44. Not Over Yet

NOT OVER YET

T he fire was finally out. Well, mostly out. It would be a while yet before they managed to smother every last glowing cinder, but the danger of reignition was almost certainly past.

Malum stood at the window of his study, one shoulder braced against the frame, looking down upon the smoldering in the ruins of Melanie’s home.

Miraculously, the brick facades had done their duty—his home was scorched but intact, the damage to Regent Street’s neighboring houses mercifully minor. Most importantly, aside from a few injuries, everyone had made it out alive. The servants were rattled, some bearing singed clothing and soot-smudged faces, but otherwise unharmed.

And now, hours later, Malum, Helton, and Standish waited in the relative calm of his study. Relative being the operative word.

After discussing what Melanie had remembered, Malum had sent Westcott and Beckworth looking for Northwoods, because the wily earl had disappeared apparently, right after Crossings’ not-quite-tragic fall. Malum, Helton, and Standish had stayed behind, and once they knew the fire suppression efforts had been successful, they’d met here, in Preston Hall.

Having lowered himself onto one of the leather armchairs, Standish sat staring into the empty hearth, his jaw tight. “At least Goldie didn’t see it,” he said quietly. “The fiend is her father, after all.”

Standish’s wife might be safely tucked away, but her estranged father, who had somehow managed to survive his fall, was none too happy, cuffed to a cot in one of Malum’s utility rooms.

Even with one leg practically snapped in two, he’d been found crawling around, gathering letters as though doing so might somehow protect him. Until now, there hadn’t been time to question him.

But Malum did indeed have plenty of questions for him, and the duke was going to answer them all.

“Your mother and Lady Josephine are at Standish Hall?” Malum asked.

“Right.” Standish nodded. “They’ll stay there until…” He trailed off, looking up. “Until something else is sorted.”

Helton glanced over, his expression wry. “Caroline stayed behind to watch over Melanie, but since her sister is still sleeping, she’s discovered the nursery. I’ll likely have to pry that baby out of her arms before the night’s over.” He gave Malum a look that was equal parts amusement and resignation. “I’d wager she’s already half in love with little Ernest.”

Malum exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking toward the window.

He would not hand Ernest over to a foundling hospital, and yet… his life wasn’t suited to the caretaking of an infant child. Was it? He sure as hell wasn’t going to turn the boy over to the Harcrofts, which left him with no idea of what, in fact, he was going to do with the baby.

He ought to talk with Melanie about it—later—after she’d recovered. Once he could talk with her properly again.

He swallowed hard.

She’d nearly lost her life today. Would it be fair to hold her to everything she’d said? She might think she loved him, but at the time, she’d been climbing down the side of a burning building…

Malum’s jaw clenched. He was equally livid with both Crossings and Northwoods.

He turned to pour himself a drink, the familiar scrape of crystal against glass grounding him.

The Rakes all knew Melanie’s memory had returned—though there were still several details missing.

Malum intended for Crossings to fill in the gaps.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Well, gentlemen, if there’s nothing else that needs addressing, I think it’s time we have a word with Crossings.”

Standish ran a hand over his face, his weariness evident, but before any of them could move, the distinct creak of the front door opening echoed through the foyer, followed by the heavy thud of approaching footsteps.

“Stop pushing me!”

“Go on, then.” Beckworth’s voice.

Malum stiffened, his attention snapping toward the sound. That first voice, high and shrill in outrage, was one he recognized but couldn’t immediately place.

“In the study.” Tipton’s voice, moments before the door swung open.

Malum anticipated a straightforward sight: two of the Rotten Rakes, hopefully with Northwoods in tow.

What greeted him instead—though perhaps he should have expected it—was a face both familiar and unwelcome.

Mrs. Flora Green.

Gone was the starched dress, the tidy apron, and the severe knot of hair that had marked her as an unassuming nursemaid. Instead, the woman before him wore a low-cut gown, its bodice wrinkled and torn. Her hair, once tightly controlled, fell in disheveled strands around her face.

And then there was the smell.

The scent of kerosene clung to her, sharper and far more pronounced than the traces he’d detected on Northwoods earlier that morning.

Malum’s jaw tightened. It was the same face, the same voice. But this woman was most definitely not a nursemaid.

He’d been too careless. Far too careless.

Fucking hell .

“Where is Northwoods?” Malum directed his question to Westcott.

Both men winced.

“He made it onto a ship bound for America before we could get to him.” Beckworth’s tone was clipped, frustrated. His hands tightened on the shoulders of Ernest’s former nursemaid, who squirmed but didn’t dare protest. “This one was on the docks, screaming at the ship like a jilted lover—says she worked for you once. Seems Northwoods was playing more sides than we gave him credit for,” Beckworth finished.

“No one went after the ship?”

