Chapter 22
Grabbing the knives, Nick hid them on his body and turned to the colonel. “Yer coat’s too fine.”
“It is the simplest I could find.”
Nick grunted. It probably belonged to a servant. But even a servant’s lot was better than that of the rough folks who made their living from the wharf.
Once they left the pristine west end of town, Nick asked the carriage to let them off. They were near Limehouse Reach. Drunks were plentiful, and he found one passed out against a wall. “Take off yer coat. The stench of his’ll help us blend in where we’re going.”
The colonel did not protest. He stripped off his coat, then draped it over the man whose smelly garment Nick had quickly removed. “At least he shall stay warmer during the cold months to come.”
Nick smiled at him. “Ye’re a good man, Colonel.”
“Call me Rich. That is what Darcy calls me.”
“Rich,” Nick repeated. “I’ll not have ye calling me Blackburne anymore. It’s Nick to ye from now on.”
Nodding in the direction they needed to head, Rich said, “Narrow Street is this way.”
Nick was grateful for his knowledge of London’s streets. While he had a vague idea of the city’s geography—sailors were a chatty bunch—that was the extent of his knowledge.
They continued forward, passing several narrow streets and dark alleyways. One look around told Nick it was inhabited by people who’d given up on having anything worth having long ago. The dirty streets and putrid air reeked of despair.
“I’ll do the talking,” Nick said. “Stick close and watch me back.”
They stepped inside a tavern dimly lit with sooty lanterns. Dark shapes and shadows huddled over tables, speaking in low voices. Smugglers making deals, no doubt. The tavern’s position on the bend of the Thames made it an ideal spot for such business.
Nick sauntered over to the bar and asked for a tankard of ale for him and the colonel. While the barkeep tapped the barrel, Nick asked, “Ye seen any fancy gents millin’ about here lately—say, a week ago?”
The man’s expression and posture remained unchanged. “We don’t get many gents this way.” He set their tankards on the counter and shouted over them. “Molly!”
A pretty lass with an empty tray in her hands walked toward them, a bounce in her step and a glint in her eye. When she set the tray down on the counter, Nick knew to keep an eye on her hands.
She leaned close to the colonel, fluttering her eyelashes and reaching over his chest to brush a piece of flint away.
Nick reached out to grab her hand, but Rich beat him to it. Holding the barmaid’s forearm, he turned her closed palm to reveal his pocket watch.
The barkeep chuckled. “Sorry ‘bout that, but enquiry agents and runners like to pass themselves off as one of us, and I can’t blab to them without betraying one of my own. You seem like a decent sort, so I won’t toss you out on your ears.” To the barmaid, he added, “You’re losing your touch, lass.”
She scowled and slapped the watch into Richard’s open hand. “Your coat stinks,” she spat and made to leave.
Nick stepped in her path. “One moment. Ye’re one to notice a gent. Have ye seen any about last Sunday?”
She shook her head, still pouting.
“None dressed simple like?”
Saucily, she replied, “A gent’s a gent—even in rags.” She sized up the colonel. “Like this one. I knew he was a gent the second he came inside.” She turned her gaze to Nick, raking him over from toes to face. “You’re no gent.”
If Nick had ever dreamed he might improve himself enough to deserve a family like Darcy’s, her disinterested assessment squashed that hope.
“Come on, Nick. They cannot tell us what they do not know,” Richard said.
Nick tried not to let the barmaid’s comment bother him as they made inquiries at The Black Sail, then the Fighting Cock, then over to The Brazen Lass.
By the time they left Bucket of Blood and alighted a hired carriage to convey them to their next destination, Nick could not think of anything else but the barmaid’s comment.
“Would Darcy be ashamed to have me for a brother?” he asked.
“Why would he be ashamed?”
Nick scoffed. “Ye can’t be serious, Rich. He’ll sure not go around boasting about me.”
“Georgiana had no compunction accepting you as her brother.”
Nick grimaced. She was so polite, acting interested as he showed her how to braid and knot her ribbons into figures. “I’m not fit company for her,” he owned.
“A gentleman ought not to be judged by his looks and manners but by the values he displays.”
“I’ve lived as a thief and blackguard all me life. The only thing I’ve valued is me own skin and the next prize.” And Alex, blast the infernal woman!
