Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The sun had nearly left the sky when Max and Ironheart arrived at the address Cranston had given him. Though the place looked deserted, Max had the carriage take them to the end of the lane before he and Ironheart exited and doubled back.
“What are we doing here exactly?” Ironheart asked as Max tested one of the side doors. It was locked tight.
“Looking for clues,” he said, climbing up onto a crate to look into a window.
“What sort of clues?” Ironheart climbed up too, despite his incredulous tone.
Max didn’t dignify the question with an answer. As he peered at the multitude of goods that filled the enormous space, a weight settled in the pit of his stomach. Whitehouse had resources beyond his wildest imagination. Hundreds if not thousands of wooden crates filled the space, but just as much sat loose, stacked in neat piles and rows. What would he find in those boxes?
Just as he thought he might try to sneak in once again, he heard a noise at the front of the warehouse. The large doors at the front opened, flooding the space with the light of the setting sun. Four men went about the room lighting candles, as man upon man filed in, carrying more goods and boxes.
“Christ,” Ironheart muttered. “He’s got more assets than the queen.”
Max made note of that comment. These men were loading in the twilight when the docks had quieted because they were operating outside the law. He was certain of that, which was a point that might work in their favor. Then again, with this amount of money, almost anything was possible, and laws were frequently overlooked.
The sheer volume of men who came in and out of the massive space overwhelmed Max. Were there fifty of them? Seventy? More than he could ever fight. He’d been able to take Sophie because he’d used the element of surprise, but he’d be unlikely to use that element again.
He zeroed in on one, his muscles turning to granite. It was Plimpton. “How is he out of prison already?”
“Fuck,” Ironheart said under his breath. “Think he broke out?”
“Of the Tower? In a day?”
“Do you see Whitehouse?”
“No,” Max shook his head. “You?”
“No.” Ironheart cursed again. “I can go to the queen, and take his goods, but it would be better if I could say I’d seen him here.”
“Even that isn’t a guarantee if he offers her enough money.”
Max was still impressed that Ironheart had that kind of moral compass in which he didn’t want to lie. Over the last several days, Ironheart had hardly had anything to drink, and he’d been a good leader and friend. Max liked this side of Ironheart much better. However, this was one moment he might be willing to lie. Whitehouse deserved prison.
They stayed for another hour until all the goods had been loaded in and most of the men had filtered out. Sliding off the crate, Max crept along the side of the building to try and listen to their conversation as they parted. Peeking around the edge, he was just in time to hear Plimpton say to the three men who stood with him. “Night after tomorrow. That’s when deliveries will go out. Don’t be late.”
Max ducked behind the building. If they were going to catch Whitehouse, two nights from now might be their chance. Then again, he might be in this far too deeply. His next visit would help him decide. Slipping through the alleys, he made his way back to his carriage, Ironheart was right behind him. They didn’t speak until they were in the carriage.
“What are you thinking?”
“That we need to speak to Plimpton’s arresting constable. How is he out of prison already?”
“Good question.” Ironheart nodded. “Did Cranston give you any other good bits?”
“Nothing we can use,” Max thought of the man’s words about his family. He was never more thankful that he’d removed Sophie and Abigail. If that was his one chance to make a move on Whitehouse, he was glad that was the one he’d chosen. Whatever happened next, he’d made the right choice, and he was eager to return to them both.
They arrived at 4 Whitehall Place, the lanterns casting eerie shadows as he opened the double doors wide, allowing his coat to fan out behind him. This was not a moment to look weak.
Ironheart stood on his right and he tugged the lapels of his coat as he approached the clerk. “I’d like to speak with Constable Jacobs.”
“And who may I say?—”
Jacobs appeared before the clerk had finished his sentence. “Your Grace.”
The clerk paled as he stood, giving a short bow to Ironheart. “So sorry I didn’t recognize you, Your Grace.”
Ironheart waved the man off. “It’s quite all right. But I am curious about?—"
Jacobs gave a quick jerk of his head, his mouth turning down. “Follow me.”
He took them to a small office, filled with an old mahogany desk and a single chair. Max and Ironheart filled most of the empty space as Jacobs came to stand close, leaning in his head as he whispered, “Plimpton has been released.”
“By whom?” Ironheart whispered back.
“I don’t know, but I know it came from the top. I told them the accuser was a duke, but…” Jacobs raised his hands. “Whitehouse has friends in the highest places.”
“Damn it,” Max growled out his words. If they couldn’t even put one man in prison…
“It gets worse.” Jacobs moved even closer.
“What is it?” Max asked, his muscles growing taut with tension.
“Lord Cranston was found dead in his home this evening. The investigator said that two men were seen coming and going from his address today. One in a long coat,” his eyes flitted to Max. “And the other, later, baring six marks, three and three across his cheeks.” He drew three fingers across each of his cheeks.
Max stumbled back. Would Lord Whitehouse accuse him of killing Lord Cranston?
Why was a new man wearing Adam’s marks? Had they found a new assassin?
They left a quarter hour later, Max feeling more frustrated and frightened than he had in a long time. Lord Whitehouse’s operation was massive, and his connections were of the highest influence. How could he and Ironheart hope to best him?
