Chapter Twenty-One
A melia glanced at the ornate clock mounted on the wall beside the stone fireplace. Nearly midnight. A dull weariness crept over her. Other than her encounter with the drunken oaf, the night had proven rather tedious. A few men had wandered her way, though she suspected word had quickly gotten out that anyone who dared to go near her would find themselves under the watchful eye of the tavern’s proprietor.
The barmaid, a sweet-natured woman whose haphazardly upswept brown curls appeared ready to tumble from their precarious perch, broke through Amelia’s thoughts. With a beaming smile, she placed a piping hot cup of tea on the table.
“I thought ye might like this,” Tilly said.
“Thank you. It’s quite thoughtful of you.”
“Ah, it’s been a long night.” Tilly regarded her with a look of genuine concern. “I took the liberty of adding a wee bit of spirits, just the thing to ease your weary muscles.”
“Indeed.” Amelia smiled. The barmaid’s kindness was unexpected. And very welcome.
“I wanted to tell ye I was proud of what ye did tonight.”
“What I did?”
“Putting that big oaf in his place. He had it coming.”
“I certainly agree. Though causing a scene might not have been the wisest move.”
“Well, I enjoyed the sight of it. I know the sot’s type.” Tilly glanced toward Logan. “MacLain would’ve tossed him out soon enough, even if ye hadn’t set the oaf back on his heels.”
“You think so?”
Tilly nodded. “He’s there quick as lightning whenever a bloke tries to take advantage of me. Only a stranger to the Rogue’s Lair would dare to harass a lady. The regulars... well, they know better.”
“Thank you for sharing that with me.”
“The truth of it is, MacLain’s a good man. Truly he is. I don’t care what the biddies cackle about him. They don’t know him. Not at all.”
Amelia’s gaze settled on the man who’d declared himself her knight in tarnished armor. The choice of phrase definitely did not suit him. Logan MacLain had displayed a sense of honor that far outshone that of the so-called gentlemen she’d encountered in London. Knowing that he watched over Tilly while she was in his employ, defending her from boors and sots when he might’ve turned a blind eye, confirmed her instincts were right.
Logan’s armor was not tarnished. In fact, it did not bear so much as a speck.
Now, as he stood near the bar, dressed in black from head to toe, save his white linen shirt and the silver-hued silk of his waistcoat, he was temptation come to life. The new growth of beard shadowing his jaw and the lean contours of his face only intensified the magnetic pull he held on her.
“Believe me, I put no stock in gossip,” Amelia said. “I learned that lesson long ago.”
Tilly’s smile was thoughtful. Had she noticed how Amelia’s gaze had lingered on him, perhaps a heartbeat or two more than was entirely proper?
“I’m glad. MacLain thinks highly of ye. If there’s a villain roaming, he’ll keep ye safe. Ye’ve no worries.” The barmaid’s attention turned to the patrons at a nearby table. “It looks like Barney is in need of another round.”
“Thank you again for the tea. And the conversation.”
“Ye’re quite welcome. I can see why MacLain wants to watch over ye.”
With that, Tilly scurried off to tend to her duties. Once again, Amelia was alone with her thoughts. She took a sip of tea. The barmaid’s words played in her mind.
MacLain wants to watch over ye.
Quite so. Pity his determination to protect her was rather a mixed blessing.
Having Logan so near he was ready to protect her at the blink of an eye may have hampered her attempt to glean information. Some talkative gent who may have revealed some hint as to Hawk’s identity might well have kept his distance rather than face MacLain. Of course, there was a fair chance her encounter with the ox-sized sot had hindered her efforts. After she’d wasted a tumbler of perfectly good brandy in response to the boor’s crude proposition, no man who’d witnessed the scene wandered within a stone’s throw of her table. Well, she’d had little choice in the matter, she reassured herself. She’d simply had to send the boor on his way.
The chimes at the entry jingled, a welcome distraction from her musings. Good heavens. Was that one of her brother’s clients skulking in? She sat up at attention, taking in a better look. Even with his collar turned up and his flat leather cap pulled low, Amelia could make out the man’s ginger hair and his distinctive prow of a nose. My, he certainly did resemble John Niles. But why would an industrialist’s heir with a taste for fine art slip into a workman’s pub, much less at this hour of the night?
