CHAPTER 28 #2
Lord Blackstone looked up from the pile of papers on his desk and slowly removed his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“He was in the engine room, and managed to free the urchins,” announced Blodgett.
A frown thinned Blackstone’s mouth, but his expression quickly relaxed. “Come, Geoffrey, it’s nothing to worry about.” A curt laugh. “Even if the brats dared to tell anyone, who would believe them?”
“I say we shoot him now. It’s clear he’s not going to do as we asked.”
The marquess’s face hardened to a frown. “You’re becoming a little too fond of shedding blood,” he said sharply. “As I’ve cautioned you, a smart man solves problems with his brain, not his more primitive instincts. Put down the pistol.” A slap of his palm indicated a spot on the desk. “Now.”
Blodgett paled but did as he was told. “Y-You thought it an exceedingly clever plan to murder Ashton and frame Hollis for the deed,” he muttered, moving back to stand by the side table covered with tools.
“So it was. But Nevins was unnecessary. And now . . .” Blackstone leaned back and tapped his fingertips together in thought.
It was a gamble, thought Wrexford, but perhaps the tension between father and son could be turned to his own advantage. Otherwise, he would soon be a dead man.
And he wasn’t quite ready to shake hands with the Devil.
“Since I’m not long for this world, Blackstone, kindly satisfy my curiosity on how you put all of this together. I’m assuming it was Blodgett who killed Ashton and carved the symbol on his belly. But Hollis—”
“Hollis had received a note—one he thought was from Ashton—revising the rendezvous at Half Moon Gate to twenty minutes after the original time,” exclaimed Blodgett hotly. “You frightened him off before the night watchman I sent could catch him.”
Ah, the noise he had heard by the body, thought Wrexford, as more pieces of the puzzle fit together. But there was still something that wasn’t clear. “How was Hollis drawn into the plan?”
“I knew him from his loitering around the mill,” answered Blodgett.
“It was pitifully easy to have one of our hired men convince him that Ashton was, like himself, an altruist and wanted to discuss sharing the profits of any new inventions with his workers. However, Hollis was warned that he needed to set up a rendezvous during Ashton’s visit to London, and that it needed to be done with great secrecy, as Mrs. Ashton was dead set against giving any blunt away. ”
“Clever,” conceded Wrexford. “But—”
Blackstone sighed. “But then I fear Geoffrey overreacted. He felt it necessary to eliminate Hollis so he didn’t start putting two and two together and figure out he had been set up to take the blame.”
“I tell you,” muttered Blodgett, “I had reason to believe he had overheard us in Leeds talking about the patent papers.”
“I fear you have an overactive imagination,” murmured the marquess.
Wrexford didn’t correct him. Instead, deciding to play thorn-in-the-side to the hilt, he thrust the point in a little deeper.
“It was, as Blodgett said, an exceedingly well-thought-out plan,” he said loudly.
“Even Hollis’s death might have slipped by without the authorities connecting it to Ashton.
But . . .” He looked at Blodgett. “Killing Kirkland was the nail in your coffin.”
The earl then slowly shifted his gaze to Blackstone. “And yours, too. I doubt the House of Lords will show mercy to a man who kills his own firstborn son.”
“I was first,” rasped Geoffrey. “Just as I was always first in my father’s affections. Kirkland was an indolent wastrel, while I had the intellect and ambition of a true son of Blackstone.”
“Yes, yes, no need to get yourself in a pucker, Geoffrey.” Blackstone rose, his eyes never leaving Wrexford, and went to stand close to his bastard son.
The earl wondered whether the move was meant to calm Blodgett or to block him from making a rash move for the weapon on the desk. Either way, his needling seemed to be getting under the skin of both men.
“You have no evidence to link us to anything,” continued the marquess. “We were very careful. And now, with Hillhouse’s disappearance, it will be believed that he is the guilty party. Once we clear out this warehouse and move the machinery to another location, his body will never be found.”
“On the contrary, said Wrexford calmly. “We have a witness who saw Blodgett’s face clearly when he was walking with Kirkland. He saw the two of them enter the building, and then, a few minutes later, he also witnessed Blodgett run out and toss away the knife. We have the weapon, still covered in your heir’s blood. ”
“That’s a lie,” spat Blodgett. “No one was there.”
“The fellow was pissing behind the crates where you threw the knife.” He shook his head. “It was rather sloppy of you not to notice. Hubris can be a weakness, too, Blodgett. A fatal one.”
Blodgett started to take a step but his father held him back. “Is it true, Geoffrey?” he asked. “Did you throw away the knife as he described?”
“Yes, damn him. It’s true. But I tell you, it doesn’t matter! The authorities aren’t going to take the word of some drunken street sweep over that of a marquess. You can swear I was with you.”
“The witness is the son of a duke, whose lineage goes back even further than your father’s family,” lied Wrexford, sensing Blackstone was listening carefully and coldly calculating all the ramifications.
The marquess was known to be a brilliant but ruthless man in business.
The flat opaqueness of his lordly eyes reminded the earl of a snake.
A sleek, sinuous predator, devoid of emotion.
“Not that you have a peerage to protect you, Blodgett,” added Wrexford, driving his needle in deeper. “In the eyes of the authorities, you’re no better than the street sweep you just disparaged.”
A look of pure hatred twisted on Blodgett’s face. “He’s lying, Father. Let me shoot him.”
Blackstone held his position, blocking the way to the desk. Eyes narrowing in speculation, he looked back to the earl. “The son of a duke? Pray tell, who?”
