Chapter 16
Sweat soaking his tangled hair despite the chill of the night, Wrexford stumbled up the back entrance steps to Henning’s low-slung stone and timber abode and pounded a fist against the door, hoping the surgeon wasn’t out tending to some crisis in the surrounding stews.
The makeshift bandage around his arm was now black with blood, and his wits were becoming a bit woozy. He didn’t fancy the idea of having to make his way out to one of the main roads and hope for a hackney to appear.
Sucking in a steadying breath, he rapped another flurry of knocks.
“Hell’s teeth—hold your water!” came a rumbled shout from the depths of the sitting room. The slurred edge warned that the surgeon had been drinking.
The latch clicked, and the door opened a crack, revealing a bleary eye and a bristly section of Henning’s unshaven face. His expression turned flinty … until his gaze flicked from the earl’s ashen face to the blood-soaked cravat.
“Ye gods.” Stepping into the chill of the night, Henning eased an arm around Wrexford’s waist and guided him inside to one of the threadbare armchairs set by the hearth.
“What in the name of Satan happened, laddie?” he demanded, as he quickly poured a glass of whisky and wrapped the earl’s fingers around it. “But drink this before answering.”
Wrexford gratefully gulped it down, welcoming the spurt of warmth as it went down his gullet.
“Hard to believe a footpad thought you would be an easy mark.” Henning unknotted the cravat, then slipped off the earl’s overcoat and evening jacket.
“Still, you’re not usually so daft as to go wandering around in the stews at night dressed like a fancy toff.
” A grunt as he assessed the knife slash.
“Bloody hell, such arse-witted behavior just begs for trouble.”
“It was no random attack.” Wrexford winced in pain. “I—”
“Save your wind for the moment,” counseled Henning.
“I need to fetch my medical bag from the mortuary …” A small patch of yard off the tiny kitchen at the back of the house had a stone outbuilding that the surgeon used for conducting his examinations of the dead.
“Before I’m compelled to tell m’lady that your carcass is lying on the slab. ”
Henning straightened, setting off a crackling of his knee joints, and headed—none too steadily—for the kitchen and the rear stairs leading outside.
Expelling a sigh, Wrexford closed his eyes, taking a moment to compose his thoughts. His assailants were no ordinary footpads—they were too well dressed and had made no attempt at demanding his valuables. Instead they had gone straight for the jugular.
Which begged the question of why.
One answer was obvious. His inquiries as to whether Langdon’s activities from a decade ago had anything to do with counterfeiting had stirred up a nest of vipers.
Vipers, vipers … Who was the snake with access to such privileged information?
Putting aside the question for now, Wrexford shifted, intending to rise and pour himself another whisky.
But as he did so, his gaze fell on the side table by Henning’s chair.
On it was an ornate rosewood and brass keepsake box he had never seen before in the sitting room.
The lid was half-open, as if his urgent knocking had interrupted the surgeon while he had been perusing its contents.
Wrexford hesitated, his conscience momentarily at war with itself over whether he should violate Henning’s privacy. However, pragmatism won out over principle. If his friend was in some sort of trouble, he couldn’t help unless he had some idea of what the problem was.
Inching forward in his seat, the earl reached out and raised the lid.
Inside was a coiled silver chain. And the links threaded through a pewter signet ring.
Wrexford leaned in closer …
And engraved on the ring was a heart with crossed daggers.