Chapter Seventeen

T he gas lamps created a hazy atmosphere that reflected Thatcher’s conflicted state of mind. He walked with a heavy gait, his boots scuffing against the uneven stones. The city, which had once been his muse and his escape, now felt oppressive. As he continued his solitary journey, he revisited the argument with Lottie they’d had at Rhodes Theatre. Her words echoed in his mind, each one a painful reminder of his deception. It was a bitter irony that he, a playwright known for his sharp wit and clever dialogue, found himself speechless in her presence, unable to explain or justify his actions.

“Stealing her work,” he muttered. “What a fool I am.”

The night air was cool against his skin, but it did little to ease the chaos within him. He was a man torn between desire and guilt, his heart and conscience waging an awful, relentless battle. Thatcher had always prided himself on his quick thinking and cunning, but when it came to Lottie, he had been blindsided by emotions he couldn’t quite comprehend. Never had he met a woman like her. Lottie possessed a rare combination of intelligence, passion, and a fierce determination to prove herself in a world that most often dismissed women’s abilities. Her talent was undeniable. Yet, in a moment of weakness and arrogance, he had robbed her of the recognition she deserved.

His footsteps echoed in the empty streets, each hollow sound a reminder of his recklessness. Their heated argument replayed in his mind. The fire in her eyes, the intensity of her words—they had seared themselves into his memory. Into his heart.

“What was I thinking?” he muttered. “To take her work and claim it as my own…” But his remorse went beyond even that. It was the way she had looked at him, not just with anger but with a deep disappointment. Christ, it had pierced his heart. In that moment, he had seen something more than just frustration in her gaze. He had seen hurt.

As he reached a quieter, barely lit corner of the street, he slowed to a stop. He leaned against a lamppost, his frustration and self-loathing threatening to consume him. “She deserves better,” he muttered to himself, closing his eyes briefly as he felt the weight of his actions. “And I should be better.”

As he resumed his walk, a sense of desolation settled over him. It was a feeling he had grown accustomed to over the years, born out of his shite childhood and the struggles that had defined his early years as a writer. He had fought tooth and nail to claw his way to success, and yet here he was, making the same mistakes he had once sworn to avoid. He remembered the countless nights he had spent alone, hunched over his desk in his small, shabby townhouse, penning plays that had captured the hearts of Londoners. He had grown up with a drunk for a father, the youngest son in a family struggling to maintain their faded wealth. Hopeless and tired, his mother had fled his father’s ale-fueled fists, leaving him to awaken to his tenth birthday motherless.

It had been a harsh upbringing, one that had taught him the value of cunning and wit. He had learned to use his words as weapons, earning money through his razor-sharp tongue and insight into the human condition. For years, he had lived like a poor artist, scraping by and relying on his words to survive. But he had persevered, and eventually, he had achieved the success he had so desperately craved. He had become a celebrated playwright, his name known and respected throughout London. Yet, even with his accomplishments, he couldn’t escape the chip on his shoulder, the lingering resentment of the hardships he had endured.

Why wasn’t it enough?

Thatcher’s walking path led him through the winding streets of Covent Garden, where he sought refuge at the Meadowlark Tavern. It was a place where he could drown his sorrows in drink and escape the demands of his own conscience.

West greeted him with a nod. Thatcher took a seat at the bar, his thoughts still heavy with guilt and frustration. He signaled for a drink, and West poured a glass of whiskey without a word.

As Thatcher took a sip of the fiery liquid, he wondered if he was destined to repeat the mistakes of his past. He had worked so hard to escape the shadows of his upbringing, to become a man of substance and success. And yet here he was, haunted by his own actions and the consequences they might bring. He was staring into the depths of his glass, lost in thought, when West finally broke the silence.

The bartender’s voice was low and measured as he began to speak, his words carrying the weight of advice long held in silence. “We all carry our burdens, Thatcher. It’s how we choose to bear them that defines us.”

Thatcher’s gaze shot to West, shock rippling through him. How does he know? His thoughts were a whirlwind of emotions as he finished his drink and prepared to leave the tavern. Thatcher knew he had a choice to make, a chance to make amends for his actions. But it wouldn’t be easy. With women, it never was.

