."

The man in the chair's voice held a whiny, nasal tone the flour sack couldn't muffle. "Who's here? There's a man, after all. I knew a few women couldn't do something like this on their own."

"Every time you open that mouth, I like you less. And I thought you were an arse to begin with," Constance said. She glanced at Dorian as she spoke, and it occurred to him that if these three women could do this to a man who hadn't personally wronged them, then he might be in real trouble.

Yet Constance didn't move closer, and while Hattie glared menacingly, her cricket bat remained at her side.

"Since there's only one chair, and it's occupied, am I safe?" he asked.

Amusement lit Caro's eyes for a second, then disappeared. "Yes. But we can leave if it makes you more comfortable."

"How long has he been here?" Dorian circled Sherman, assessing his condition. Although they'd used enough rope to tie off a ship, they hadn't made the loops around his elbows and wrists too tight. Not tight enough to lose circulation, at any rate.

"I'm not sure how long it's been. I asked you to arrive fifteen minutes after we were due to meet him. Were you late?" Caro answered.

"No. I'm about five minutes early." He exhaled, trying to think clearly. "All right. Does he know who you are?"

"Two of our given names. No surnames," Hattie said, glaring at Constance. One cousin had slipped up, and he felt a stab of pity for the blonde. Hattie seemed the type to hold a grudge.

"Can Sherman identify anyone in this room?" he asked.

"One pair of spectacular tits!" the man in the sack said.

Dorian glanced around. Sherman referred to Constance's revealing gown, thank God, and not the only pair of breasts in the room that, in Dorian's opinion, were perfect in every way.

A few feet away, Sherman Snyder, the man who'd stolen, then broken Juliet's heart, shifted in the chair. Honestly, the whole thing was rather inconceivable. Judging by what he could see, Juliet's lover wasn't tall, or broad, or built like a man who spent time in a boxing ring or doing any kind of strenuous activity. Average in every way. How had the playwright described him? Human paste. Bland and dull to the point of making you want to drink to rid yourself of the memory of him.

"Can someone loosen the knots? My shoulders hurt."

Dorian curled his lip. Even the man's voice was annoying.

"Don't you want to question him? We've been trying to run him to ground for weeks. Thus far, he hasn't done much beyond obsessing over you-know-who's breasts, and admitting to a lengthy list of people who would wish him ill," Caro hissed.

She was right. Of course she was—it was Caro. The damned woman was frequently correct. An appealing trait in a woman who was willing to not only face his dragons but capture them and tie them to a chair so he could deal with them more efficiently. No wonder he'd been so convinced she was his future.

Dorian simultaneously wanted to tuck the loose section of hair behind her ear and demand an explanation as to why she'd ended things without giving him the opportunity to explain. Or think. Or come to grips with her secret identity.

A muddy mess of feelings might be filling him, but one thing was clear as crystal. "We need to get you and your co-conspirators safely away from here, so this worthless man can't retaliate for what you've done tonight."

"But… your answers. The letters. Don't you want to understand?"

To his surprise, being in the same room as Sherman only brought confirmation of what he'd begun to suspect. "What can he tell me? His twisted version of events? We knew different sides of the same woman. Neither of us was given the full truth—only what she let us see. I was and am far from perfect, as everyone in this room would agree." The cousins nodded a little too enthusiastically, but Caro watched him with a blank expression. "This pathetic man can't be trusted to pinpoint my failings with any kind of honesty. The mistakes I made in that relationship aren't ones I… I made with you. I don't need his opinion on a damned thing. All I need is your safety."

"Fine; then we move to plan B," Hattie said.

"What is plan B?"

"Where we don't ask for resolution of the past, but we ensure he won't ever hurt a woman again," Caro said.

That, he could fully support. "May I?" He pointed at their captive.

Considering his next move, Dorian stepped closer to the chair, then motioned for the women to stand behind their captive. He leaned in so he was mere inches from the man's ear. "Sherman Snyder, everyone in this room knows the kind of man you are. My legal team has documented thousands of pounds you've stolen from powerful people."

