Chapter Forty-One #3
The duke roared orders to the coachman, his voice cracking the rafters like a whip while Emerson lowered Oscar carefully to the planks of the carriage.
He tore the cravat from his neck and bound it around his cousin’s shredded wrists to slow the bleeding, thanking God that Ben wasn’t with him to witness the gory sight.
Oscar’s pulse beat frail against his fingers—there, then nearly not.
Faulk groaned.
In two strides, Emerson crossed to the cart upon which Faulk had been dumped and hauled the man’s head up. “Who?”
“’Twas Billy,” Faulk rasped. “Did yer cousin in.” He coughed, blood surging up. “He wants blood…goin’ after the lady in blue.”
“Why?” Emerson’s grip tightened despite himself.
“Said the lady ye brought round…stoled his wife. Couldn’t get to her…so he took yer cousin.”
The hair lifted at Emerson’s nape. “Who’s Cutter?”
“Owns a bawdy house…in Whitefriars,” he choked out.
“Billy sent him?” Emerson demanded.
“Cooked up some scheme b’tween ’em.”
Boots scraped over the planked floors and Emerson glanced up to find Tatton striding in his direction with the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. His gaze quickly took in the situation before settling on Emerson. “I understand there’s…an incident.”
Emerson didn’t bother with niceties. “You suspected something at the docks. You were right.”
Tatton moved to his side, expression unchanged. He gave Emerson a sharp nod.
Emerson returned his gaze to Faulk. “Just where did Billy know to find Oscar?”
Faulk’s mouth worked, blood at the corners. “Didn’t,” he rasped. “I found ’im.” A shallow breath. “Dockside…hidin’ where no lord would look.” His gaze flickered. “Marked ’im. Sent Billy after.”
“Why was Oscar at the docks, Faulk? Why?”
Faulk’s brow twitched, as if the answer cost him. “Watchin’,” he rasped. “Pryin’ where he shouldn’t.” A shallow breath. “Askin’ after cargo…coin…girls…”
“Girls,” he whispered. Good God.
“Aye…things what don’t belong in ledgers.” His lips dragged into something like a grimace. “Too close…he got too close.”
Emerson’s gaze cut to Oscar—those broken fingers, the signet ring black with grime—and a cold clarity slid through him like Thames water in winter.
Not chance. Never chance.
“And the warehouse?” Emerson said, low and deadly. “Was that you?”
Faulk’s lashes clung together with blood as he forced them open. “Aye…but not…not mine to empty.” His breath hitched. “Orders.”
“From whom?”
“Her,” he whispered. “The lady. Said the proof had to be gone. Ledgers…routes…” His fingers twitched weakly. “Said she’d not hang alone.”
Emerson’s jaw locked. “Lady Lockhart.”
A faint, broken sound—something like a laugh.
“Aye,” Faulk rasped. “All of it…runs through her, best I know.” A ragged breath. “House…accounts…men comin’ and goin’ like it’s nothin’.” His gaze flickered. “She knew…every blasted piece of it.”
Emerson stilled. “And you?”
Faulk’s lips trembled. “Thought I could manage it. Skim a bit. Keep it tidy.” A wet cough. “Then it weren’t tidy no more.”
His fingers twitched weakly. “She had me by the bollocks from the start.”
Emerson’s voice dropped to a lethal quiet. “And Oscar? What had he to do with this?”
“A bad break for ’im. That’s all. I swear it. Things were in motion years ago. One bad ’un’s out, another steps in ’is place.”
A portion of the note he and Ben had found in Sussex flashed through Emerson’s mind. They mean to use my late father’s title to legitimize their work. The scheme runs beneath London like rot beneath floorboards.
His gaze lifted, settled on Stockton’s pale countenance. “Is Stockton part of this scheme?”
“Nay,” he choked out.
A shot of relief rushed through Emerson. “Where’s Billy now?”
“Where ’e can’t hurt no one no more. Ye’ll find ’im at the bottom of the Thames.” Faulk’s eyes rolled, unfocused. “I told ’im not to work the nob over. T’was too risky.” Faulk’s breath shuddered once…then stilled.
Blast. Emerson let Faulk’s head drop, disgust warring with fury, worry. But Rose. Rose was still in danger. Terror skittered over and through him. “Faulk’s dead.”
His gaze swept the company then stopped.
“Your Grace,” he said, his voice held level by sheer force.
“Take Oscar. Send for a surgeon. One you trust—and, Tatton, place guards at each residence until we can locate Lady Lockhart.” He turned, already moving, his heart pounding, erratic at best. “I’ve got to get to the Norfolk ball. ”
Ryleigh’s look held iron. He was a man accustomed to issuing commands, not taking orders from merchants. Yet what Emerson’s own face must have said was enough. To the duke’s credit, he nodded. “Huntley’s man attends me in town,” he said. “He’ll meet us at your residence—”
“Ten Manchester Square,” Emerson barked.
Ryleigh gave a sharp nod. “Your man—”
“Amir,” Emerson supplied.
From the shadows, Amir stepped forward, lean as a whip, his eyes bright. “Your Grace?”
“Go with Whitmore,” Ryleigh ordered. “Take a pistol. Two.”
With a sharp incline of his head, the pistols vanished deftly beneath his coat.
Emerson moved back to the duke’s carriage. He reached inside the open door and took Oscar’s slack hand in his own, with a careful press. Don’t even think of dying on me, damn you—us, Ben and I.
Us. He and Ben were an “us.” Just like he and Rose. Us.
Emerson backed away in a single motion, all that cold washing away beneath a tide of urgent heat.
“Whitmore.” Ryleigh blocked him with a palm to the chest. “You’ll not charge blind into a nest.”