Westcott was already shaking his head. “It was too far out. We were too late.”

So… Northwoods was on the run.

Malum’s gaze settled on Mrs. Green then. “Sit,” he ordered, gesturing to the nearest chair.

She hesitated, perhaps contemplating her limited options, but then lowered herself onto the edge of the seat.

Malum folded his arms as he studied her. “Let’s start with the obvious, Mrs. Green,” he said, forcefully redirecting his frustration. “How is it that you—a working-class wench—came to know an earl?”

Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Through the Duke of Crossings,” she muttered.

Of course. It always led back to Crossings.

“And what were you doing for Crossings?” Malum couldn’t keep the sharp edge out of his voice.

Her lips tightened, and for a moment, it seemed she wouldn’t answer. But then, as though the weight of the room pressed it out of her, she admitted, “I was hired…” She looked up to glare at Malum, almost defiantly. “To watch you. To report back to him.”

“So you weren’t sent by the agency, then?”

“No.” Her jaw ticked. “It was all him. The duke.”

“No wonder you were so horrible with the baby,” Malum murmured.

She bristled, her cheeks flushing. “I didn’t hurt the boy! I took care of him—proper care. But the duke… he made it clear. My priority was to stay close, to watch, to listen.”

Recalling the image of her asleep, both ears plugged, Malum’s lips twitched in a fleeting smirk. Not a good nursemaid nor, apparently, a good spy.

Crossings really had been desperate…

“And when you were sacked,” Malum continued, “Crossings told you to go to the papers.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

But with the scent of an accelerant burning in his nostrils, Malum suspected Mrs. Green had been used as a pawn for more than just Crossings. “How does Northwoods fit into this?”

Her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her eyes glinting with something raw—anger, betrayal… pain. “Like I said, I met him through the duke. At first, it was just… casual. But then…” Her voice faltered, and her shoulders sagged.

“But then?” Standish prompted, his voice cutting.

The woman glanced away from them all, raising the back of her wrist to her mouth to stifle a sob. “We fell in love,” she said, her voice trembling. “He said he loved me. Promised we’d be together. I was going to be a countess! He said… after…”

“After what?” Malum was running out of patience.

Her head snapped up, looking defiant again. “After he took care of you and Crossings and the girl.”

The room stilled.

Malum was sure he already knew, but he had to confirm it first. “And which girl do you mean?”

She looked down again. After a brief pause, she seemed to come to some sort of decision, and her words spilled out in a rush. “Lady Melanie Rutherford. He would get rid of the duke, and I’d take care of the lady who had seen him start that fire last year. Then we would run away together. Start fresh.”

Malum’s hands tightened into fists at his sides.

“But he lied,” she spat, her voice rising. “He never meant it. I went to the docks, just like he said. But Milton—Lord Northwoods—he told me to go to the wrong ship. It was only luck that I saw him on the deck of The Atlantic Star . And he wasn’t even sorry. He was only using me! He used me and then he left me!”

“You started the fire across the street because he told you to,” Malum said, his voice low, steady, and razor-sharp.

She nodded.

“What about the fire at Crossings’?”

“Milton did that one.” Tears were spilling down her cheeks. “I didn’t even know the duke was in there with her… I almost took both of them out. But I did it for him!” Her voice broke, anger and despair mingling. And then, with another flash of fear, she met Malum’s stare. “I didn’t do the one at the brothel, though. Milton hired two brothers to set that one.”

“What two brothers?”

“Milton called ‘em the two carrots. Had northern accents.”

An unlikely twist—hired by not Crossings, but Northwoods…

The room fell silent, the gravity of her confession settling like a lead weight.

Malum turned to Westcott and Beckworth. “Let’s bring in our other witness then, shall we?”

Westcott grinned, the kind of smile that was all teeth, and pushed off from the wall where he’d been leaning. “With pleasure.”

Beckworth was already moving toward the door, his movements brisk but controlled. As the two men disappeared into the hallway, the faint sound of their boots echoed on the polished floors.

Minutes later, the sounds of shuffling signaled their return. Westcott entered first, his expression tight with barely concealed distaste. Behind him, Beckworth carried one end of what looked like a makeshift stretcher. On it lay Crossings, looking battered but somehow still managing an air of defiance.

His leg, splinted with a crude wooden brace, was stretched stiffly out in front of him, and his face bore a bruise that spread from his cheekbone to his temple.

His eyes, cold and empty, were as calculating as ever.

“Have a seat, Crossings.” Malum was feeling grim.

Westcott and Beckworth didn’t bother with gentleness. With a grunt of effort, they heaved the older man off the stretcher and into a chair. Crossings hissed in pain as his injured leg jostled, but he said nothing.

For a moment, the room was still, save for Crossings’ labored breathing. Malum touched his chin as he regarded the man before him.

