Chapter 30
The room was dark and cold. A dry smell of dirt, aged wood, and cement permeated the air. Metal grated on metal with each move Finn made, shifting the chains that bound his wrists and held him suspended above the floor.
He grunted against the long length of fabric they’d used to gag him. It tasted horrific — like it had been soaked in vinegar. But at least he still lived.
Or perhaps he’d be better off dead?
No. As long as he lived, he still had a chance of avenging his father.
His heart pounded as he twisted against his restraints. Everything he’d done had been in the name of revenge. To get this far only to die before finishing off the man who’d murdered his father was not something he could allow.
The chains dug into his skin, snagging it and pulling against his own bodyweight. Black bruises had probably formed there already. He drew a stale breath through his nose, allowed himself to go limp for a bit while recovering some of his energy.
How stupid and careless he’d been. He still wasn’t exactly sure who had tracked him to Hanson Street, just that someone connected to Croft must have done so while he’d been too busy lauding himself.
To remain in that house had been unwise. The place was too unprotected. He’d bloody well known it, and yet he’d stayed. Because he’d gotten distracted by the information his scouts had returned with.
Only a servant had died in that fire.
None of the Crofts had perished.
So rather than relocate to a different address, he’d spent the entire day working on a new plan, gathering people who could help him set it in motion, and spending whatever blunt was required to get the job done.
Because he’d known he had to act fast, before the Crofts recovered and came after him instead.
Apparently, he’d grossly underestimated the speed with which they would do so.
A mistake for which he would never forgive himself.
He grunted in response to the sharp pain that pierced his ankle when the tip of his shoe scraped the ground, twisting his foot. He’d been hung like this on purpose, slightly askew, so he could only support himself on his injured side.
Tipping his head back, he stared up through the darkness and tried to think.
A moment passed, and then the edge of his lips twitched.
Maybe there was a way for him to survive this disaster.
If he could pull himself upward and onto the chain from which he hung, it might slacken enough for him to work himself free. Especially, if he found the resolve required to break his own hand.
* * *
The familiar smell of tobacco and his wife’s favorite perfume stirred Peter’s senses, bringing him back to awareness. He blinked, allowed his eyes to adjust to the candle-lit room, to the sight of his desk and his other belongings, the stacks of books and the files he’d compiled on various cases.
Confusion set in.
What the hell was he doing here, lying on a cot?
He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and heard the soft rustle of fabric.
“You’re awake.” Gabriella’s voice, filled with relief, then the touch of her palm against his cheek. “The doctor is waiting to evaluate you. Croft made sure he’d remain here until you gained consciousness.”
“Croft?” A vague memory of speaking with him began stirring.
“He brought you here after you were attacked.”
“What…” Peter closed his eyes briefly. He couldn’t think straight. “What happened?”
“You went after Finn O’Leary and his men, but it didn’t quite go as expected.
There was an altercation, during which one of O’Leary’s men struck you.
Croft went after O’Leary himself while his valet remained behind to help you.
Unfortunately, O’Leary and his men escaped.
When I spoke with Jackson, he was at a loss as to how they snuck past him and the other Runners. ”
They couldn’t have. Peter tried to think, but his mind was a murky mess.
Yet he recalled seeing O’Leary up close.
At least he felt like he had. He shook his head slightly.
The area surrounding O’Leary’s lair was cordoned off.
That much he knew with certainty. So why had none of his men been captured?
It made no sense.
“I need to speak with Croft,” he said. Surely he could provide some answers.
Gabriella placed a hand at his back when he tried to sit, offering gentle support as he moved into a more upright position. “It’s late. Nearly three in the morning. Whatever you wish to discuss with him can surely wait until later.”
He met her gaze and saw the lines at the corners of her eyes, the faint smile on her lips. She’d been worried for him and was very relieved that he’d finally woken. He wanted to ease away any lingering concerns she might have by letting the doctor evaluate him.
And yet, something nagged at the back of his mind. “O’Leary was injured.”
Gabriella gave him a funny look. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure,” he murmured. “But I know he couldn’t have run from anyone.”
So what the hell had happened?
