Chapter 24
The ink bled thick where her quill pressed.
Maud Hatcher—crossed out with a stroke so dark it tore the fibres of the page.
Catherine traced it once with her finger, as though she could feel again the blade sliding into the soft hollow where shoulder met neck.
She remembered the gush, hot and endless, Maud’s slack jaw against her own cheek.
She had held her, back to chest, arms tight, until the weight grew unbearable.
She let the body spill to the floor.
She savoured it. Not in shame, nor triumph, but in the fact of it.
But Tom King was different. Younger than Maud, older than herself. Fists like cudgels. A brute, still hale, with a bully’s grin and a tormentor’s cruelty. He would not falter with a whimper. He would fight.
She closed the journal. The cover snapped shut like judgment.
Quinn had begun to feed her details: King’s new lodgings, the taverns where he drank, the alleys where he bought and sold girls with coin still warm from the gaming tables.
He moved boldly now that Parliament had left for the country.
No magistrate, no gentleman, no whispers from Mayfair to trouble him.
Catherine dipped her quill again and wrote one word beneath his name: plan.
The blade alone would not be enough.
* * *
The Forge, August 1820
Rain hissed against the panes. The room stank of smoke, sweat, and damp wool. Roark sat at the centre table, pipe in hand, one boot hooked lazily over a rung. Reeves leant in shadow near the hearth, silent as a cutthroat’s prayer.
Quinn slipped into the chair opposite Roark, neat as always, water dripping from his hat brim. Roark marked the precision of him—not bred for this mire, but wearing it close enough to pass.
Roark exhaled a long ribbon of smoke. “She’s marked Tom King?”
Quinn folded his hat and set it aside. “She has.”
Roark grunted. “Big brute. Knows his fists. Keeps a dozen lads too hungry to fail him. Not the kind that goes gentle. She’ll likely end up bled out in an alley.”
Quinn’s small smile barely stirred. “Do not underestimate her.”
That earned him a sidelong glance. “You’ve watched spill a man’s blood, then?”
“Not a man. But Maud fell to her hand without fuss. And remember her first—Walton. She held firm when others faltered. That is worth notice.”
From the hearth came the faint creak of leather. Reeves shifting or maybe reminding the little clerk he was present. The scent of oil and iron rolled out like a warning.
Roark tapped ash into the tray. “If she lives, I’ve gained—King’s weight off my board.” He shrugged. “If she dies, the ground’s lighter. Either way, I’m above the fray.”
“And the house?” Quinn asked. “If she dies, who holds it?”
“Not a soul in there with the spine,” Roark said flatly.
“A house without a hand on the till invites scavengers,” Quinn pressed. “That loses you coin.”
Roark smirked. “Then I’ll find fresh blood. A firm hand. Always another rat waiting to run the maze.”
Quinn inclined his head, voice mild. “Then better the rat you know than the brute you bury—”
The door banged wide. A boy darted in, cap in hand, cheeks pink from the cold. He skidded to a halt at the table, chest heaving.
“Well?” Roark drawled. “Waddya have, Billy boy?”
The boy gulped. “Your missus says—” he faltered, eyes darting at the men, “—she says, bring your sober arse to me bed.” The boy blushed scarlet.
Quinn shook with a soundless chuckle. Roark slapped the table, laughing outright, smoke spilling from his lips. Reeves raised a single eyebrow.
Roark rose, clapping the boy on the shoulder. “Fair enough. Business can wait. Gentlemen.” He tipped his pipe in half a salute. “Take your ease.”
He steered Billy towards the stair, still chuckling. The boy, red as a boiled lobster, cast a glance back before running ahead.
* * *
The door shut on Roark’s laughter, leaving only the hiss of rain and the low murmur of drinkers at the far end.
Quinn sat alone at the table, hands folded, posture exact—clerk’s neatness dropped into a den of wolves. Reeves lingered by the hearth, more shadow than man.
The silence pressed. Quinn could count his own pulse in it.
“You’re not of the Dials,” Reeves said at last, voice rough as gravel dragged across iron.
“And you no longer walk Longbourn’s corridors,” Quinn returned, mild as tea.
Reeves came forward. The air moved with him—oil, iron, leather, that unmistakeable scent that Catherine Murray had named with fear. “Mind your tongue, ink slinger.”
Quinn kept his hands folded and smiled.
“You’re no bawd’s errand-boy,” Reeves said, head tilting, eyes pale and flat. “You’re a warrant man—on the Crown’s leash.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve cut better than you.”
“And I’ve buried worse,” Quinn replied. “Yet, you once wore scarlet.”
That drew the faintest grunt. “A lifetime ago.”
“How do the Bennets fare without you?”
“Hale enough.” He sat, gloved hands atop the table. “How fares Mrs Hurst? A woman of uncommon mettle, is she not?”
Quinn nodded once. “I am not here for your mate.”
“If I thought you were, you’d be mourned.”
“Possibly.” Quinn said.
“What brings a warrant man to our end?”
“Lord Hardwicke.”
Reeves let out a teeth-sucking sound. “Roark will not be pleased.”
“Your mate toys with treason. It won’t end well—for the baronet or his… companions.” Quinn spread his hands, palms empty. “You think Cato Street closed things? It opened a Pandora’s box of discontent.”
“That’s your affair,” Reeves said. “What of Roark’s girl?”
“She best she find another purse. Soon.”
Reeves leant back and stilled. Quinn stared to see whether he was taking in breaths.
He was.
“I’ll talk to me mate. How much time before you act?”
Quinn exhaled slowly. “You’ll know the day before.”
Reeves rose. Extended a gloved hand. “Détente.”
Quinn stood. Grasped his hand. Iron met rock. “Détente.”
Reeves tightened his grip more forcefully. “If you hear aught of the names Bennet, Darcy, or Fitzwilliam, mine’s the first ear you fill.”
“Fair that.”