Chapter 9
Alistair’s boot tapped a sharp rhythm against the coach floor, the sound loud in the cramped space.
The short distance to Lord Rupert’s townhouse felt interminable, the streets clogged with carriages moving at a snail’s pace.
Every jolt of the wheels grated on his last nerve.
Rupert was in danger, and he could not afford a delay.
This was his fault.
He stared hard at the opposite bench, seeing not the worn leather but the face of a frightened young woman—Rosalie.
He’d spared her life, and in doing so, had unwittingly condemned his comrades.
The alternative—cold-blooded murder—would have haunted him for the rest of his days, but knowing he had chosen the path of mercy offered him no comfort now.
The coach lurched to a halt. Before the footmen could even dismount, Alistair wrenched the door open and stepped down. The crisp air bit his lungs as he strode up the walk, but he stopped short at the sight of the townhouse’s main door—ajar.
Every muscle in his body tensed.
He drew his pistol, holding it low against his thigh, and eased the door open with the other hand. His eyes dropped to the white-haired butler sprawled motionless on the polished floorboards.
His stomach dropped. Too late.
A sudden crash from above snapped him into motion. He took the stairs two at a time, the wound in his ribs screaming with each stride. As he reached the landing, silence slammed down like a curtain. The only sound was the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.
He moved down the corridor, every sense straining. A door stood ajar ahead, warm light spilling into the dim hallway.
With his pistol raised, he stepped through the threshold.
Relief loosened the iron band around his chest when he saw Lord Rupert was on his feet, towering over a man crumpled on the carpet, his broad shoulders squared in triumph. Blood streaked Rupert’s knuckles.
“You’re all right,” Alistair exhaled, lowering his weapon slightly.
Rupert turned, his brows drawn low. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to warn you that your life is in danger.”
Rupert snorted, retrieving a jagged knife from the floor. “A little late for that. This wretch tried to kill me in my own home. He took me by surprise, but I’ve dealt with worse.”
Tucking his pistol into his waistband, Alistair’s voice dropped. “Lieutenant Austen and John Wiley weren’t as fortunate. They’re both dead.”
Rupert’s eyes flickered. “I read about Austen, but Wiley—?”
“They’re saying he took his own life.”
“John would never—”
“I know. It’s all tied to Rosalie.” He let the name hang heavy between them.
Rupert inhaled sharply. “I had hoped never to hear that name again.”
“As had we all. But she found me,” he revealed. “She warned me her brother wants us dead for killing their father.”
Rupert’s jaw hardened. “Let him come. I can handle any mercenary he sends.”
“I nearly died,” Alistair said, rubbing the bruised ribs where pain pulsed with every breath. “An alleyway attack, but Lady Jane intervened, or I wouldn’t be standing here.”
Rupert’s gaze sharpened. “Lady Jane Lyttelton? I read her name in the newssheets this morning. It seems fortune’s been kind to her.” He cocked his head. “How did Rosalie find you?”
“I don’t know, and she did not share that information. But suffice it to say, both of our lives are in danger.”
Rupert frowned before he bellowed for his staff. A lanky servant appeared.
“Where is Wilcox?” Rupert asked.
“The intruder knocked him out, but he is awake now,” the servant informed him.
“Send for the doctor and constable.”
When the servant left, Rupert hauled the attacker upright, slapping him until his eyes snapped open.
“Who hired you?” Rupert demanded.
A cruel smile came to the man’s lips. “No one. I just wanted the pleasure of killing you.”
In a swift motion, Lord Rupert pulled the man up and shoved him into a chair. “You think you are clever? But you will most likely spend the remainder of your life in Newgate, and that is assuming you don’t get transported.”
The man’s eyes spewed with hate. “It would be preferable to talking to you.”
Alistair stepped forward, retrieving his pistol again, the click of the cock echoing in the room. “That’s the wrong answer.”
The man’s bravado wavered.
“You think I won’t pull the trigger?” Alistair asked in a steely voice. “You’ve left me with nothing to lose.”
The man cracked. He shifted in his seat, glancing between Rupert’s bloodied fists and the barrel of Alistair’s pistol. With a muttered curse, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a crumpled scrap of paper, his fingers trembling as he held it out.
“This note was slipped under my door. Came with some coin,” the man said.
Rupert snatched it and read it. No words were needed; the weight in his expression confirmed what Alistair already suspected. It was from Rosalie’s brother.
“Can I go now?” the attacker asked, hopefully.