* * *
Samantha followed her husband into the underground passageway beneath The Bearded Vulture.
It was the middle of the night. He’d woken her an hour ago and had quickly given her the pertinent details regarding O’Leary’s capture.
The rest had been delivered in the carriage as they’d travelled to the inn where several generations of Crofts had met with their associates during times of need.
Everyone who’d been present at Number 12 Hanson Street when Adrian and Murry arrived with Kendrick in tow had since been killed.
Simmons was already making sure the bodies were collected from the cellar of the vacant house nearby on Clipstone Street.
Murdoch had found the spot and rented it for this exact purpose, ensuring there would be no arrests, no chance of anyone coming back to enact their vengeance.
Instead, they’d be used to help medical students improve their knowledge of anatomy.
The light from the torches that lined the wall illuminated the heavy wood door at the end of the passage. Adrian opened it and ushered Samantha inside.
Her right side still ached from the impact of hitting the house when she’d leapt from the roof.
Purple bruises had formed on her shoulder and hip.
The palms of her hands and soles of her feet remained sore and would take several days to heal completely.
But this was not enough to stop her from witnessing Finn O’Leary’s demise.
In fact, after everything he’d put her and her family through, she wanted to stand before the bastard one last time — make him face the proof of his failure.
So she’d added more aloe vera, wrapped her hands and feet in fresh gauze, and put on a pair of gloves for extra protection.
Together with Adrian, she’d snuck out of Marsdale House unnoticed by climbing through the bedroom window and planned to return the same way. Alexandra, meanwhile, had been left with Emma, who’d accompanied them to Marsdale House after the fire, in case Samantha needed the extra help.
“Welcome, Mrs. Croft,” said Murdoch – the first of those gathered to greet her. He rose from the chair in which he’d been seated.
The rest of the men stood as well, all of them echoing Murdoch’s words.
“Thank you,” she said, allowing the situation at hand to distract from her own discomfort. “My husband tells me we’re in your debt.”
“There’s no such thing between associates,” said Ellis, the man who could play any part with conviction. “We merely did what was required and expect the same in return, should the need arise.”
“Of course.” She surveyed the group, her gaze briefly lingering on Murry before moving on to Aderlay, the forger. “Where is he?”
There was no question as to whom she referred.
“This way,” said Murry, already moving away from the table where the rest of the men had been seated.
Samantha and Adrian fell into step behind him, even though Adrian surely knew his way around the rickhouse, and must be aware of any other rooms located down here.
A door guided them into a stairwell, already lit by torchlight.
They descended the steps and arrived in a narrow space with only one door which was firmly bolted in place.
“This is it,” Murry said. “He’s in there, restrained by chains and hung from the ceiling.”
“Do you want to do the honors, my dear,” Adrian asked, “or shall I?”
Samantha considered the door and the iron bolt holding it shut.
Beyond it, was the man who’d held her hostage, beaten her while she’d been with child, and threatened her with a fate worse than death.
The same man who’d set her house on fire while she and her daughter slept.
Who’d caused Susie’s death and longed to see Adrian killed.
The rage she harbored for Finn O’Leary was fiercer than any other.
She looked forward to making him suffer for what he’d done.
Extending her hand, she slid the heavy bolt to the left and felt the door ease away from its frame.
A quick glance at her husband who stood to one side and she pulled the door open.
The light from the torch Murry held swept into the space beyond, brightening the area immediately in front of Samantha while the rest of the room remained cast in darkness.
She stepped forward, felt Adrian’s presence at her back. The torchlight fanned out as Murry stepped out from behind them.
Samantha scanned the room with her gaze. “Where is he?”
No sooner had she formed the question, than she heard the raspy exhale of breath. The near silent scrape of a foot moving over the ground.
She knew the answer to her own question before Murry said, “I left him right there.”
In other words, the cur had somehow managed to move.
At least he was injured, which made it very unlikely for him to escape. Even if he made it past Samantha, Adrian, and Murry, he’d have to face the syndicate.
But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try killing someone. She would, if she were in his position. She’d certainly not let herself be the only casualty, and since death was inevitable, she’d have nothing to lose. The same was true of O’Leary.