Chapter 17 #2
She managed a half-smile, but he could see the worry beneath it, plain as day. Botheration. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and swear he would return. But there was no time, and promises might be lies in the making.
With one last look, he tore himself away and descended the stairs, every step weighted with the knowledge of what lay ahead and what he was leaving behind.
Alistair stared out the darkened window of the coach, his reflection faint against the glass, and his thoughts were heavier than the night pressing in on them.
The city was hushed at this hour, only the occasional glow of a lantern marking the streets they passed.
They were close to the townhouse where Jules Leclerc had been spotted.
If fortune favored them, they would capture the man at last and put an end to the constant threat hovering over their lives.
The coach rocked suddenly as Rupert rapped the roof with his gloved hand. The driver drew the horses to a halt. Rupert leaned forward and directed, “This is where we get out. We don’t want Jules to see us coming.”
“Follow me,” Warwicke ordered, exiting the coach. “The Bow Street Runners are waiting.”
Alistair adjusted his grip on the pistol at his side before stepping down onto the cobblestones. The night air carried a sharp chill, mingled with the faint stench of excrement.
Warwicke turned abruptly into an alleyway, the shadows swallowing him.
Alistair followed, his pulse quickening.
In the narrow passage, five Bow Street Runners stood waiting, their red waistcoats dark against the gloom, pistols glinting in the thin light.
They looked like hard, ready men, but even so, Alistair knew Jules would not be easy prey.
“Is everyone ready?” Warwicke asked, his voice carrying a controlled tension. “We don’t know what awaits inside, nor how many guards Jules has at his disposal.”
The men nodded, faces grim.
Warwicke lifted his pistol. “Shall we?” His tone was deceptively light, but Alistair caught the flint of apprehension beneath it.
They advanced towards the white brick townhouse. Its three levels rose stark against the dark sky, iron railings black and cold at its front. No candlelight glimmered in the windows.
Three Bow Street Runners slipped off towards the rear while Rupert approached the front door. He reached out, fingers steady, and turned the handle. The latch yielded without resistance.
A warning prickle shot down Alistair’s spine. Unlocked. Too easy. Rupert must have felt it too because he cocked his pistol before stepping inside.
Room by room they searched. Each chamber lay barren, hollow with silence, as though recently vacated. Their footsteps rang too loud, the groan of the stairs too ominous. Alistair’s unease deepened. Had they been expected? Had Jules been warned?
At the end of the upper corridor, the faint flicker of light spilled from beneath a door. Rupert lifted a hand, signaling caution, before reaching for the latch. The door creaked open.
A man sat with his back to them, a lone candle clutched in his hand, its flame wavering against the gloom.
“Hands up!” Warwicke barked, his pistol leveled.
The figure did not move.
They closed in, circling—and that was when Alistair’s stomach plunged. At the man’s feet lay a makeshift bomb.
“Bomb!” Alistair shouted, his voice sharp with urgency.
As if his words had been a cue, the man bent low and touched the flame to the fuse.
“Run!” Rupert cried.
The world erupted. Fire and smoke burst behind them, the explosion hurling Alistair forward like a doll.
His ears rang with a piercing shriek, dust choking his lungs as he hit the ground hard.
Pain ricocheted through his body, but when he blinked through the haze, he realized with a sick lurch—it had been a trap.
Jules Leclerc had lured them here deliberately.
“Alcott!” Warwicke’s voice broke through the ringing.
He forced his eyes open. Warwicke loomed above him, reaching down. “Are you hurt?”
Alistair grasped his arm and hauled himself upright, swaying. “I don’t think so.” His heart jolted. “Where is Rupert?”
He turned and spotted Rupert sprawled in the corridor. Dread clawed at him as he stumbled to his friend’s side. He dropped to his knees. “Rupert! Can you hear me?”
A faint wince, then a rasped reply. “Yes. But could you speak softer, please?”
Relief swept through him. “We need to get out of here. Can you stand?”
“I can,” Rupert muttered, levering himself up. “But I’d rather not. We were played, Alistair.”
Warwicke appeared, his face hard. “Someone tipped him off.”
“But who?” Alistair demanded. The thought gnawed at him—betrayal within their circle.
Rupert staggered, pressing a hand to his side. “Let’s pray that was the only—”
Another explosion thundered from below. The floor beneath them shuddered. Smoke billowed up the stairwell.
“Thomas! Mark!” Warwicke shouted, sprinting down the corridor. Alistair followed, his lungs burning with dust.
The study lay in ruin, its ceiling collapsed inward, timbers splintered and aflame. Smoke clawed at their throats.
“No one could have survived that,” Alistair said, resting a hand on Warwicke’s shoulder.
“I hope you’re wrong,” Warwicke murmured, anguish etched in his features.
