Chapter 20
Alistair followed Lord Rupert into the foul-smelling alleyway, trying not to gag as the stench of rotting refuse clung to the air.
The shadows seemed alive, stretching long and jagged under the pale moonlight.
A group of men loitered near the wall, grim-faced and sharp-eyed, their gazes flicking from Rupert to him with silent expectation.
Rupert strode forward as if he had commanded them for years. “Has anyone left the townhouse?”
One man shook his head. “No, my lord. The place has been quiet. Lights inside, movement through the windows, but no one has come or gone.”
“Good,” Rupert said briskly. “At least we know it’s occupied, and let’s hope it is not a trap this time.”
Alistair watched, uneasy. These were not ordinary men—they obeyed Rupert as though he were a seasoned commander.
How did a barrister manage that? Rupert’s composure, his authority, the ease with which he spoke to hardened men—it all unsettled Alistair.
There was more to Rupert than being a barrister, that much was clear.
Rupert turned to him, his expression hardened. “Are you ready?”
Alistair drew his pistol. “I am.”
“Warwicke and his men should be at the rear gate by now,” Rupert murmured, flicking open his pocket watch. His calm unnerved Alistair further—too calm, as though storm and bloodshed were nothing unusual.
“Follow me, and be prepared for anything,” Rupert ordered.
They slipped from the alleyway, cloaked by the deep shadows of the street. The moon hung above them, casting just enough light to show the path forward.
At the door, Alistair tried the handle. Locked. His heart thudded. If they tried to break through the door, it would alert everyone inside of their arrival.
Swiftly, Rupert crouched, producing two slender lengths of metal. Alistair’s brows rose. A barrister with a lockpick? He bent the tools with practiced ease until the soft click of surrender came from the mechanism. Rupert opened the door and gestured for Alistair to take the lead.
There would be time for questions later. Alistair slipped inside, his pistol raised. The entryway was dark, and the silence broken only by the faint creak of the hinges. A liveried footman appeared suddenly from a side corridor, eyes widening in horror. His mouth opened to no doubt scream.
Alistair acted on instinct, crossing the space in two long strides and striking the man across the temple with his pistol.
The footman crumpled soundlessly. Guilt pricked him since this man was only doing his duty, but there was no time for hesitation.
This was war, no matter how domestic the setting.
Men fanned into adjoining rooms, boots thudding against the floorboards. Alistair ignored them and took the staircase, Rupert at his heels. His chest tightened. Jules would be in his bedchamber at this hour—sleeping, or worse, planning.
At the landing, a guard lunged from the shadows, fumbling at the pistol stuffed in his waistband. Rupert was faster and he slammed a fist into the man’s jaw, but the guard shouted, “Intruders!”
“Well, when in Rome,” Rupert muttered, drawing his pistol and firing point-blank. The man collapsed, and Rupert grimaced. “So much for stealth. I wore these blasted uncomfortable clothes for nothing.”
Alistair had no time to retort. More guards poured from the darkness. Gunshots erupted and smoke filled the hall. Alistair lunged at one who was reloading, smashing his pistol against the man’s skull. The guard fell, bleeding, his weapon clattering uselessly to the floor.
Ahead, a line of lamplight glowed from beneath a door. That had to be where Jules was.
“Go!” Rupert barked. “I’m right behind you.”
Alistair charged forward, flinging the door wide. Inside, a dark-haired man sat upright in bed, dressed in a nightshirt, his posture calm, and his eyes cold. Jules Leclerc.
Alistair leveled his pistol. “Hands up!”
Jules obeyed lazily, an unconcerned smile tugging his lips. Alistair’s gut clenched. No man facing death looked so at ease. He shifted forward, every nerve taut.
The sound of another pistol cocking froze him. He turned his head to see Rosalie standing in the corner, her weapon trained on him. Two armed guards flanked her.
Rupert entered behind Alistair, his pistol still aimed at Jules. “You’ve got him!”
Alistair felt his gut twist the moment Jules’s smile curved. That smile meant trouble. He had seen men wear it on the battlefield, right before unleashing carnage.
“Good. Both of you are here,” Jules said. “Now do something useful and close the door behind you.”
Alistair stiffened, pistol steady in his grip, but Rupert spoke before he could. “And why would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t,” Jules drawled, “you will be killed. You are outnumbered, outgunned, and outwitted.”
Rupert moved with infuriating calm, swinging the door shut with a click while keeping his aim on Jules.
“This won’t end well for you, Jules,” Rupert said flatly.