As he cut a direct path to the bar, lamplight glinted off his spectacles. Behind the lenses, his pale, icy-blue eyes focused straight ahead. She knew those eyes, that ice-cold gaze. She would’ve wagered her last shilling the man was indeed John Niles. His plain sack coat and brimmed cap stood in stark contrast to the attire he’d worn when she’d last laid eyes on the man. On that day, he’d appeared confident, perhaps even cocky, as he stood in Paul’s office, seeking an appraisal of his most recent acquisitions. Now, he walked with a stoop-shouldered uneasiness, as though he found the pub’s earthy atmosphere distasteful, something to endure. John Niles was accustomed to a butler serving expensive wine in elegant crystal glasses, not a barkeep handing out ale in sturdy steins. What had brought him to this workman’s pub?
Most peculiar.
Keeping to the shadows, Amelia peered over her cup of tea and observed Niles. At the bar, he’d approached a thick-necked man in a dark bowler hat. The burly man appeared to recognize him, even as he kept his features out of sight. What in blazes was the man up to?
Perhaps she should move closer. Niles was not likely to recognize her. Years had passed since she’d made his acquaintance, and the interaction had been exceedingly brief. Now, he kept his back to her, engaged in discussion with the man in the bowler. If she edged within eavesdropping range, he might not even realize she was there.
While she pondered the move, the barkeep’s assistant, the amiable young man named Tim who had driven the carriage with Mrs. Langford, approached the men. Niles dismissed him with an abrupt wave of his hand.
Logan edged into her field of vision. As he’d done throughout the night, he made a point of engaging with any newcomer to the pub. His manner was amiable, but his presence nonetheless deterred any foolhardy disturbances. Amelia kept her attention on him as he approached the bar. She traced the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his long, lean body with her gaze, smiling to herself as she took in the way his body moved with power and natural confidence.
A most impressive man.
She knew better than to be so taken with a man—with any man, much less a rogue. No matter how gallant he might be. But there was no denying the way Logan MacLain’s restrained power left her weak in the knees.
He approached Niles and the burly man, sidling up to them as if they were old chums. Appearing to recognize the proprietor, Niles traded his scowl for a bland expression. He exchanged a few words with Logan, meaningless banter that sounded quite forced.
The burly man in the bowler said little. His attention drifted to the corner where Amelia sat. His eyes narrowed. Hardened.
Had he recognized her?
To her relief, he turned away, lifting his glass to down a drink. Amelia let out a low breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Appearing satisfied that the men were patrons and nothing more, Logan left them at the bar and headed into the back room. Minutes later, Niles glanced around the place. He was nervous. He could not disguise the way his gaze darted about, uneasy as a mouse with a cat on its heels.
When he stood to leave, he retrieved an envelope from an inner pocket of his jacket. Amelia could not decipher the words written in a cramped script above the distinctive seal. The circle of burgundy wax was nearly as large as a sovereign coin. Squinting, she could just make out the symbol which resembled an Egyptian hieroglyphic pressed into its surface. Was it a bird? Perhaps a falcon?
A hawk! A chill crept over her nape.
The man in the bowler hat tucked the envelope in his coat. In turn, he slipped Niles a small parcel wrapped in plain brown paper.
Niles turned from the bar and headed to the door. After a moment’s pause, just long enough to throw Amelia a pointed stare, he left, quietly as he’d come. The man in the bowler hat placed a coin on the bar as payment for his drink and followed Niles out the door.
Amelia’s mind raced. Did Niles know she’d seen the exchange? Was his cold glare meant as a warning? Or as a threat?
She drummed her fingers against the tabletop. My, she’d found more questions than answers, hadn’t she?
From across the room, Logan motioned to her. When she followed him to his office, he leaned against his desk, stretching out his long legs.
“Ye know him, don’t ye?” Logan scrubbed a hand against his jaw. “The lean one with the shark’s eyes.”
“I cannot be certain it is indeed him, but I believe the man is John Niles.” She laced her fingers in a nervous knot. “I am not certain he remembers me.”
“Oh, he recognized ye. I’ve no doubt of that.” Logan met her eyes. “How do ye know him?”
“Years ago, Niles needed an appraisal of works he’d purchased at auction. When I encountered him in Paul’s office, I recall thinking the man was more puffed up than a peacock.”
“Yet here he is, dressed like he earns his wages by the sweat of his brow. Did ye recognize the other man?”
Amelia shook her head. “I don’t recall ever seeing him. I take it he is not a regular.”
“Never seen him before tonight,” Logan said. “He played at being in his cups, but the bloke had little to drink. He was the more talkative of the two.”
“Did he reveal anything of interest?”
“Tim caught wind of some information that might prove useful.”
“And what might that be?”
“John Niles recently returned from France.”
“From Paris?”
“Tim didn’t hear much of the conversation, but he’s clear that the tall man mentioned France.”
“That may be significant. Or not.” Amelia struggled against a rising sense of defeat. “Niles has ample funds at his disposal. He’s known to have a fondness for the Continent.”
