Chapter 25
London had seen fit to echo Henry’s temper, the skies a moody gray, dense rainclouds unleashing a fine, irritating drizzle onto the city below. The cold droplets clung to his hair and dripped into his eyes as he stared up at the small house, just as church bells began to chime noon in the distance.
The residence was a dismal thing, like a rotten tooth in an overcrowded row of them, on a narrow street in a disreputable part of the city.
“I do not trust this,” Henry said to his friends, who flanked him. “Are you certain it is not a trap?”
Owen shrugged. “There is but one way to find out.”
“We must remember ourselves,” Luke chimed in. “To us, this may seem a measly place. To the man we are here to speak with, it may be a palace.”
It was a fair point, and one that shamed Henry just a little bit. Not everyone had the fortune—both kinds—to be able to reside in a manor in the countryside, with a townhouse for when they visited the city.
Sweeping the rain from his hair, Henry knocked on the front door and took a half step back to wait for the response.
No more than five seconds later, a man appeared: dark eyes darted from left to right, searching the street; fair curls sticking out from beneath a woolen cap; much younger than Henry had anticipated.
“Come in,” the man hissed, making no attempt at courtesy.
Then again, Henry was not there to be courteous either.
Digging his fingernails into his palms so he would not lose his temper immediately, he stepped into the questionable abode. The man waited until all three were in the house, then all but slammed the door, and paused to take a deep breath of apparent relief.
“You are the Duke of Holdridge?” the man asked after a moment, looking to Henry.
“I am.”
The man gestured for them to follow, leading them into a cramped kitchen that still smelled of the morning’s breakfast. At a small, round table, all four men sat down.
“I would offer you something to drink but I don’t have anything,” the man said, his demeanor anxious as he turned to address Henry once more. “I am Alan Fry, Your Grace. I… was one of the men who caused your wife’s carriage to overturn.”
Henry glared at the man. “Were you the one who put a pistol to her head?”
“Y-Yes, but… but only because I was told to,” Alan replied, stumbling over his words. “The pistol wasn’t even mine. It was given to me; I couldn’t have figured out how to use it even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t.”
Conscious of his breathing, focusing on every inhale and exhale to keep himself calm, Henry asked, “Who told you to attack her? Who gave you the pistol?”
“I don’t know,” Alan replied, grimacing as if he knew it would not be a satisfactory answer.
“We were employed by someone who never gave his name. He’d send a messenger to tell us what to do.
The messenger came, gave us instructions and the pistol, and told us where to go.
We were supposed to wait for a carriage with one of two crests on it. ”
The man dug a crumpled bit of paper out of his pocket and flattened it out on the table.
Side by side were two crude depictions of family crests, though Henry only recognized the one on the right: the Farhampton crest. The other was oddly familiar, a shield with three blobs on it, and some strange, badly drawn sort of creature at the top.
“Does that mean anything to you?” Henry asked, pointing to the latter drawing.
Luke frowned. “It is hard to tell.”
“I can check it against some of my books when I return home,” Owen said, holding out his hand for the paper.
Gulping loudly, Alan handed it over. “Your Grace, I was instructed to hurt your wife that night. I was told to shoot her in the leg as a warning about some… debts or other. The messenger told me what to say and what to do, but I couldn’t do it, Your Grace.
She was already hurt, and she said she’d pay, so I…
just said that was acceptable and left with the others. ”
“And you know nothing of who gave those instructions?” Henry said, a snarl in his voice. “I find it hard to believe that you would not have some inkling.”
Alan shook his head. “I swear, I know nothing. The messenger was… um… well-dressed, though. Nice livery. Like he worked for a decent house and had a good position there.”
“Livery?” Blood rushed in Henry’s ears. “Was there anything unique about it that you can tell me? A particular color of cravat? Any adornments?”
Alan frowned for a moment. “There was a button missing. And a small rip in the sleeve that had been badly darned. I only noticed because the rest of what he was wearing was so nice.”
“You can think of nothing else? Nothing at all?” Henry urged, no longer livid with the man, just desperate for answers.
“Nothing, Your Grace. He had half his face covered, and a top hat that covered the rest, since he kept his head down most of the time.”
Henry heaved out an exasperated sigh, looking to his friends for assistance.
It was Owen who spoke next. “Did the messenger mention a Gibbs Carter or a Viscount of Farhampton?”
“Gibbs Carter?” Alan began to nod slowly.
“Only that it was his daughter we were to attack, and we’d know her because she’d be the one in the carriage.
And it was Gibbs’ debts we were supposed to demand repayment for.
Funny thing is, though, when I asked who we should say sent us, the messenger said it didn’t matter, that our main task was just to threaten and hurt the woman. ”
“My wife,” Henry corrected venomously.
The man jumped in his seat. “Your wife, of course. Apologies, Your Grace.”
“Has this messenger summoned you again?” Luke jumped in. “Recently, perhaps?”
Alan seemed confused. “No, Your Grace. I haven’t heard from him since we were paid the morning after that night.”
“So, you have not been asked to harm my wife again?” Henry urged.
“No, Your Grace.”
This is hopeless. This is entirely useless.
Vexed by the situation and the distinct lack of new information, Henry scraped back the chair and rose to his feet. Without a word, he stormed out of the kitchen before he did something that he would have to answer for.