“I should leave the city. With Sophie. Tonight.” He spoke into the darkness of the carriage.
“Maybe.” Ironheart lounged across from him. “Or maybe, tomorrow, I should pay a visit to my cousin, and yours if I’m not mistaken, the Queen.”
Max hadn’t had anything to do with family for a long time, and the Queen was only a distant relative of his, anyhow. “She’d have to care enough to get involved and not be bought by Whitehouse.”
“I think I might know the angle.” Ironheart laced his hands behind his head. “If you run now, and he only gains more power, you can’t come back, and neither can I. We always knew Lord Whitehouse was well-connected. He wouldn’t be attacking bloody dukes if he wasn’t.”
“How can he call us immoral? It’s ridiculous. He’s a murderer, abuser, thief. Turns my stomach.”
“Maybe we’re just as bad.” Ironheart dropped his hands. “You don’t…you don’t participate in the challenges?”
“I don’t,” he said, but he knew what Ironheart meant. A great deal of what the club did was downright dirty. “Thinking of making a change?”
Ironheart shrugged. “What’s it like? Meeting a woman you care for so much you decide to give her the deed to your home?”
That was one way to put it. He smiled as he thought of Sophie. “Like seeing the sun rise after the darkest night.”
“Christ. Poetry? You?” Ironheart snorted.
Max didn’t answer. The words said all he needed to say.
Ironheart leaned forward. “Look. Give me two days. I’ll see if I can convince the queen to take up the fight with us. If I can’t…we’ll retreat to the country and come up with a new plan.”
Max made a terse nod.
Two days. But his gut churned. Was he doing Sophie a disservice? “Ironheart. I might need a favor…”
* * *
Sophie snuggled Abigail into the hollow of her body as the child slept. Part of her wished she could get up and pace once again, but this was better. If she couldn’t sleep, she ought to at least rest, and Abigail had needed the comfort. They were in the second new place in a week.
However, Abigail had largely enjoyed her day. The staff had kept her occupied first in the kitchen, helping the cook bake pasties, and then she’d had a picnic in the garden with one of the maids.
She’d been given paints, and she’d danced with the opening flowers. If Sophie had doubted any of her choices, the proof was in the sleeping child. Abigail would be much better cared for away from the man who’d claimed to be their uncle. Their future was still so uncertain.
She slipped from the bed, crossing to the window to look out into the darkness. It wasn’t terribly late, but it felt as if the whole city was quiet and that she was all alone. Perhaps it was just this neighborhood. Mayfair went to sleep far earlier than the rest of London. She wished Max was there. The quiet would be a comfort, but it would feel safe if he were there. Instead, the silence rang ominously in her ears, worries filling the space in her head. What if something happened to Max? She had money, and that was a relief. Could she run without his strength? Could she protect her sister?
She sighed, laying her head on her hands as she stared out into the darkness. That was when a bobbing carriage lantern appeared in the distance. She lifted her head, staring as it moved closer, and grew bigger. Was it friend or enemy? Should she hide? Ironheart had an army of footmen. Would they protect her and her sister?
The carriage and six came into view, and she saw that it was Ironheart’s, and she let out a cry of relief. Abigail stirred in the bed, and Sophie covered her mouth with her hand, even as she stood, creeping toward the door.
In nothing but her chemise, she reached for her borrowed housecoat and wrapped it about herself before slipping from the room. Padding down the hall, she stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down two floors to the massive entry as Max and Ironheart entered the mansion.
She watched Max move with decisive steps across the marble floor, her heart hammering in her chest to the thumping of his boots. The sound rushed in her ears and echoed up to the cathedral ceilings. He stopped up the bottom, glancing up, his eyes locking with hers. “Sophie.”
She didn’t hesitate. Lifting the hem of the long garment, she made her way down the stairs as fast as her feet could carry her. Max started up them, taking two or three at a time, he met her on the landing of the first floor.
Without a word, he swept her into his arms, lifting her feet from the ground as he pressed her to his chest, his lips capturing hers. She lost herself in that kiss. Her hands sliding into his hair, she held on and let the passion burn away her fear.
“Max,” she whispered against her mouth. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too, love.” He kissed her again, his mouth opening hers, his tongue sliding between her lips, and swiping against hers. Had she been burning before? A blaze lit deep in the pit of her stomach. She’d never felt anything like it. She kissed him back, tentatively at first, but soon, she returned the strokes of his tongue, her desire erasing her shyness.
“Ahem,” Ironheart called from the bottom of the stairs. “I’m off to bed. I shall visit the Archbishop of Canterbury first thing in the morning.”
The duke’s voice and his words finally pulled Sophie from her daze of passion. “The Archbishop? Tomorrow?”
Max cleared his throat but didn’t set her down. If anything, he gave her another tiny squeeze. “Yes. That’s right.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know what will happen in the next few days. But I know I can give you one more layer of protection.”
“How’s that?”
“I can make you my wife, Sophie.”
“Your wife?” her heart hammered in her chest, her blood racing through her veins. “You…you want?—”
“I’m asking you to be my wife, Sophie. Will you marry me?”