“If the woman has no objection to selling her niece to a brothel, she’s not above murder. I have to get to Rose,” Emerson said, stepping around the duke. “Keep my cousin breathing.” He glanced over, caught Stockton’s pale face.
“My aunt sold my cousin…” he choked out.
“I’m sorry, Stockton.” He attempted to gentle his voice with much doubt he’d succeeded. “Call the watch and secure the warehouse before you leave.”
Stockton nodded and strode away with a new sense of—determined, perhaps—purpose.
At once, Emerson realized he could trust the younger man.
Outside, river fog rolled thick, devouring the lantern glow at twenty paces.
The Thames sighed like a sleeping beast, sighing after swallowing Billy.
Emerson would have preferred dealing with Billy himself, but as Faulk said on his last breath, Billy couldn’t hurt anyone now.
A hackney rattled by, and he caught its rail, swinging himself up even as Amir vaulted onto the step behind.
“Mayfair,” Emerson snapped to the startled cabbie, wrenching the reins into his own hands. “Hard as he’ll go.”
The horse leapt. Wheels scraped and clattered. Crates loomed and vanished. An ale dray lurched from a lane, and Emerson hauled up the gelding’s head, skidding an inch from the dray’s iron-rimmed wheel. A man in a tarpaulin cursed, and Amir’s gasp—quick—whipped away on the wind.
“You should have been a coachman,” Amir called over the thunder of hooves.
“I should have been at a ball with my wife to be,” Emerson returned, teeth bared.
They cut north, the fog thinning to damp air and flickering lamps.
The city changed beneath the horse’s iron—slums to tradesmen’s fronts to the smooth, complacent mask of Mayfair.
At Grosvenor Square, the night shone as a wash of crystal light poured from high windows.
Music floated to the street—violins sweet as sin.
Emerson’s fingers tightened on the leather. Norfolk’s gilded house blazed like temptation itself, banners and banks of hothouse flowers framing the door. A queue of coaches clogged the approach.
He tugged on the reins. The horse blew hard, its breath steaming, and the wheels skittered over crushed stone. He tossed the ribbons to the stunned cabbie, jumped down and ran for the door.
The footman manning the entrance stood stock still, his mouth hanging open, apparently too stunned to stop Emerson from darting around him.
“Mr. Whitmore.” Emerson announced himself as dryly as he could manage. “I’m here for Lady Stanford.”
“But, sir, you’ve—” The footman swallowed. “You’ve no cravat…”
Emerson glanced down then back up, his resolve resolute. “Quite so, sir.”
Like the duke, the footman offered no further protest and opened the ballroom door, hitting Emerson with a wave of warmth, light, and perfume full in the face. Chandeliers were like crushed stars, a hundred bodies moving in civilized patterns while the city outside rotted on its pilings.
Rose was nowhere to be seen. He did spot the duchess, however.
“Mr. Whitmore? I thought you and Ryleigh were off to Canterbury.” Her eyes raked over his dusty coat and widened at the lack of his cravat.
“Where’s Rose?”
She glanced over the dancers, frowning. “I could have sworn I saw her dancing with your brother, but I don’t see either of them now.” The duchess let out a harsh gasp. “Neither do I see Lady Lockhart.”
Damn it, Rose. “Where’s Norfolk?” In particular, his office.
A piercing scream that sent the violins screeching to a halt rent the house.
His stomach took a dangerous dip, and he hurried, with the duchess on his arm, up the stairs as they dashed for the end of the corridor.
A matronly woman lay collapsed beneath the arch of the one open door.
“Call for the constable,” he shouted, hoping someone would heed the instruction.
“Faster, Your Grace,” he said pleasantly to Rebecca, picking up his own pace.
“What’s going on?” Lady Huntley demanded from behind. “What the devil’s wrong with Lady Norfolk?” She scurried past Emerson and the duchess. Emerson ran after her, dragging the duchess along.
Emerson entered a large, impressive study with too much furniture that smelled of intelligence and use and…blood. A quick glance about the room showed no Rose, and his gut coiled tighter.
Lord Norfolk was attempting to sit, and Emerson abandoned the duchess and Lady Huntley to assist him, fighting the dread inundating him.
Norfolk pushed a lock of gray hair from his face with bloodied fingertips.
“What happened here?” Emerson growled. “Where is Lady Stanford?”
“Lady Lockhart stabbed me, then went after Lady Stanford. I managed to latch onto her ankle after I’d fallen. She stumbled…”
“Stabbed you!” The man’s wife was not what one could refer to as calm under duress based on another hysterical screech that hit the rafters before collapsing once more.
“It barely scraped me.” Norfolk grunted. “Never thought this whalebone corset contraption would serve more than one purpose,” he said with a rusty laugh.
The noise in Emerson’s head sent his instincts thundering to deafening. He came to his feet. “Rose,” he shouted.
“Over here, near the windows.” Her panicked voice had him scrambling.
He found her sitting on the floor with his brother’s head in her lap. “Oh, Emerson,” she cried. “Something is wrong with your brother. I fear he is prone to seizures.”
Ben groaned, and his eyes flickered.
“No, darling. It’s not a seizure.”
“Where is your cravat?” Ben croaked out.
“Wrapped about Oscar’s wrists.”
“He’s alive?” Ben huffed out.
“Yes. But just so.”
Rose blasted him. “You tied him up?”
“Of course not, my love. He was in dire straits—”
“Please, say no more,” Ben begged. “Is it safe for me to rise?”
Emerson lifted his head and glanced around. A crowd surrounded a dead woman near the hearth, but the pool of blood was visible. “Only if you turn your head or use a handkerchief.”
Rose tugged one from her reticule. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain later,” Emerson said, retrieving it from her and tossing it to Ben. “Let’s get out of here.”