Chapter 7

“What the shite was that about, Thorne?”

Thorne, who’d been staring at the door which had just closed behind Kit, jerked his attention back to Bull, whose teasing grin belied his words. “What? I thought ye’d be glad Fawkes sent him away.”

Fawkes was slouched in his chair, his arms folded over his chest, glaring at the desktop. “He’s talking about the fact ye look like ye’re in love with yer valet.”

Thorne jerked upright as if he’d been hit, fumbling the pile of correspondence in his hands. “I do no’.”

“Aye, ye do,” Bull cheerfully informed him. “And I’m happy for ye. Everyone needs a confidante.”

“I’m no’ in love with Kit,” growled Thorne, glaring at the two of them, wondering if his lie was painfully obvious.

Fawkes shrugged one shoulder. “We dinnae care. In fact, if ye did love him, it would make trusting him easier.” Finally, his green gaze slid to Thorne. “Ye trusted me, merely because Ellie did.”

“Ye trust Mother because she married Griffin,” Bull pointed out. “And Sophia. Even Georgia, who we suspected was on Bonkinbone’s side.”

“We didnae suspect her, puppy,” muttered Thorne, pretending to focus his attention on sorting through the envelopes. “Rourke and Demon and I did. How in the hell do ye ken so much about this investigation, anyhow?”

“Griffin calls it the elephant hunt,” the lad cheerfully informed them.

Well that distracted the conversation from Thorne’s feelings for his valet. “What?” Fawkes finally asked. “Calls what the elephant hunt?”

Bull shrugged and crossed one elegant leg over the other, studying the stolen cigar. “Griffin once told me I had a talent for giving people convenient sobriquets, so he put me in charge of renaming the investigation to something less obvious.”

Thorne knew he was gaping at the young man, the envelopes dangling from his fingers. But he was finally realizing exactly how involved Bull had been in this whole elephant hunt from the beginning.

Fawkes was more direct. “How the fook do ye ken so much about all of this, laddie?”

“I’m verra, verra good at listening through doors.” Bull’s answer was uncharacteristically serious. “I dinnae have a very nice family—och, I mean, I love my family. But I was raised at Exingham with my elder half-siblings. My brother Rourke was our father’s fourth legitimate son, one of the few our dear Father didn’t murder.”

“Jesu Christo,” Fawkes muttered, eyes wide. Thorne, who knew the story the Lindsays rarely told outsiders, just shook his head.

Bull shrugged, as if he hadn’t endured more trauma than any child should. “My sister Honoria kept me safe, and then Mother—Flick—was able to take me away. Now I have her and Griffin and Marcia and even Rupert. And I still listen at doors.”

“Jesu Christo,” Fawkes repeated.

“So aye, I’ve had plenty of experience finding out information. At first it was to keep me safe, but then I learned I’m verra good at it.” Bull grinned and offered a lazy salute with the cigar. “Perhaps I should become a spy, eh?”

Thorne’s breath burst out of him. “Dinnae joke about such a thing, laddie! I ken Rourke has his hands full trying to keep those wee hellions of his from wanting such a career, but no’ ye too.”

“Who do ye think gave Hunter and Gabby the idea, Uncle Thorne?” Bull chirped innocently.

Without a thought, Thorne pulled an envelope from the stack and flicked it sideways like a playing card. The stiff paper flew unerringly toward Bull, who ducked sideways, laughing.

“Ye’re in a safe place now, lad?” Fawkes asked gruffly, lowering his arms, his expression serious. “Yer mother…?”

“Flick married Griffin Calderbank last summer,” Thorne supplied, “thanks mainly to Bull’s matchmaking skills. They live up in the Highlands at Peasgoode with Griffin’s children.”

“They are deliriously happy,” Bull agreed, “and I was bored as fook. That’s why we bullied Flick into a trip to London.”

“I thought ye liked the Highlands?” Thorne’s attention was on the correspondence in his hands once more, looking for the letter he’d received the morning of Fawkes’s arrival.