“And yet, here you are, helping me find a man you have never met for a family of people who are all strangers to you.”
“Ye’d give me proper motive when I have none.”
“You are not as bad as you think you are, Nick. Remember that.”
Nick heaved a sigh. If Richard only knew his mutinous thoughts, he wouldn’t think Nick possessed a shred of honor. It was time to test the colonel’s loyalties. “Ye won’t speak so highly of me when I try to convince ye to accompany me to The Devil’s Tavern.”
“We gave our word—”
“Ye gave yer word,” Nick interrupted. “I didn’t. It’s the best place to go, and ye know it. Nobody there’d speak to yer father’s men, but they’ll talk to me.”
“They will think you are Darcy.”
“Exactly. All we need to do is watch for reactions. Our man’ll be mighty surprised to see me when they must think me kidnapped or dead.”
The colonel sighed.
“Still think I’m a good man?” Nick teased, trying to make light of the pain in his heart.
Richard shifted his weight.
“If he asks, I’ll tell him I forced ye to go against yer will,” Nick offered.
That earned him a glare. “If you think I would allow you to take all the blame or lie to my father, then you severely underestimate my honor.” He tapped the roof and told the coachman their new destination.
Nick had heard about The Devil’s Tavern before.
It was the kind of hovel sailors liked to brag about.
But seeing the miniature noose and gallows hanging off the balcony still made Nick swallow the lump rising in his throat.
Darcy was either foolhardy or as brave as Nick hoped he was to enter such a place.
The atmosphere was dark and boisterous. Men sat on beer barrels at the bar. Women sat on men’s laps at the tables. Coins jingled, bills waved in the air, darts and daggers sailed through the air—men flaunting death and women drawn to danger.
Voices hushed and bodies stilled when they saw Nick.
His heart galloped. This was the right place. They knew something.
He stepped toward the barkeep, but a big man stepped in front of him, knocking Nick to the side with the force of his shoulder.
Richard whispered behind him. “We should leave.”
“Not ‘til they tell us what they know,” Nick replied, giving the brawny man breathing on him his stoniest glare.
“They shall start a fight,” Richard hissed into his ear.
Nick grinned. His eyes were still fixed on the brute.
“Do I look like I’m afraid of a little fight?
” He stepped back, getting a better look at his first opponent.
Stocky, thick fingers, well-built, and about the colonel’s height.
There was a pistol tucked at his waist, but Nick saw no knife, though he knew the man must have at least one hidden on his person.
The ruffian leaned against a thick beam that ran up to the ceiling, protecting one side of his body. Smart man. Of course, he did not know how handy that beam would be for Nick.
Over his shoulder, Nick muttered to Richard, “Stick to the wall. Cover yer back.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” Richard mumbled under his breath, patting his pocket. Nick understood the motion. The colonel had a pistol.
Nick turned back to the brute.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
Nick weighed his options. He couldn’t reveal his real identity. Word would spread, and young blades out to make a name for themselves would seek him out to challenge their skill against his, much like the muscled oaf sneering at him. Nick couldn’t do that. Darcy would never be safe.
However, Nick couldn’t rightly pretend to be Darcy either. He evidently looked and sounded like him, but that was where their similarities ended. He shrugged. He had to try. Imitating Richard’s finer speech, he said, “Nobody of consequence.”
The ruffian’s glance darted over to the bar, and the barkeep shook his head. He was the one calling the shots, then.
“We don’t want no trouble.” The brute jutted his chin toward the door. “Out with ye.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Nick watched the barkeep. He leaned against the bar, his fingers splayed against the polished wood. He was the one Nick needed to speak to. Nick took in a deep breath, steeling his nerves and steadying himself on the exhale. In for a penny; in for a pound.
Keeping one eye on the man behind the bar and the other on his bruiser, Nick placed himself between the two, praying the man with the beefy fists would shift his position against the beam.
People clambered out of the way, knowing what was going to happen.
Finally, the man turned to face Nick.
Perfect.
Taking another deep breath, Nick held it at the top.
Quicker than a viper strike, he crossed his arms and reached under his coat.
Flinging the blades to his left side, he heard the metal thud into the wooden bar.
