Chapter 7 #2
Carrington-Bowles and Charpentier turned their attention to her.
"Which question, Ban?" Isadore planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. "The one you asked before you knifed one man to death and shot another man in the back of the head or the one you asked afterwards?"
Carrington-Bowles subsided into a warn leather armchair and scrubbed his hands over his face. "I do not need to hear this."
"The question as to why one of those men warned the other not to kill you. Yet."
Isadore stared at him in disbelief. A ringing sensation vibrated in her ears.
"I didn't hear...that is...when did he say that?
" She dropped into the chair next to him.
A moment later Mister Charpentier pressed a glass into her hand.
She took a sip, coughed, and then tossed back the rest of the brandy he'd poured for her.
"When? About the time you were shrieking at the top of your lungs for me not to save your life."
"I don't wish to discuss this here." Isadore had had enough of answering to arrogant men for a lifetime. Ban Dyer was proving to be simply one more in a long line behind her father, her husband, her brother-in-law, and the man she was being forced to marry.
Mister Carrington-Bowles and Mister Charpentier rose as one. "I believe we need to check on those boys, Nathaniel, don't you?"
"Without a doubt." Charpentier led the way as they started for the stairs.
"Tell me, Isadore," Ban said, slouched in the chair like some Indian rajah. "What plans do George Fitz-Wilton and Horace Sutton have for your two banks that you'd allow both of us to be murdered for them?"
"Horace Sutton?" Charpentier said, one hand on the crude wooden banister.
"Missus Fitz-Wilton's betrothed," Ban said with a sneer. "Why do you ask?"
Charpentier and the physician exchanged another of those meaningful glances, the sort two deeply connected people used to communicate without words.
"Ask Lord Ethan," Carrington-Bowles replied, his tone quietly intense. "And send for me if the shoulder gives you any trouble."
At the mention of Lord Ethan Polston, his brother Fam's lover, his curiosity was piqued. Ban and his brothers considered the young lord family, their brother-in-law in all but name. What could he know about Isadore's prospective husband?
"And the two chimney sweep boys?" Ban asked.
"I'll take care of them and keep you apprised of their condition. Look for a visit from Archer Colwyn."
"Always," Ban muttered in reply.
Isadore began to pace the room. The events at the King Street house had made her blood run cold.
Now her body burned and sweat rolled down her back.
She hadn't lied to the master of the Devil's Den, not truly.
Now, having heard George might have more than a forced marriage in mind for her she found herself unable to think what to do next.
Ban Dyer would no doubt desert her even with her threat to turn him in to Bow Street.
Doing so frankly was the least of her concerns.
"Jeremy," she half sobbed to herself. "I just want to find my son. I want this to be over. I want--"
"Isadore." His voice washed over her dark as a starless night sky, heavy and warm like a thick velvet counterpane.
She turned ever so slowly and still nearly fell as her legs threatened to give way.
When she raised her hand to steady herself her palm came to rest on hard muscled flesh, hot and silky.
Once he braced her in his arms, she stopped shaking.
She tried to read his expression, but his face revealed nothing. His eyes were bottomless pools of darkness, but a strange light seemed to glow in those depths.
The Stringfellow Bank remains in my control no matter who I marry. It goes to Jeremy on my death. But I never thought George would kill over that bank, not after gaining control of the Fitz-Wilton. I didn't lie to you." She licked her lips. "I thought you could help me find Jeremy before..."
"Before people started shooting at me?" He didn't smile, but the amusement was there in that rumble of a voice.
A husky huff of a laugh escaped her. "You're a thief, sir.
You break into places where you are least likely to encounter trouble and make off with whatever riches you can carry.
I never considered that you might capable of.
.." She shook her head and still pressed her hand against his chest. The steady thump of his heart drew her, made her incapable of moving out of his arms or looking away.
"Murder is the word, Isadore, at least in your world.
I don't kill men for no reason, but I will not let any man kill me or those under my protection.
I killed my first man before I was your son's age.
I am a thief and a murderer, and I am not a good man.
You will have to decide if that is what you need.
" He stepped closer so not an inch of space lay between them.
Beneath her dress every part of her body pressed against his and the heat roiling off him threatened to burn her alive.
"But if you decide I am what you need there will be no more lies between us.
I cannot fight an enemy I cannot see. I need to know everything that is in play between you and George Fitz-Wilton.
Everything. Including what were searching for in that house tonight.
You want to hire the Devil? That's my price. "
She'd refused to bow under the weight of her fear for Jeremy and her struggle to oppose George at every turn. She'd kept her head up in a house full of deceitful vipers. Her chest tightened. She struggled to breathe. Too much. It was all too much.
"I can't...I can't...I just want my son. All I want is my son." Her voice broke. His arms closed around her. She dropped her forehead to his shoulder, but quickly reared back. "M-my apologies. You're wounded."
He gazed down at her his hands splayed across her back. "Nothing fatal," he murmured. "Yet." His lips brushed hers gently, once and then again. Isadore leaned into him, her arms wound around his neck and then, dear God, she was lost.