“I do. And I like adventure. And I like helping. Which is why I’m here. Ye have to admit, I might no’ have been one of Blackrose’s agents, but I have plenty of reasons to want to bring him down.”

Thorne paused. Aye, the lad’s brother had been Blackrose’s Blade, his new step-father one of the agents who’d been hunted when Blackrose used his assassin to purge their ranks. He cared—he’d become close to nearly everyone working on this investigation.

Aye, Bull had reasons to want to bring Blackrose down.

“And I can be useful,” he said quietly. “I owe it to Rourke and Griffin, if nothing else.”

Thorne pointed the sharp edge of the envelope at the lad. “Let’s not talk of debts. Neither of them would want to see ye hurt. They’ll skin me alive for even talking to ye.”

Just like that, Bull’s smile flashed. “Aye, likely. They’ll no’ hear it from me, though.”

“Griffin Calderbank…” Fawkes repeated slowly. “The new Duke of Peasgoode. He was an agent, aye?”

Thorne knew his cousin had heard the names, but understanding all the history could become confusing. “When Blackrose began to eliminate his agents in preparation for an escape from the country—”

“Covering his tracks,” Bull interrupted, “so nae one could trace his evil deeds to him.”

Thorne nodded. Bit theatrical, but essentially accurate. “Blackrose gave Calderbank an assignment to kill a fellow agent, and after doing so—although no’ really, since it turned out that fellow agent, Wilson, just needed a chance to disappear since he was still loyal to Blackrose—”

“Wilson was Olivia’s stepbrother,” Bull interrupted again. “She’s married to the Duke of Effinghell—that’s how they got involved.”

“Do ye want to tell this story?” Thorne snapped, temper immediately rising.

Bull waved the cigar. “Ye’re doing a fine job.”

“Where was I?”

“Calderbank no’ killing Wilson,” Fawkes supplied.

“Aye, well, Calderbank packed up his children and fled to America, where they were hiding until we—Ye ken Sophia, Rourke’s wife, stole all the evidence from Blackrose? Well, when we realized which agents had likely survived the purge, we tracked them down. It took some doing, but I convinced Calderbank it was safe to return to London. Mainly because we needed his help.”

Bull was staring at the end of his cigar. “Ye forgot the important part,” he said quietly. “Why Griffin left.”

Frowning, Thorne exchanged a glance with Fawkes. “I dinnae ken…?”

Bull took a deep breath and sat up straighter, his somber gaze going unerringly to Fawkes. “Griffin packed up Marcia and wee Rupert and dragged them to America in the dead of night with only a few trunks of belongings, hours after he buried his first wife.”

Fawkes shook his head, still frowning. “His children had already been through so much…”

“Dinnae judge him,” Bull spat, suddenly darting forward to snub the cigar against the glass tray on the desk. He stared at the smoldering mess for a long moment, the only sound in the room his harsh inhale before he spoke again. “Griffin told Blackrose he wanted out. He didnae even realize the bastard wasnae working for the Crown at that point. He just kenned he wanted nothing to do with a supervisor who commanded he kill fellow agents.”

Fawkes glanced at Thorne, as if he might understand where this was going. And Thorne, horrible suspicion growing in his mind, grimaced.

“Blackrose didnae take the news well.” Bull’s fingers, never still, ground the cigar into the tray, back and forth, back and forth, until there was no chance of an ember escaping. “He threatened Griffin’s family. The next day, his wife Mary began to grow ill. A stomach ailment.” He swallowed and looked up, meeting Fawkes’s eyes. “The symptoms were consistent with arsenic poisoning.”

Fawkes’s eyes widened.

Thorne cursed quietly. “Taking his children to America was his way of protecting them from Blackrose.”

“Nay, no’ Blackrose,” Bull said quietly, still pinning Fawkes with his serious gray gaze. “Blackrose’s poisoner. The Duke of Death.”

Fawkes’s sharp inhale proved he suddenly understood. “Ye think I—” He clamped down on the words, studying the young man in the other chair. “Ye do.”