Besides, he did not need to use violence, when a letter would soon find its way to Alan Fry’s employer at the courthouse, informing them of the man’s criminal past. Signed by a duke, Alan’s employment would soon be no more.
“Blast it all!”
Out in the street, Henry lifted his face to the cold, drizzling rain to cool the ire that burned in his face. After all of that searching, all of his friends’ hard work, they were back where they had started, with no evidence or clues to guide them further forward.
Almost no clues.
Henry paused to take a breath, to steady his mind. Where have I seen that coat of arms before? That crest, where have I seen it?
He did not know why, but it felt like a missing piece. Yet, no matter how hard he willed his mind to place its familiarity, nothing came to him. He would have to wait and see if Owen fared any better, comparing it to the crests and names in his extensive archives of English nobility.
More waiting, potentially for no reward; Henry did not know how much more he could bear.
He still believed with all conviction that it was no coincidence, that the incidents were connected, and the longer it took him to prove it, the more time there was for it to happen again.
As long as the culprits were still out there, Thalia was at risk of a third ‘accident,’ and the next one might truly be fatal.
Nothing mattered more to him than Thalia’s life, not even his own. But what else could he do when the trail seemed to have run cold?
The rain had snuck up on Thalia, ruining the perfectly pleasant walk she had been enjoying in the orchard. She had hoped that searching the apple trees for new signs of fruit would distract her from the events of last night, but it had not worked… not until the icy deluge began to fall.
The shock of the downpour certainly took her mind off Henry, the weighty droplets drenching her almost instantly.
It fell so hard that it was like a haze in every direction, a veritable waterfall tumbling from the edge of her bonnet, a chill setting into her bones as the rain seeped through her cloak and clothes to her skin.
Is this your way of telling me to get a hold of myself? she silently asked the heavens, as she squinted toward the manor.
Why did it have to be so far away? Why had she not gone to the lake instead, where she might have sought refuge at the boathouse? She had planned to go there to continue sifting through the rest of her letters and diaries, but she had decided on doing something different today. A mistake.
“At least the flowers and the ducks will be happy,” she muttered as she broke into a run, hopelessly holding her hand to her bonnet as she sprinted across the wet lawn.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of movement.
Drawn to it, she marveled at the sight of two rabbits in the same situation, darting for sanctuary.
As they bolted down a hole, she almost felt envious of their warm, dry warren, so focused on the idea of curling up inside a peaceful underground cavern that she did not notice the rabbit hole right in front of her.
Her foot, however, did not miss it.
One moment, she was running. The next, she was flat on her face in the sodden grass, her ankle throbbing, her nose stinging where she had bumped it on the lawn.
“Thalia!” a voice pierced the hammering percussion of rain and the thunderous beat of her own heart in her ears.
She lifted her head and squinted into the downpour, barely able to make out the shape of a horse in the distance. A figure in dark clothing had just slid down from the saddle, now running across the grass toward her.
Oh, this is the last thing I need. Another humiliation.
Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet. Her ankle ached, bringing a wince to her lips, as she stared down at her dress. It was a mess of mud and grass stains, the front of her cloak not faring much better, the rim of her bonnet entirely bent out of shape.
“Thalia!” Henry called again.
She had half a mind to run in the opposite direction, if it meant avoiding the embarrassment of him seeing her like this. He would scold her or comfort her, and she did not think she had the strength to endure either after last night.
All of a sudden, he was there, his arm around her. He pulled her into him, holding her in a tight embrace as if he thought his body would be able to fend off the rain.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” He gazed down at her, his hand cradling her cheek. “Do you remember me?”
She could not hold back the soft laugh that escaped her throat. “Are you going to ask me that every time I suffer the smallest stumble?”
“If I must,” he replied. “Now, tell me, are you injured?”
“My ankle is a little sore,” she admitted.
Without warning, she was in is arms, swept off her clumsy feet in an instant. She did not have the dignity left to protest as he carried her toward the manor, wielding her with a strength that took her breath away.
As he carried her through a side door into the secondary drawing room, she finally began to wriggle in objection.
“Set me down, Henry,” she urged. “I will drip all over the floors if you carry me any further. And if this mud gets on any of those Persian rugs, even Mrs. Fisher will not be able to get the dirt out.”
Henry hesitated and slowly lowered her to a safe patch of wooden floorboard. An island amidst so many fine rugs. Expensive rugs. Thalia knew because she had been the one to purchase them.
“I shall have to fetch you some dry clothes,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck as if he was not quite sure how to proceed. “You… wait here. I will bring something back for you to wear.”
He kicked off his shoes and, before Thalia could urge him to just shout for a servant, he was gone from the room.
She heard his footfalls on the main staircase and thought she heard the distant bang of a door opening and closing, while she stood shivering, wishing he had deposited her a little bit closer to the fire.
With nothing else to do, she tiptoed back to the door she had come through and sat down on the threshold as the rain continued to pour.
Pulling a face, she unfastened her muddy shoes and peeled them off her feet. Her stockings came next, the thin fabric torn in places.
Adding her cloak to the pile of filthy items, her gaze wandered to the driveway. Where on earth has Henry been?
She had assumed he was in his study, trying to avoid her. Evidently, she was wrong.