Chapter 19 #2
Jane allowed herself to be led back inside, but her thoughts lingered in the courtyard, clinging to Alistair’s unfinished words. He had been about to say he loved her—she felt it in her very soul. And yet the confession hung unfinished, waiting for another moment that might never come.
Alistair sat in his study, the fire at his back giving off more heat than comfort.
The shadows were beginning to stretch long, dusk creeping ever nearer, but his thoughts were far from steady.
He still could not believe how close he had come to telling Jane he loved her.
The words had been on his tongue, rising unbidden, when Rupert’s sudden interruption had stolen the moment.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, willing away the tormenting ache. Fool that he was—what if he confessed and she did not return the sentiment? It was evident that she cared for him, but did she love him? Did she even understand what she meant to him?
He had meant every word he’d told Lady Cosima earlier: when this nightmare ended, he would court Jane properly, honorably. He would make her his wife. He could not imagine a life without her. Jane was his future. He was certain of it.
But he couldn’t do anything, not while Jules Leclerc still drew breath. Before he could give Jane his heart fully, he had to make certain her life would no longer be threatened by his past.
The door creaked open. Warwicke strode in, Rupert close at his heels, both men carrying the grim weight of their expressions into the room.
“We have a problem,” Warwicke announced.
Alistair forced his voice to remain calm. “Which is?”
Warwicke’s frown deepened. “I rounded up twenty Bow Street Runners but every last one of them wants Jules dead after what he did to three of their own. They’re out for blood.”
Alistair leaned forward in his chair. “And you see that as a problem?”
It was Rupert who answered, his tone clipped. “The Home Office does. They want Jules alive. They mean to interrogate him, draw out the breadth of his dealings in France—and beyond.”
“Even if captured, how do you know he will talk?” Alistair asked.
Rupert’s mouth curled with dark amusement. “I can be rather persuasive when I need to be.”
Warwicke’s expression hardened. “I’d prefer you make him suffer for killing three of my men in that explosion.”
“That,” Rupert said dryly, “will not be an issue.”
Alistair rose, restless energy surging through him. He crossed to the window, staring into the gardens. “We may know where Jules is, but how do we get past all the guards? Charging in blindly is certain death.”
Warwicke’s gaze grew solemn. “Leave that to me. I’ll take ten men into the gardens and silence his guards, one by one, quietly as shadows.”
Rupert nodded. “That leaves you and me, Alcott. We’ll lead the others inside, and deal with whoever is left.”
Alistair hesitated. “And the household staff? They may be innocents in all of this.”
Rupert gave him a pointed look. “Are they? No one serves a man like Jules Leclerc in ignorance.”
The words struck Alistair hard, for he knew they carried truth. Still, he hated the thought of innocents caught in the crossfire.
Warwicke moved to the window, eyes narrowing at the dimming street beyond. “It is nearly time. One of Jules’s men is meant to meet us.”
“Let us hope it isn’t a waste of our time,” Alistair muttered, though unease curled low in his stomach.
They left the study together, stepping out through the servants’ entrance into the courtyard.
The air was damp and heavy with the scent of coal smoke drifting from the city.
They waited in the shadows, every heartbeat sharpening Alistair’s nerves.
What if the man never came? What if Marie had betrayed them, warning Jules of their suspicions?
The thought twisted like a blade in his chest. He despised uncertainty. It left him feeling exposed. Weak.
At last, a figure appeared—a man in a brown suit, cap pulled low. He strolled in with studied ease, leaning against a gate post, scanning the laundry yard as though he had every right to linger there.
Was this their man?
Rupert must have thought so, for he stepped out with his pistol raised. “Stay where you are.”
The man froze, hands twitching. “What is this?”
“Are you here to see Marie?” Rupert asked. “A petite girl with brown hair?”
The man faltered. “No… I was merely—”
Alistair moved from the shadows, his voice demanding. “Merely what? Trespassing?”
Recognition flashed in the man’s eyes. “My lord.”
Alistair’s brow arched. “So you know who I am. Yet I don’t have the pleasure of knowing you.”
“I am nobody,” the man said quickly. Too quickly. “I just came to see if you were hiring. That is all.”