Rupert caught up to them. “Who was caught?”
“Three men. The ones who went around back,” Warwicke said tightly.
A tall Bow Street Runner rushed forward, desperation raw in his voice. “My men!” He tried to heave a heavy joist from the wreckage.
“It’s no use, John,” Warwicke said, his tone heavy. “They’re gone.”
John’s jaw hardened. “Then Jules will pay for this.”
“Yes,” Warwicke agreed. “He will.”
Alistair’s mind raced. Something struck him cold. “What if this was all a ruse? A distraction to draw us away from my townhouse?”
Rupert turned, frowning. “To what purpose?”
Alistair’s heart seized. “To leave Jane unprotected.”
Rupert countered quickly, though his words rang hollow. “She has a guard at her door, as does Lady Cosima. They are safe.”
“Are they?” Alistair shot back. Already he was striding towards the main door. He could not shake the dread curling through his gut. He would not rest until he saw Jane with his own eyes.
Warwicke called after them. “I will remain and speak to the constable. He will want answers.”
Alistair barely heard him. He burst into the night air, Rupert limping close behind. Together they climbed into the waiting coach.
Alistair rapped sharply on the roof. “Drive!”
The coach rattled as it surged forward, wheels clattering against the uneven stones.
Alistair braced himself against the seat, every muscle taut, his pulse hammering as if it sought to break free from his chest. For the first time in his life, he knew true fear—not for his own safety, but for Jane’s.
The mere thought of her vulnerable while he was miles away clawed at him with merciless force.
Across from him, Rupert managed a pained smile, though his tone was calm as ever. “It will be all right.”
Alistair was unable to share his friend’s confidence. “How did Jules know we were watching him?” His voice was harsher than he intended, but the question burned. Someone had betrayed them.
Rupert leaned back into the shadows of the coach. “I don’t know.”
Alistair’s fists clenched, his knuckles white. He forced his gaze out into the black of night, as though the answer might lie in the shifting streets they left behind. He only hoped they weren’t already too late.
“You need to calm yourself,” Rupert said after a long silence. “You are letting your emotions dictate your actions. That can get you killed.”
Alistair snapped his head back towards Rupert. “I just almost got blown apart by a bomb. I think I have a right to be emotional.”
Rupert only shook his head, maddeningly unruffled. “No. You are alive, and you need to focus on staying alive. If not for your own sake, then for Jane’s.”
The reminder struck deep. His breath stilled, sobered by the truth of it. “You’re right. I am no use to Jane if I am dead.” He hesitated, the darker thought creeping in. “Do you think someone in my household tipped off Jules?”
Rupert’s gaze sharpened. “I don’t know. But very few knew what we were doing tonight.”
“If I discover one of my servants betrayed me, I’ll see they suffer for it.”
A faint smirk tugged at Rupert’s lips. “That’s the spirit.”
Alistair glared. “I don’t know how you can make light of this.”
“We are alive, are we not?”
“Barely,” Alistair muttered.
“True enough.” Rupert’s expression grew more serious. “What troubles me is Jules’s boldness. He no longer stains his own hands. He manipulates others, makes them the pawns of his schemes.”
Alistair leaned back against the worn seat, exhaustion creeping in around the edges of his fury. His mind replayed the image of the candle, the fuse, the deliberate timing. “The man could have set off the bomb the moment we entered that room. But he waited. Why?”
Rupert shrugged. “To cause the most damage?”
“If that were his aim, why not use a shorter fuse?” Alistair pressed. “He could have ensured our deaths. Instead, he let us escape.”
A pause. Rupert’s smirk faded. “I don’t know.”
Alistair raked a hand through his disheveled hair, the smell of smoke still clinging to him. “What if Jules is toying with us? Keeping us alive until the moment suits his purpose.”
“Which is?” Rupert asked.
Alistair’s hands dropped heavily to his knees. He shook his head. “I wish I knew.” The uncertainty gnawed at him more than the blast ever could.
Suddenly, the coach lurched to a jarring halt. Shouts came from the driver above.
Alistair’s stomach sank. “This cannot be good.”
He shoved the door open and leapt down onto the street, pistol already in hand. Ahead, the flicker of lanternlight revealed a scene that set his teeth on edge: an overturned coach sprawled across the road, its wheels still turning slowly, as though recently toppled.
Another trap. He could feel it in his bones.
Alistair broke into a run, his boots striking hard against the cobblestones as he cut through the darkened street.
The night air bit at his lungs, sharp and cold, but he pushed on.
Pain lanced through his ribs with every breath, each inhale like a knife digging deeper, yet he refused to yield to it.
His body screamed for him to slow, but his mind drove him forward with ruthless insistence.
He thought of Jane.
And that was enough of a reason to keep moving.