Wrexford’s skill at bluffing was well known in the gaming hells of London. Without batting an eye, he replied with another lie. “Lord James Greville.” The man had returned from the West Indies several weeks ago, but from what the earl knew of the fellow, he was not prone to pissing in alleyways.
“Greville?” Blackstone lapsed into a pensive silence.
As his son watched him with growing dismay, Wrexford slowly inched toward the desk and the weapon.
“Greville,” repeated the marquess. A mournful sigh followed.
Wrexford could almost hear the aristocratic gears turning in Blackstone’s head. A life of well-oiled privilege, of ingrained entitlement, was allowing him to spin the wheels to align with his own self-interest.
“An unimpeachable witness,” pressed Wrexford, as he slid a touch closer.
He knew the arrogant assumption of God-like privilege held by many of his fellow peers.
Blackstone would think himself above the law.
All he had to do was give the marquess another little nudge.
“But of course, there’s no witness to you being part of any perfidy. ”
“Then I suppose . . .” Blackstone sighed again, the only sign of emotion. “I suppose Geoffrey will have to swing for the crime. A pity—he’s intelligent, but apparently not quite as clever as he imagined.”
“Father!” gasped Blodgett.
Blackstone eyed him coldly. “It’s purely business, my boy.
When a deal goes bad, you simply have to cut your losses.
” Turning back to Wrexford, he added, “You’re right—there’s no evidence to prove I knew about any of this.
I’ve been away in Wales and have people who will swear to that.
” An evil smile touched his lips. “And who would ever believe that a father would have his heir murdered? ”
“But it was your idea!” exclaimed Blodgett. “Y-you promised!” His voice broke for an instant. “You promised we would build a glorious business empire together! You promised I would be rich! Important! Respected!”
“So I did,” said his father calmly. “But the key to success in business is the willingness to improvise.”
Blodgett sucked in a shuddering breath, his face turning white with fury. His hands fisted for an instant, then quick as a cobra, he yanked a knife from his boot and before Wrexford could react, lunged and stabbed the marquess in the chest.
Blackstone looked down in disbelief as blood spurted from the wound, turning his snowy shirtfront crimson. He staggered back a step, his fingers feebly touching the hilt.
As his father’s body crumpled to the floor Blodgett spun around and snatched up a hammer from the tools lying on the side table. Swinging it high with a keening cry, he rushed at the earl.
A sudden flash of fire flared in the gloom outside the open doorway just as Wrexford pivoted and threw up his arm to parry the attack. Too late! The devil-dark hammer was but a hairsbreadth from—
Crack!
Wrexford flinched as a second flash exploded with a deafening bang. Blodgett stumbled and fell, the weapon slipping from his hand as the echo of the gunshot died away.
The thumping bounce of steel on wood sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
“Ye god, another dead peer I have to explain to my superiors,” drawled Griffin. The scrim of smoke floated away, revealing the Runner standing in the corridor. He lowered his pistol. “At least you didn’t set half of London on fire this time, Lord Wrexford.”
“I am growing more cautious in my old age,” replied the earl dryly. “My thanks, by the by, for not letting that madman smash my skull.”
“Oh, it isn’t me you should be thanking . . .”
It was only then that he noticed Sheffield standing in Griffin’s shadow.
“My weapon misfired, but thank God your friend is better at marksmanship than he is at gambling.” The Runner flicked a speck of burnt powder from the barrel of his weapon and slid it into his coat pocket. “It seems he’s a clever fellow when it counts.”
“Clever, indeed.” Wrexford locked eyes with Sheffield and held them for a long moment before giving a gruff nod. “I’m most grateful, Kit.”
A smile twitched on his friend’s lips. “A purely selfish reaction. Who else would be so generous with his port and brandy?”
“Aye. I’m grateful as well,” interjected Griffin. “I would sorely miss my excellent suppers.”
“I owe you an extra apple tart for rushing to my rescue,” replied the earl.
A flash of humor sparked beneath the Runner’s heavily lidded eyes. “And a wedge of Stilton.” His gaze then moved back to the bodies of Blodgett and Blackstone.
Wrexford looked down as well, watching the dark rivulets of liquid pooling together on the planked floor. Tied together by blood, in life and in death.
“On second thought, milord, you owe me the whole bloody wheel of cheese,” murmured Griffin with a martyred sigh. “You’ve given me an unholy mess to explain to the government.”
“Actually it’s as simple as the Seven Deadly Sins to explain.
Greed, envy—mankind simply can’t resist the Devil’s temptation,” said the earl.
“To spare themselves the embarrassment of having to admit that we aristocratic arses are as bad as the rest of humanity, your superiors can blame it all on Blodgett, a bastard son who murdered Blackstone and Kirkland, as well as Ashton, in hopes of stealing the patent for himself.”
“That will likely work,” mused the Runner. “The only trouble is, given the swarm of your urchin informants flitting around here, it’s almost certain word of what really happened here will reach that infernal scribbler, A. J. Quill. He has eyes and ears everywhere.”
“The urchins and I have an understanding. Trust me, A. J. Quill will have nothing to say on what transpired here today.”
“Hmmph. If you manage that miracle, then it’s I who owe you dinner.”
“Given the fact that you kept me from sticking my spoon in the wall, I’m happy to fork over the blunt for a beefsteak and ale.
” As Wrexford paused to blink the grit from his eyes, he suddenly realized that Sheffield had come to stand beside the Runner.
And behind Sheffield was a slender figure wreathed in shadows . . .
And then suddenly, the figure—moving nearly as quickly as the pistol’s bullet—shot past Griffin. The Runner made to follow, but Sheffield grabbed the latch of the open door and swung it shut in both their faces.