“I thought as much.” Logan plowed a hand through his hair. “This man’s bones are weary. I’m of a mind to shut down for the night.”
“It is getting very late,” Amelia agreed.
Not quite half an hour had passed before Logan ushered the last patron from the tavern. Leaving Murray, Tilly, and Tim to their nightly tasks, he escorted Amelia through the back door to his carriage. Hazy beams from a gas lamp flickered in the night. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement mere steps from the building.
Concealed in the darkness of the alley, a man clutched something in his hand.
Light gleamed against metal.
“Logan!” Amelia’s warning cry came a split second too late.
The man lunged from the shadows. With a quick slash of the knife, the assailant brought down the dagger in a vicious arc.
Logan dodged a lethal strike. The blade slashed down again, slicing into his shoulder with a sickening violence.
Amelia heard herself scream as Logan shoved her out of the assailant’s path. The sound of her own terror echoed in her ears.
Wielding the dagger like a madman, the brute pressed his attack.
Logan dodged the blade.
Weaving with a brawler’s skill.
Blocking wild, erratic slashes of the knife.
Her fear transformed to fury. Amelia tore her derringer from her bag.
She took aim.
Before she could squeeze the trigger, a deafening shot rang out.
An animal-like cry tore through the night.
She spun to face Logan. He’d planted his feet in a firing stance, his revolver steady in his hands.
His first shot had hit its mark.
Eyes glassy with shock, the cur who’d lurked in the shadows stared down at the blood streaming from his arm. A bowler hat lay on the ground. His coarse features were all too familiar.
The man at the bar.
Did the envelope he’d received from John Niles contain a payment—a payment to kill them?
“You bloody bastard,” the burly man bit off between his teeth.
“Drop the knife. Now.” Logan’s gaze was hard as granite. “If I pull this trigger again, I’ll blow yer hand off.”
“You may as well kill me now.” The man’s response was shockingly calm. “Hawk will see me dead.”
“The only reason I have not killed ye yet is to spare the lady from the sight.” Logan tapped his finger against the trigger for emphasis. “Now drop the damned knife.”
Despite the misery in his eyes, the attacker scowled. Defeated, he opened his hand. The dagger clattered to the cobblestones. “Your luck will run out, MacLain. I guarantee you that much. The woman... she’ll be the death of you.”
*
Forcing himself to keep a cool head, Logan stared down at the man who’d tried to kill him. God only knew what the bastard would have done to Amelia if the dagger’s strikes had landed with lethal skill.
“Who sent ye here? Was it Hawk?” Logan demanded.
Murray and Tim charged out of the tavern, armed and ready for action. The men stopped in their tracks. Tim’s gaze darted to the bloody knife on the pavement. “Ye should’ve killed him.”
Logan shook his head. “A dead man cannot tell us anything.”
“I won’t... tell you...” The bastard who’d tried to kill him grated out the words between his moans of pain.
“Summon the constable,” Logan instructed Tim. “I need to see Amelia safely home.”
“Aye.” Tim took off running.
“I could not help but hear the gent at the bar speaking to ye.” Murray trained his gun on the attacker. “I take it ye go by Frank.”
“Frank, eh?” Logan pinned the man with a cold stare. “Tell me, Frank. Who the hell is the man called Hawk?”
“Not a bloody . . . damn . . .”
“He paid ye to come after me? Why?”
“You already know the answer.”
“He’ll see ye dead. Ye said as much.” Logan pressed. “Ye’ve nothing to lose by talking, do ye?”
“Go to . . . hell.”
Logan slanted Amelia a glance. Standing beneath the lamp, she’d gone uncharacteristically quiet, her features drawn.
“Dear God, you’ve been wounded,” she said softly, her gaze settling on the blood-stained slash on Logan’s coat.
“Nothing to worry over,” Logan said, keeping his tone cool even as pain rippled down his arm.
A raw laugh escaped his assailant. “He’s right, lass. That’s nothing to worry your pretty head about. Not when Hawk is coming after you. He will see the both of you dead.” His mouth contorted in pain. “Dead and in the ground.”
Amelia looked away, as if she could not bear the sight of the brute. Logan summoned every ounce of control he possessed. The coward who’d dared to attack him from behind needed to give thanks that she was there. If not for that, Logan would’ve taught the lout a damned hard lesson.
But he couldn’t subject Amelia to the sight of more violence.
He would not do that to her.
Later, he’d see to it that the detectives would compel the coward to reveal what he knew of Hawk. When Amelia was safe under his roof, he’d ensure that the bastard was interrogated. One way or another.