He reached into his boots. Wasting no time to see if he had hit his targets, and knowing very well that he had (because he always did), Nick drew a shiv from his boot and flung.
The ruffian would have stumbled back had the post not been behind him. And he might have sunk to the floor had some of his hair not been pinned to the beam along with his hat.
Several gasps echoed through the room, and a few guffaws erupted when the henchman looked cross-eyed up at the dagger vibrating in the post above his head.
Nick took pride in his aim. Close enough to the man’s scalp to pin his hair to the beam without parting his skin. Nick turned to the barkeep.
He did not feel so smug when he saw the barkeeper’s bloodied knuckle. Barnacles. The other blade was clean, but there was no denying that he had nicked the man. Blast. Alex would not have missed. Of course, she might have pinned the man’s fingers to the bar on purpose.
Pulling out his last knife from his other boot, Nick waved the sharp end at the crowd around him. “Anyone else?” he asked, imitating Richard’s accent. Now that he’d given them a scare, he could continue with his plan. He’d pretend to be Darcy.
The tavern fell silent.
Richard walked over to the oaf and pulled the knife out of the beam, motioning with it for him to join Nick and the barkeep at the counter.
Leaning nonchalantly against the bar, Nick pulled the daggers out of the wood, saying, “I’ll get straight to the point. I want to know everything you can tell me about the men who attacked me nearly a week ago just outside your door.”
The two men exchanged a look and clamped their lips shut.
Nick trailed the tip of a blade along the bar, cutting a nice groove in the grain. The barkeep cringed. He must be the owner. He would have noticed Darcy.
Leaning in, Nick cut deeper.
The owner relented. “Tell ‘em, Grimbly. I don’t want no trouble. You gents talk to Grimbly, and you leave.”
Grimbly narrowed his eyes at Nick. “Is that how you got away from those blokes? You did one of them fancy tricks with yer daggers?”
Nick nodded. Blokes. There had been more than one. “Something like that. The buggers got away from me though, and I mean to make them pay.”
Grimbly looked at him askance. “You sound like the same gent what came here last week, but ye’re different.”
“I wasn’t angry before.” Nick flicked a chunk of wood off the edge of the bar.
Grimbly swallowed hard. “What d’you want to know?”
“Tell me everything you remember. What they looked like.”
“One had an eye patch.”
That described too many men. “Which eye?” Nick asked.
“The left.”
Nick frowned. He knew several sailors who’d had a line snap in their face or a cannon blast debris into their eyes. Eye patches were not entirely unusual. “What else?” he pressed.
“They were English, but sometimes they spoke funny. A bit like you when you first came in.”
Nick felt his frown deepen. An accent like his. He waved Grimbly to continue.
“The other one was bigger than me, solid and square. And he was missing the tip of his finger.”
Nick went cold. He asked, “Which finger? Which hand?”
“Little finger, right hand.”
Blast the mizzenmast.
Richard’s brows furrowed at Nick for a moment before turning to Grimbly. “How is it you know all this?”
Grimbly grinned, his eyes as hard as flint. “The boss told me to keep an eye on the gent. Make sure he left the property … unharmed, you see.”
More likely that his employer sent Grimbly to swipe Darcy’s purse and steal his boots. Nick headed to the door. He was done here. He knew who had Darcy.
At the door, he tossed back, “Ye follow us, I’ll aim for yer neck.”
Nick charged down the street, the colonel hurrying to keep up. When they reached a wider street, he hailed a carriage.
Only then did Richard speak. “You know who is responsible.”
Nick pursed his lips, his nostrils flaring as he let out his breath. “Aye.” He pounded his fist against the squabs.
He spent the rest of their journey across town attempting to convince himself he was wrong. He nearly succeeded, too.
Lord Matlock called them up to his study the moment they returned.
“Mr. Bennet and Mr. Gardiner have departed for Hampshire. Two men were seen at The Swan with Two Necks in the company of a young lady they claimed to be ill. The stable boy overheard them mention Southampton, so that is where they are headed.”
“Two men? Did the boy give a description?” asked Nick.
“No. He only said that they ‘talked funny.’”
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough when his suspicions already pointed to that she-devil. “I’m gonna kill her.”