Chapter 32

32

The windows were dark as Julian stood outside the tenement in Whitechapel, not a single candle lit in the entire building – and somewhere in that place lurked the bastard who put a bullet in his wife.

“I want you to stay out here while my men and I go in.” Wentworth’s low voice at his shoulder.

“No,” Julian said. “I’m coming in with you.”

Wentworth cut him a sharp glance. “I won’t have London’s most powerful duke charging into a potential deathtrap. Her Majesty will have my bollocks for earrings if I let you stub your toe.”

“He shot my wife.” Muscles coiled in Julian’s shoulders, unease threading through him. “I’ve earned the right to see his neck snapped.”

The spymaster inhaled slowly through his nose. “You’ll follow my lead in there, or I’ll eject you myself. Titles mean nothing right now.”

Tension arced between them. After a long moment, Julian looked away, back to those lightless windows swathed in shadows. He gave Wentworth a terse nod.

The spymaster lifted his hand in a series of quick gestures, directing his men to surround the premises. They melted into the darkness, slipping through the tangled maze of alleys and rookeries. Unseen, unheard.

Wentworth grasped the worn iron latch and pushed. The door protested, screeching on its hinges as it swung inward to admit them into musty blackness. Upstairs, all remained still – not a creak or cough to betray any occupants. Wentworth eased over the threshold, pistol drawn. Julian’s heart pounded as he followed.

Step by measured step, they crept up the narrow stairs. Julian’s ears strained for any noise past their own hushed breaths and the treads groaning faintly beneath their cautious steps. On the top landing, Wentworth jerked his head left and took position by the farthest door. Julian mirrored him on the right, bracing his shoulder against the warped wood. Their stares locked across the dim passage.

Go.

Wentworth kicked open the door, splintering wood. A scuffle from one of the rooms broke the fraught silence, then a heavy thud. Pritchard lurched out from his bedchamber, looking half drunk, clearly unused to such rude awakenings. When his bleary eyes landed on Julian, the colour leeched from his scruffy face.

“You,” he croaked.

“Check the rooms,” Julian said to Wentworth.

As Wentworth swept through, Julian focused on Pritchard, pinning the man in place.

“All empty,” Wentworth confirmed, returning to the hall.

Julian advanced on Pritchard, fury coiling beneath his skin. “Where is he?”

The veneer of the polished aristocrat had cracked, and violence seeped through the fissures.

Pritchard’s eyes bounced from Julian to Wentworth’s men, now stationed at the door. “Don’t know who you mean.”

Julian’s fingers twitched with the urge to throttle the bastard. “Don’t play the fool. Yesterday at the Brimstone, you mentioned another tenant. Edgar Kellerman, born Theodore Warrington.” He drew nearer, letting his imposing height carry the threat. “Where. Is. He?”

“He must have sneaked out while I slept.” Pritchard’s voice shook.

“How convenient,” Julian said coldly, backing the man into the flaking wall. He shoved his forearm under Pritchard’s chin, relishing his panicked wheeze as he cut off his air. “And where might our rat have scurried off to in search of new shelter?”

Pritchard’s face purpled. “Anywhere. He has money from robbing you toffs.”

Julian pressed forward, savouring the chokehold. “Because I have a deeply personal interest in finding the man who shot my wife. Think harder.”

“I don’t…know,” he rasped.

Through the red haze edging his vision, Julian felt a firm hand grasp his shoulder. “Ease back, duke,” Wentworth said. “Let’s focus on locating our real target, shall we? We need him able to talk if we’re getting answers.”

With effort, Julian uncurled his fist and released Pritchard, who sagged back against the wall, wheezing.

Wentworth withdrew his pistol, thumbing back the hammer with an ominous click. “Details on Kellerman. Now.”

But despite the panicked sweat coating his sallow face, Pritchard offered no answer.

Wentworth sighed. “No? Pity.”

Without blinking, he aimed the pistol and fired.

The gunshot split the cramped space like thunder. Pritchard howled as the bullet punched through his kneecap and out the back of his leg. Before he could collapse, Wentworth slammed his hand into Pritchard’s shoulder, shoving him against the wall.

The spymaster re-centred his pistol over Pritchard’s good leg with casual menace. “Feeling chatty about your dear friend Kellerman’s plans and whereabouts now, I trust? Useful words keep you limping out of here intact. Further waste of my time, and the next one goes through your other kneecap.”

Pritchard just whimpered in reply.