Jules’s laugh was low and cruel, the kind that seeped under the skin. “Ah, there is that delusional sense of confidence that I know so well. You think you are clever, but you are not.”
“You don’t know me,” Rupert countered.
“But I do.” Jules’s eyes gleamed as he gestured towards Rosalie. “I have made it my mission to know everything about the men who killed my father. Our father.”
Alistair’s temper snapped. “Your father was responsible for the deaths of thousands of British soldiers.”
“Good,” Jules spat. “My father was a hero, and you killed him.”
Alistair’s chest tightened with the memory of battlefields littered with bodies. “It was nothing personal. It was our mission.”
“Well, I took it personally!” Jules exclaimed.
Alistair decided to try a different tactic. “We saved you,” he said to Rosalie. “Does that not count for anything?”
“Don’t you dare talk to her!” Jules exploded, rising from the bed. “This is between you and me. Not her.”
“She is pointing a pistol at me,” Alistair remarked, not flinching even as Rosalie leveled her weapon at his chest. “So I do believe you have included her in this mess.”
Rosalie moved closer to her brother, her face a mask of hatred. “You made a mistake letting me live. You should have killed me.”
Alistair’s instincts warred inside him. He wanted to believe her innocence still lingered somewhere, but her eyes… her eyes were guarded. “We couldn’t kill you. You were an innocent,” he said, attempting to reason with her.
Her voice cracked with fury. “So was my father. Jules is merely finishing what he started.”
“Murder and mayhem?” Rupert muttered.
“I am going to take great pleasure in your death,” she said, steadying her pistol on Rupert.
Alistair’s pulse pounded in his ears. He shifted slightly, keeping both siblings in his sights.
“What is stopping you?” Rupert pressed on recklessly. “Or do you take all your orders from your brother?”
“My brother is a visionary!” Rosalie cried.
“No,” Alistair cut in. “He is a smuggler. A criminal. And a murderer. Do you truly want to align yourself with him?”
“Rosalie is family,” Jules said. “My blood. And she is loyal. Now, lower your pistols.”
Every instinct screamed at Alistair not to comply. He tightened his grip. “No.”
“If you don’t,” Jules said, signaling to the two men lurking in the shadows, “I will order them to shoot you where you stand. You’ll be dead before your pistols hit the floor.”
Alistair’s mind spun. He could almost feel the barrels trained on him and sense the tension of men waiting for a single order. “Or I could shoot you,” he said. “I am as good as dead anyway.”
Jules smirked. “If you put your pistol down, then I promise I won’t kill your precious Lady Jane.”
The sound of Jane’s name was like a blade to Alistair’s chest. He forced himself not to react, but the room tilted, suffocating with the weight of that threat. “You already tried once,” he growled.
“Yes,” Jules admitted without shame. “I underestimated her. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Alistair’s hand trembled, though not from fear—from rage. He was cornered, and every choice ended with his death. But Jane… perhaps she could still live.
Before he could decide, Rupert tossed his pistol down with a clatter. “You won’t make it out of here alive, Jules. Even as we speak, Bow Street Runners are surrounding this townhouse.”
“I am so scared,” Jules mocked, drawing laughter from his men.
Alistair met Jules’s gaze, his voice raw. “I have your word that you won’t hurt Lady Jane?”
“Yes,” Jules said simply.
It was all Alistair had left. Slowly, painfully, he crouched and set his pistol on the floor.
Jules’s sneer widened. “You are a fool. Why would you be stupid enough to believe a word that comes out of my mouth?”
“But you promised—”
“I lied.” Jules’s tone was devoid of emotion. “Now. Shoot them.”
Everything happened at once. Rupert retrieved a hidden pistol from his boot and fired into the chest of one guard. The crack of the shot rang in Alistair’s ears.
Alistair dropped instantly, snatching his own weapon from the ground, and fired before the second guard could react. The man fell, choking.
Smoke stung Alistair’s eyes, but his reflexes were sharp. He swept up Rupert’s discarded pistol from the floor and pointed it at Jules.
This wasn’t over—not by a long shot. They still had Rosalie to contend with.
Alistair’s breath caught in his throat. For one dizzying moment, he thought Rosalie meant to shoot him—or worse, Rupert. But then his gaze followed the barrel of her pistol. She wasn’t aiming at them at all. Her weapon was leveled squarely at Jules.
Jules faltered, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What are you doing?”
Rosalie’s voice shook, though her hand was steady. “I am tired of following your orders, Brother. You are no better than Father. You kill without thought. You’re merciless.”
Jules’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You would betray me? Your own family?”
“I would,” Rosalie replied. “These men saved my life.”