“It’s in the past, Fawkes,” Thorne said quietly, remembering the things he’d done at Blackrose’s campaign. “None of us are innocents.”

“Mary was,” Bull said tightly.

“Aye…she was,” Fawkes began slowly, as if picking his way through the sentence, trying to see the end of it. He held Bull’s gaze. “And if Blackrose had killed her—if I had killed her merely to punish Calderbank, I would be even further damned. If.”

Bull exhaled, and it wasn’t until Thorne echoed it that he realized he’d been holding his breath as well.

“Swear it,” the young man demanded, tilting his chin down. “Swear ye didnae poison Mary Calderbank.”

“On my daughter’s soul,” Fawkes promptly agreed.

Bull seemed to understand the sanctity of such a vow.

Still holding the lad’s gaze, Fawkes continued. “As far as I ken, I was Blackrose’s only poisoner. He took great delight in telling me who each dosage was for, kenning I could no’ defy him. He never spoke of Calderbank, nor his wife. I never gave him arsenic, and I never administered it either.”

The younger man hesitated, then nodded and offered his hand. “Thank ye.”

Fawkes grasped Bull’s hand, acknowledging the lad as an equal. “I’ll tell yer father—stepfather that, when I have a chance. Ye dinnae have to bear the message or the responsibility, laddie.”

Thorne expected Bull to object, to claim he was old enough, but instead the young man just blew out a breath and sat back in his chair, nodding as if a weight had been lifted. Thorne found himself also breathing easier as he rested his hip against the desk once more.

Jesus.That had been…difficult. Unexpected.

Fawkes cleared his throat. “So, we all agree that Blackrose needs to be put down. What’s the next step?”

“A trap,” Bull quipped, back to his regular easy-going self. “Were ye no’ paying attention?”

While Fawkes scowled, the lad produced a small knife from somewhere and began waggling it between his fingers. In anyone else, it would’ve been alarming, but Thorne had known Bull long enough to understand the lad’s constant need for movement of some sort.

“So we make Blackrose think that his brother had an agent. Can we just call him Bonkinbone? I ken Blackrose holds the title now, but it’s easier if we think of the auld Earl as being Bonkinbone.” When Fawkes and Thorne nodded, Bull continued. “So if Bonkinbone had an agent, someone who kens all the secrets that passed between him and Blackrose, what does that mean?”

“It means Blackrose hasnae tied up all the loose ends,” Fawkes growled. “Loose ends like me.”

“That’s true,” mused Thorne thoughtfully, tapping the envelope against the desktop. “Blackrose cut ye free.”

“Because he kens I cannae testify against him, no’ without putting myself in danger.”

“And yer mother,” Thorne agreed with a wince, remembering the leverage Blackrose had held over his cousin all these years. “He thinks he’s safe with ye.”

“He wouldnae if he thought I was his brother’s agent.”

Bull shook his head, the knife catching the light as he rolled the blade across his knuckles. “Ye killed his brother,” he said too-bluntly. “Blackrose wouldnae believe it.”

“We need to do something—” Fawkes began, but Thorne interrupted him, clearing his throat.

When they both turned to him, he held up the envelope. The ornate seal—broken when he finally remembered to read the damn thing—drew their attention. “The Crown has finally stepped in.”

Both seated men slowly straightened, their attention on the envelope.

Fawkes was the first to speak. “What…what does Her Majesty…ken?”

“We’ve told her agents everything, Fawkes,” Thorne finally admitted with a wince, knowing his cousin would hate the pity in his tone. “It’s the only way to assure immunity for us all from the things we’ve done.”

Fawkes’s expression seemed haunted, and it was obvious why. Blackrose’s agents had done truly terrible things, and they were all guilty of crimes against the Crown. Inadvertent, but undeniable. A man called the Duke of Death would surely be concerned about such a thing.

But having the Crown involved would make it easier to bring Blackrose to justice.

“So what does the Prince say?” Bull asked.