“No? Not talkative yet? Last chance,” Wentworth warned. He thumbed back the pistol hammer again. The dark eye of its barrel hovered inches from Pritchard’s left kneecap. “What’s Kellerman planning? I could shoot you, or I could let Hastings take you apart piece by piece, but somehow, I think the bullet might be a mercy.”

Sweat slicked Pritchard’s face. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

Wentworth’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Hm. That’s a shame. Going to be a bugger getting around with two ruined knees. Rather not make the lads drag you out of here. Maybe I’ll shoot your hand instead?” His eyes slid to Julian in invitation. “Hastings?”

Rage seethed beneath Julian’s skin. “I’ll bloody remove it.”

Pritchard broke. “I just helped with the con, I swear it! His motives were his own.”

Julian’s jaw clenched. As much as he might relish watching the blackguard squirm, it was clear Kellerman didn’t trust anyone with his vendetta. “Did he keep papers here?”

Pritchard bobbed his head. “Aye. Rooms were always locked. Hid things.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know where,” he said, licking his lips. “He didn’t show me.”

Wentworth narrowed his gaze. “Lads? Take him for me. We’ll see if he conveniently remembers anything tonight.”

At his word, the men dragged a whimpering Pritchard off, leaving a glistening crimson trail behind him. Julian watched him go, lip curled in disgust. Let him suffer. He’d earned far worse than a bullet to the leg.

Julian proceeded with Wentworth through the rooms, searching for hidden latches or secret caches concealed in the walls and floorboards. But their hunt turned up nothing. Until—

“Wait.” Wentworth’s sharp bark split the heavy silence. “You smell that?”

Julian focused his senses. Beneath the clinging stench of mould and decay, he detected it too. Faint yet unmistakable. Kerosene.

Their gazes locked. Wentworth pointed to the far wall shared with the next building, and they moved to the scarred wainscoting. Wentworth’s fingers danced over the panels until pausing over one section.

A whisper of draft teased Julian’s face – a hidden latch.

With grim purpose, Wentworth eased his blade beneath the warped edge. The concealed door popped open on protesting hinges, exposing the darkness within. The stench of lamp oil intensified. Moonlight slanted through the small window to limn the battered surface of a humble writing desk tucked against the far wall.

The papers scattered on the desk pulled Julian like gravity – but just as his boot touched down inside, Wentworth’s grip locked on his shoulder, yanking him short.

“Careful. Remember what I said about Her Majesty wearing my bollocks for earrings?”

Bloody hell. Julian had nearly blundered straight into the windowless room. Into what was likely a deathtrap.

“Wait here,” Wentworth said. The spymaster slipped into the dark room beyond the doorway – barely a whisper of clothing to mark his passage.

The next moments passed in taut silence as Julian waited, poised on the threshold. He tensed at each floorboard creak as Wentworth conducted his unseen investigation, nerves straining for any cue to action. Finally, the faint scrape of a match sounded, followed by Wentworth’s muttered satisfaction.

“Clever bastard.” His gruff voice echoed against the hidden room’s walls. “Rigged the lamp to erupt if moved without disarming the mechanism first. Amateur work, but enough to kill us both if we didn’t notice the tripwire. It’s on the floor just there, Hastings. Ease over it.”

Julian released a slow breath and stepped over the thin wire suspended above the floorboards. Inside the tiny study, the anaemic flame illuminated a jumble of books and papers strewn across the desk. He catalogued the materials – leather-bound ledgers full of numbers, rolled documents that looked to be maps or blueprints. And beneath it all, a smaller folded letter sealed in wax and addressed to him in bold, arrogant strokes.

His stomach twisted at the sight of the taunt – Kellerman had expected Julian to find this place. Reluctantly, he broke the seal.

Be seeing you again, duke. I hope you enjoy yourself with your wife.

Wentworth grunted. “A dark part of me wonders if he’s moved beyond his vendetta to tormenting you specifically.” He surveyed the letter, face grim. “If so, finding his old targets means nothing. He wants you as his new plaything.”

Julian shuffled through the documents, discarding anything nonsensical. “I’ll review these with Caroline and see if we can find anything of use.”

Wentworth nodded. “I’ll have my men patrol. See if they find him that way.”

They worked to gather the materials, alert for any more traps Kellerman might have set. But their search found nothing beyond an extra pistol and box of lucifer matches tucked in a floorboard cache, like an afterthought. Soon, they were leaving, satchels laden with coded papers.