With one last nod to West, Thatcher stepped back out into the cool, unforgiving night. A man at a crossroads, he gave a mighty, forceful sigh. Damn facing the consequences of his actions and the chance for redemption in the eyes of the woman who had captured his heart. Self-reflection hurt.

Suddenly, chaos erupted in the streets. Thatcher’s senses sharpened as he heard the round of shouts and the clatter of hooves against cobblestones. He turned to see a carriage hurtling toward him, its wheels spinning wildly as it careened around a corner, its driver struggling to regain control.

“Move!” someone shouted, the urgency in their voice sending a jolt of fear through him.

His instincts kicked in, and he tried to leap to the side, but it was too late. The carriage bore down on him with terrifying speed. Before he could react, it struck him with a bone-jarring impact.

Everything went black.

*

Thatcher’s eyes shot open, and he immediately knew something was terribly wrong. The tight confines of the carriage pressed in around him, and the air inside was stifling. Panic clawed at his chest as he realized he was alone in the darkness. Frantically, he fumbled for the latch on the carriage door, but his hands found nothing but smooth wood. He pushed against the door with all his might, but it remained stubbornly shut.

A rush of fear surged through him as he considered the possibilities. How had he ended up here? The last thing he remembered was being struck by the runaway carriage, and then he’d blacked out.

The answer came to him in a chilling realization. The crest on the carriage door—the emblem of a nobleman he knew. Edward Waverly. He’d been inside, dressed all in black, a face mask rolled up, grinning wildly. Ah, bloody hell, he was part of the Revivalists! Thatcher had heard whispers about their crimes, read the news sheets, knew they dressed all in black. Dread coursed through him as he realized the implications.

What did Edward want with him? They were friends! Damn it, damn it!

He contemplated his predicament. The Revivalists were known for their secrecy and ruthlessness. If they had abducted him, it could only mean trouble. Desperation motivated him as he renewed his efforts to escape the carriage. He kicked at the door, heaved his shoulder against it, and yelled for help, though he knew the chances of anyone hearing him were slim.

Time seemed to stretch on endlessly as he struggled, the darkness pressing in around him. Fear and uncertainty gnawed at his mind, and he couldn’t help but wonder what fate awaited him at the hands of the Revivalists. The air inside the carriage grew increasingly oppressive, and he felt sweat bead on his forehead, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin. The faint light filtering through the gaps in the door revealed the small space, adorned with plush, worn upholstery and intricate carvings on the wooden panels.

Outside, he could hear the muffled sounds of the bustling city—the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on cobblestones, the distant calls of street vendors, and the indistinct voices of passersby. But inside this confined prison, he was isolated, trapped in a world of shadows and uncertainty.

His mind raced with questions. About Edward. About the Revivalists. Why had they targeted him? What did they want? And perhaps most pressing of all, was there any hope of his escape? He continued to struggle against the door, and his fingers found a small latch nestled discreetly near the handle. With a surge of hope, he grasped it and pushed, praying that it might release him from this hell.

The latch gave way with a soft click, and the door swung open slightly. A rush of cool, fresh air filled the carriage, carrying with it the distant scents of the city—a mix of horse manure, freshly baked bread, and the faint aroma of blooming flowers. Thatcher’s heart pounded with fear and rising fury. With one final, desperate push, he flung the door wide open and tumbled out onto the cobbled street. His body ached from the fall, but the pain was nothing compared to the relief he felt at being free.

He looked around, trying to get his bearings. The street was unfamiliar to him, a narrow alleyway flanked by tall, imposing buildings that loomed overhead. It was a quiet corner of the city, tucked away from the main thoroughfares, and he could hear the distant sounds of church bells tolling the hour. Thatcher knew he had to be cautious. If the Revivalists were still nearby, they might be watching for any sign of his escape. He picked himself up. The world around him was a blur of gaslit lanterns, flickering shadows, and the occasional glimpse of a passerby. Every sound, every movement, sent a jolt of anxiety through him. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down.

“Ahoy! What do you think you’re doing?” a hard voice demanded from behind.

Thatcher’s heart skipped several beats as he heard the harsh, aristocratic voice. Panic surged through him, and he froze, his hand still gripping the broken latch of the carriage door. Slowly, he turned to face the source of the voice, and his eyes met those of a tall, imposing figure who had materialized at the side of the carriage. The man was impeccably dressed in a dark, tailored coat and a finely knotted cravat, his face partially obscured by the shadows cast by the gaslit lanterns.