Savage satisfaction surged through him as the flour sack began to tremble. "Fraud and theft are hanging offenses, and there's a list of peers who would line up to watch you swing. You've swindled, threatened, manipulated, and hurt too many people to escape consequences."

Sherman's breathing heaved through the room, lacing the air with his rising panic.

"If I ever hear of you scheming to harm another soul, or if you try to find the people in this room, I will go to the newspapers with every scrap of evidence I've collected. After that, I'll take the lot of it to King George, Queen Charlotte, and Prinny himself. Natural consequences will follow, and there's not a soul alive that can shelter you from them. Do you understand me, Mr. Snyder?"

Under the rough fabric covering his face, the man gulped loudly. "I know who you are. This bag doesn't disguise your voice."

Dorian glanced up to confirm the women were out of sight, then lifted the front of the sack far enough to look Sherman in the eye. "Unlike you, I don't need to hide behind scripted letters or masquerade masks. You misrepresent yourself, but I do not. I am Dorian Whitaker, fifth Duke of Holland, and you are a worthless pile of shit who will never harm another woman."

Sherman's eyes were blue but, like the rest of his face, a nondescript shade. The playwright had been brutally accurate in his description, as unflattering as it had been. Sherman had a large nose on an oddly flat face, as if he'd been hit with a brick at some point. With no looks to speak of and an absence of a winning personality, it was no wonder he had to lie his way into people's good graces.

"If I do what you say, then what?"

"I'll keep what I know to myself. Think of this meeting as a warning. Now you know the evidence I have against you. And we both know I'll happily use it if you try to cross me or mine again. Are we clear?"

"Yes."

Dorian let the sack fall back over Sherman's face, then addressed the women. "What is your exit plan?"

Constance hurried to the door. After a pattern of taps and knocks, it opened, and the bookseller who'd let him into the bookshop stood waiting.

"Did you get what you needed?" The woman didn't spare a glance for the man tied to a chair.

Booksellers were dangerous creatures, Dorian thought.

Constance and Hattie slipped from the room. Caro gave her friend a hug, then kissed her dark-brown cheek. "Yes. Thank you, Eliza."

Dorian nodded to the shopgirl. "I won't leave you to deal with him."

She shrugged. "The door isn't far if you want to drag him outside."

"Excellent." He dug in his pocket for money, then handed it to her. "This should cover the chair if we cause damage. Thank you for your help this evening."

Dorian tipped the chair onto two legs and proceeded to drag it across the floor, as Sherman cursed loudly.

"Shut your mouth, man. They trussed you up like a hog; you won't fall off unless you flail about. In which case, I'll throw your sorry arse out with the rest of the rubbish."

Once Eliza waved good night and locked the door behind them, they paused. His coach waited, and at the end of the alley, traffic passed with plenty of hacks to hire. "May I offer you a ride home?" he asked the women.

"No, thank you, Your Grace." The honorific from Caro made him hiss in a breath.

"Then I'll wait here until you're safely in a hack."

The women didn't say goodbye. He watched until they'd hailed transportation at the end of the dark alley. What if this was the last time he saw her? But what was there to say?

Everything and nothing. The letter from the palace sat in his desk drawer in the study, waiting for a response. While he was inclined to accept the assignment and leave London, that felt a bit like slinking off to escape the gossip frenzy that would ensue once word spread about their public confrontation in Martin House. He couldn't leave Caro to weather that alone, even if she didn't need or want his support.

Besides, running off to war seemed too close to chasing a death wish. Not something to commit to on the day your future blew up in your face.

"Fuck," he said.

"Difficult night?" The dry comment came from the sulky man in the chair.

Silently, Dorian untied the knot securing Sherman's wrists. It would be several moments before the man could fully unravel the twists and layers of rope.

Leaving him mostly bound to the chair, Dorian climbed into his carriage and called to the coachman to drive.

If they were lucky, footpads might find Sherman before he wiggled free and see an easy target. Dorian just couldn't make himself care about the man anymore.