Rupert let out a dry laugh. “Yes, when the constable drags you away to prison.”
The man shrugged, as if the idea were a minor inconvenience. “It’s not like I killed anybody.”
“You would have slit my throat, given half the chance,” Rupert responded.
“True,” the man allowed, rubbing at his reddened jaw, “but you did beat me to a bloody pulp. That’s worth something, isn’t it?”
Rupert shook his head, disgust flashing in his eyes. “Just shoot him. I doubt we’ll get anything else useful.”
Before Alistair could respond, the door opened and a dark-haired, matronly woman stepped inside, her crisp white apron tied around her waist. “The constable is on his way, my lord,” she announced. “I have brought some footmen to deal with this miscreant.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson,” Rupert said without looking away from the prisoner. “You may take him away.”
Two broad-shouldered footmen entered, each seizing an arm. The man snarled and twisted, but their grip was iron. They marched him out, his boots scraping along the floorboards, his curses fading down the hall.
“Will there be anything else?” Mrs. Henderson asked.
Rupert flexed his bloodied hands and winced. “Bring me some ice and something to wrap my hands.”
“I shall see to it,” she said, before disappearing into the corridor.
Silence settled over the room again.
Alistair slid the pistol back into his waistband, its weight a cold reminder of how close this had come to another death. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I’d gotten here sooner.”
“It was nothing I couldn’t handle,” Rupert said, his voice laced with that brand of arrogance Alistair had known since the Peninsula. “Now tell me more about Rosalie.”
Alistair leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Not much to tell. She left a note with Lieutenant Austen’s family, instructing me to meet her at a tavern. That’s where she warned me… and then promptly vanished.”
Rupert crossed the room and dropped into the chair his attacker had only just vacated, the leather groaning under his weight. “You shouldn’t have let her leave without telling you everything she knew.”
Alistair’s jaw tightened. “It wasn’t that simple.” He had replayed that meeting enough times in his head to know he wouldn’t have pried another word from her without a blade to her throat—and he was unwilling to try.
“Did she at least tell you how to contact her?” Rupert pressed.
“No.” The single syllable tasted bitter.
Rupert raked a hand through his dark hair, leaving it in slight disarray. “So we have someone trying to kill us and no more than scraps to go on.”
“Perhaps you should go to your family’s country estate until I sort this out,” Alistair suggested.
“And leave you alone to fight this madman? Never.”
“This isn’t your fight,” Alistair countered.
Rupert’s look was steady, the sort that cut through excuses. “I made it my fight when we all decided not to kill Rosalie, Captain.”
The old title hit its mark—reminding Alistair of the decision they had all agreed to in that fateful moment, and the consequences now circling them. Slowly, he crossed the room and sank into a chair opposite. His ribs complained with the motion. “If you feel that way…”
“I do,” Rupert responded.
Alistair gave a short nod. “Then we will root out Rosalie’s brother… together.”
A faint smile tugged at Rupert’s mouth. “Good, because I’ve no wish to retreat to my father’s estate. He’d ask why I’d abandoned London during the Season, and I’ve no desire to trouble him with the truth.”
“How is your father doing?” Alistair asked, though he already suspected the answer.
Rupert’s expression sobered at once, the faint humor of their earlier exchange vanishing. “He is well enough for now,” he said, the clipped tone and the way his gaze slid away making it clear that this was not a subject he intended to entertain further.
Alistair took the hint and rose from his chair, his ribs giving a dull throb with the movement. “Then I suggest you carry a pistol on your person for the time being.”
“That won’t be a problem.” Rupert reached towards the bed and drew a pistol from beneath the pillow. “I usually have one within arm’s reach at all times.”
Alistair’s brow lifted. “Then why beat the man with your fists when you could have ended it with a single shot?”
A smug smile touched Rupert’s mouth. “No need to waste a bullet—not when I’ve been putting in hours in the boxing ring.”
“Just be careful.”
Rupert inclined his head in mock solemnity. “I will.”
Crossing to the door, Alistair paused with his hand on the knob. “I’ll send word if I learn anything or if Rosalie makes contact again.”
“She had better not,” Rupert muttered.
Alistair stepped out of the bedchamber and walked down the corridor, its carpet muting his footsteps. His comrade was safe—for now—and the knowledge brought a fleeting measure of relief.
But relief was quickly swallowed by the gnawing churn of uncertainty. Too many questions, too few answers. Why had Rosalie risked seeking him out? How much did she truly know? And how far would her brother go to exact his revenge?