Thorne tapped the envelope again. “I never said it was one of the princes. But aye, having the Crown’s support will be helpful. They agree with our reasoning that even with the evidence, the trouble will be getting Blackrose to trial. The bastard is an earl now, thanks to having his brother killed.” He nodded to Fawkes, who was still looking a little ashen. “And we ken he’s using that influence to make connections.”

He hesitated, then shared the rest. It had to be said. “Last night I attended the Stallings ball. Aye, the rumors are true; Blackrose and the Earl of Stallings are settling on an agreement for Lady Emma’s hand.”

Bull snorted, his attention on the small blade now arching into the air and back into his hold. “They deserve one another.”

“He’s allying himself with Stallings,” Fawkes muttered gruffly. “Who kens how many others. He’s an Earl now, with plenty of others in his pocket. If we make noises about bringing him to trial, he’ll fight us.” After that depressing summary, his voice dropped. “It would be easier to do this…quietly.”

“Nay,” Thorne snapped, flicking the envelope back to the desk, desperate to keep his cousin from risking himself any further. “We cannae take out the bastard quietly. This needs to be in the light, legally. Where everyone can hear of his crimes.”

“All of our crimes.” Fawkes shook his head.

It was Bull who spoke, surprisingly compassionate. “Would ye rather add another blemish to yer soul? Or stand up against evil, loud and proud, taking responsibility?”

Fawkes sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. “So what does the Crown suggest we do?”

Folding his arms over his chest, Thorne answered. “They suggested a trap, so clearly great minds think alike. A way to make Blackrose overstep. Once he’s shown his hand, publicly…then we can arrest him, put him on public trial. The evidence we have hidden will stand against him and convict.”

Bull slapped his free hand against his knee. “A trap! See? Even His Highness agrees.”

“I never said it was the prince, and aye.” Thorne rolled his chin. “Aye, a trap. We use the code to make Blackrose think we ken information he needs. We set up a meeting with him.”

“And when we have him standing there, speaking of his wrong-doings, we nab him?” Bull’s gaze was eager, but he never once dropped the knife he tossed lightly. “We’re going to need reliable witnesses.”

“We’re going to need useful information,” Fawkes countered, shaking his head. “It cannae be something from the evidence ye’ve already collected, because Blackrose kens that information. If he thinks the coded messages are from us, he’ll no’ fall for the bait.”

Thorne nodded. “Something new, then. Something only Bonkinbone would ken.”

“Where do we get it?”

Bull suddenly snatched the knife from midair and sat forward. “From Blackrose himself! He’s in Bonkinbone House and ye’re married to Bonkinbone’s daughter. Surely we can figure out how to get in?”

Fawkes was already shaking his head. “Ellie’s involved enough already in this. I’ll no’ have her in danger.”

Thorne had to agree. If he was ever lucky enough to find a love like Fawkes and Danielle shared, he’d not want his wife in danger, either. It would be like—like putting Kit in danger.

Just the thought made him shudder.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly.

Fawkes planted his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “I have a delivery to make tonight.”

With a put-upon sigh, Bull rose as well. “And I promised Flick I’d be home for supper. Dinnae forget ye promised to join us. Tomorrow?”

Vaguely, Thorne nodded. “Aye, tomorrow—or the day after? Send me a note if Flick agrees.”

No’ tonight.Tonight he had plans.

Perhaps something showed on his face, because Bull smirked. “Ye’re going to run upstairs and tell that beautiful valet of yers everything?”

“Nay, I can keep secrets,” Thorne growled at the lad.

But he just hummed, then winked and slid the knife into its hiding spot. “I think yer valet might have some secrets from ye as well. Perhaps a long conversation is in order.”

“If we’re exchanging wooing advice,” Fawkes growled, “I’m leaving.”

“I’m no’—we werenae—” Thorne sputtered, and to his surprise, his cousin grinned.

Fawkes had been teasing him? Thorne gaped, which caused Fawkes’s grin to grow as he turned.

“Have fun, cousin,” the man called over his shoulder. “I’m glad ye found someone else to appreciate opera.”

Appreciate opera? Hell, Thorne was glad he’d found someone to appreciate him.