“You’re tougher than you look,” he said dryly. “I’ll give you that.”

Crossings’ lip curled in a vicious sneer, the motion tugging at his bruised face. “You put me on a cot?” His voice dripped with disdain. “Your manners are as barbaric as your reputation.” He straightened—or tried to—grimacing when his leg didn’t cooperate. “We may both be dukes, but you are a stain upon the title. Your father would be rolling in his grave if he realized what his son has become.”

“He’s lucky to be in a grave,” Malum said. “Soon enough, you’ll wish you were rolling around with him.”

“Right.” Crossings laughed. “Do you really think the crown will tolerate this? The Duke of Crossings being treated like a common criminal? You’re the one who’ll end up in Newgate, mark my words!”

Malum regarded him silently, content just to listen as Crossings spewed more empty threats. And even after the duke was finished with his tirade, Malum waited, the blood in his veins as cold as ice, but then he tilted his head. “I’m not particularly worried about any of that, Crossings. Because, you see, the crown might find your story even a little believable if you hadn’t provided such a thorough trail of your treachery.”

Malum withdrew the incriminating letters from within his pocket and waved them about like a winning hand of cards, deliberately casual.

Crossings stiffened, his composure slipping for the first time since he’d been dragged in. Mrs. Green let out a bark of laughter, conveniently drawing Crossings’ attention to her presence.

Unease flickered on his face.

Mrs. Green, for her part, had recovered from her tears. “Just look at you, Duke. Trussed up like the fatted calf. At least Milton escaped.”

Of all things, it was being disrespected by someone so low that truly inflamed the duke’s temper. “You!” he spat. “I told you to stay away from him. You were supposed to report to me, not diddle around with that weasel!”

Mrs. Green’s eyes flashed, and she leaned forward, her tone surprisingly menacing. “And I told you—if you wanted my loyalty, you should’ve paid for it. You owed me money, Crossings. You think I’d do your bidding for free?”

It was something to see, the Duke of Crossings and Northwoods’ jilted lover—a common fraudster—trading barbs like they were the only two people in the room. Helton took notes, a well-ingrained habit after all his time at the paper, while Malum and the rest of the Rakes sat back and listened to the unexpected exchange.

Crossings’ pride warred with his growing frustration, and Mrs. Green, emboldened by her bitterness, refused to back down. Both, nonetheless, were more than willing to sell Northwoods down the river.

“All he tried to do was help you. This is your fault!”

“I never told him to set that fire—or to threaten Foxbourne—” Crossings bit out.

“Not in so many words!”

Malum’s gaze flicked between them. With this stroke of luck, he needn’t ask any questions at all—they were doing a fine job of incriminating themselves, and Northwoods, of course.

Just before he went to interject, a knock sounded on his study door and Tipton entered. The butler inclined his head toward Malum. “The officers have arrived, Your Grace.”

Malum let out a deep sigh, his shoulders loosening slightly for the first time in hours. He wanted to know more of the details, of course he did, after putting so much time and effort—years of his life—into this investigation, but it was a significant relief to be able to pass it on to the proper authorities at long last.

He might never uncover the full extent of Crossings’ crimes, but he knew enough. The man who had worked side-by-side with his father was finally facing justice. The reckoning had come.

All of the lies and treachery would be unraveled with evidence, courtesy of Melanie and the late Roland Rutherford, to back everything up.

Admittedly, though, it wasn’t as satisfying as Malum had imagined it might be. There was no feeling of victory, of triumph. Just a sense that it was finished. A knowing.

But it was enough.

The officers entered shortly after, bearing an official-looking document, the ink on it still fresh—a warrant, issued by the Home Secretary himself, for the arrest of the Duke of Crossings.

Malum’s gaze lingered on Crossings for a moment longer, then he turned away, the matter settled in his mind. “These two are all yours now,” Malum instructed, his voice hard.

There was a moment of silent confusion, and then, “The lady too?”

“Mrs. Flora Green here is one of Crossings’ previous accomplices,” Beckworth cut in helpfully. “Based on the conversation we’ve had today, I’m sure she has much to say about all this unpleasant business.” The woman winced, shrinking in on herself as the reality of her situation appeared to sink in fully. “Lord Helton, the owner of The Gazette , has some notes for you as well, which I believe the Home Office will find quite useful.”

“You’ll also want to speak with Ewan and Bram Harcroft—for arson. My head of security at the Domus can help you track them down.” Malum’s voice was flat.

“Excellent, Your Grace.” One of the detectives took note.

As the officers collected both prisoners, Malum’s thoughts shifted, and a quieter urgency replaced the one that had driven him through the past several hours.

He was done here. Now, there was only one place he wanted to be.

And that was upstairs.

At Melanie’s side.