“How convenient,” Warwicke murmured as he closed in. “Tell me—how does a nobody recognize a viscount at a glance?”
“I know of him, that is all,” the man stammered.
“Yet you recognized him,” Warwicke pressed. “So you have seen him before. Where?”
The man took a step back, his hands rising in protest. “I will not be interrogated. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Warwicke cocked his pistol, the sound loud in the quiet courtyard. “One more step and I’ll put a ball through you.”
The man swallowed hard. “What do you want?”
“We want Jules Leclerc,” Warwicke stated simply.
“No,” the man shook his head. “If I say anything to you, he’ll kill me.”
Alistair’s temper snapped. “And if you don’t, we will kill you. Do you understand?”
The man looked between them, sweat beading on his brow. “I fear Jules more than I fear you.”
“Then you are a fool,” Alistair responded. “You should fear us more since we are the ones pointing pistols at your head!”
Rupert lowered his pistol slightly, his voice deceptively calm. “We already know where Jules is hiding. He is residing in a Mayfair townhouse, not far from here. What we want from you is answers. How many guards are protecting him?”
The man’s eyes widened. “How… how did you know that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Rupert said. “Now answer the question.”
“You don’t want to go there,” the man muttered. “He means to kill you both. You’ll be shot on sight.”
Alistair’s lips thinned. “So you recognize Lord Rupert as well.”
The man dropped his gaze. “Just let me go.”
“And let you run to warn Jules?” Warwicke asked. “I think not.”
“I won’t say a word!” the man insisted.
Warwicke’s smirk was merciless. “I don’t believe you. Not for one moment.” He paused. “But I do like your clothing.”
“My clothing?” the man repeated.
“Yes. You’re about the same size as Lord Rupert. From a distance, you could very well even pass for him,” Warwicke explained.
“I will not strip down to my drawers,” the man snapped.
“You haven’t a choice,” Warwicke responded, nodding towards a constable lurking near the gate. “Constable Welker there will be happy to escort you to Newgate—in your drawers.”
Welker stepped forward, pistol drawn. “You heard his lordship. Take your clothes off. Now.”
The man’s bravado crumbled. With trembling hands, he undressed until he stood shivering in nothing but his smallclothes.
Warwicke retrieved the garments and tossed them towards Rupert. “Change into these. From a distance, you’ll be Jules’s man.”
“You are all fools if you think you are any kind of a match for Jules!” the man bellowed as Constable Welker dragged him away, his defiant voice echoing through the narrow courtyard.
Alistair exhaled slowly, forcing down the gnawing unease in his chest. Was it bravado, or had the man spoken truth?
Jules Leclerc had always been a step ahead—ruthless, cunning, unflinching in his violence.
And yet, they could not back down. Not now.
Besides, if Jules truly commanded the numbers they feared, what would stop him from laying siege to Alistair’s townhouse before the night was out?
No. He would not wait for Jules to make the first move.
They had to strike first, or there might not be a tomorrow at all.
He turned to Rupert. “Do you think you could rally any men from the Home Office?”
“They will be there,” Rupert replied.
Alistair arched a brow. “Did you already ask?”
“I did,” Rupert admitted. “They are more than willing to see this criminal taken off the streets.”
Alistair studied him for a long moment, then gave a curt nod. Rupert’s methods were often shadowed, his answers vague, but the man delivered results. That was what mattered tonight. “Then between them and the Bow Street Runners, we should have enough men to surround the townhouse,” he said.
“Surrounding is not enough,” Warwicke interjected. He tugged out his pocket watch, snapping the case open. “We must keep to the shadows. No warning, no noise. If Jules suspects a siege, he’ll slip through our fingers again. The Bow Street Runners will be assembled in one hour’s time.”
“As will the team from the Home Office,” Rupert added.
Alistair’s gaze flicked between the two men, the weight of their words pressing on him like iron chains. An hour. In sixty short minutes, they would either end Jules’s reign of terror—or walk blindly into a trap of his making. He clenched his fists at his sides as he thought of Jane.
One hour. That was all the time left to marshal his courage and prepare for the fight that would decide not only his fate, but hers.