Edward Waverly.

With a sinking, sick feeling, Thatcher realized that his friend was indeed a member of the Revivalists, the group responsible for terrorizing London and killing innocent men and women. Blast it! He had hoped to slip away unnoticed, to escape the clutches of his captors, but it seemed that his plan had been foiled.

“I believe I’ve taken a wrong turn,” Thatcher bluffed anyway, trying to keep his voice steady despite the rising fear within him. He forced himself to meet the man’s gaze directly. “I’ll just be on my way.”

Edward regarded him with a cold, calculating expression, his lips curving into a humorless smile. He barely resembled the amiable thespian Thatcher knew. “Leaving so soon, Mr. Goodrich?” he asked, his tone laced with a chilling edge. “You’ve been quite the elusive quarry. We’ve been waiting for this opportunity.”

“Who’s we?” Thatcher dared to ask. His mind raced as he assessed his options. He couldn’t afford to be captured again, not when he had just managed to escape. He knew that he had to act quickly and decisively. He’d ask the question of why Edward later. Much later. Once he was safe and still alive.

With a sudden burst of energy, Thatcher lunged at Edward, catching him off guard. They grappled in the dimly lit alley, their breath coming in harsh gasps as they struggled for control. The sounds of their scuffle echoed off the narrow walls, and for a moment, it seemed as though the outcome hung in the balance. Though lean, Edward was surprisingly tough and strong.

Thatcher fought with all the desperation of a man determined to regain his safety. He knew that his life depended on it, and he couldn’t afford to lose this battle. But Edward was strong and relentless, and the odds were stacked against Thatcher. As they grappled, he plotted. He needed a way out, a means of escape that would allow him to slip through Edward’s grasp and disappear into the dark, snaking streets of London once more. His heart roared in his chest as he searched for an opening, a moment of weakness that he could exploit.

The outcome remained uncertain, but Thatcher knew that he couldn’t afford to back down.

As the struggle continued with grunts and thuds echoing in the dark alley, a blinding light suddenly pierced through the gloom. Thatcher’s eyes, adjusted to the dimness, were momentarily shocked, and he instinctively shielded his face from the intense illumination.

Edward, taking advantage of his momentary blindness, pushed him away and stepped back, holding a torch just lit, its harsh bright brilliance bursting upon Thatcher’s disheveled form. Blinking rapidly to regain his vision, Thatcher squinted at Edward, now looming over him.

With a sinister grin, Edward spoke, his voice dripping with malice. “It’s time for you to pay for all those things you wrote in your play, Thatcher. The Revivalists do not take such matters lightly, and I’ve been picked to dispatch of you.”

Thatcher’s heart sank as he realized the gravity of his situation. The Revivalists were not just thugs; they were a powerful and dangerous organization of aristocrats with a reach that extended into the highest echelons of Society. They had taken offense with something in his play, and now they sought retribution.

What had he written?

“Which play, exactly, do you all take such offense with?” He squinted against the torch flare. “I’ve written so many.” He needed a plan, a way to outsmart his captor and slip away once more. So he stalled. “Too many to count on both hands, if you can believe that.”

Edward seemed to anticipate his every move, keeping the blinding light fixed on Thatcher and maintaining a safe distance. It was clear that he had been trained for encounters like these, and Thatcher realized that he was facing a formidable adversary. Not his friend. Not an actor. A foe. An enemy.

Thatcher cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at him. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he began, his words measured. “The play was just fiction, a work of art. It wasn’t meant to offend anyone.”

The man’s laughter was cold and heartless. “Fiction, you say? Do you take us Revivalists for fools, Thatcher? The words you penned struck a chord with our organization, and we do not take such things in stride. Oh no, we react with punishing swiftness.”

How to convince this zealot that he was not a threat, that his words were merely a product of his imagination? Edward’s fanaticism made reason and logic unlikely to prevail.

With the light still blinding him, Thatcher weighed his options. His life hung in the balance. He had to find a way to escape the clutches of the Revivalists. His trusted friend was not his friend at all, but rather a crazed, immoral beast who wanted him dead.

Oh, and he was madly in love with the woman he’d stolen from.

God, he missed the simplicity of his writer’s block.