Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Any word from your men at the docks, Blackwood?” Leo demanded, pacing the confines of his study with barely contained energy. The dark shadows beneath his eyes betrayed three sleepless nights.
“Not since yesterday, Your Grace.” Blackwood’s weathered face revealed nothing. “My informant claims that Westbury visited his warehouse before dawn but vanished again like smoke.”
Leo slammed his hand against the mantelpiece. “Not good enough. That man poisoned the Duchess. Every hour he remains free is another hour he plots his next attack.”
Blackwood nodded, unruffled by his outburst. “I understand your frustration, but these investigations require patience. Rush now, and he’ll slip through our fingers.”
“Patience?” Leo’s laugh held no humor. “While that snake slithers freely through London? Double your men. Triple them if necessary. I’ll cover every expense.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Blackwood gathered his notes. “I’ll report any developments immediately.”
When the door closed behind him, Leo collapsed into his chair, bone-deep exhaustion washing over him.
Five days since Beatrice had left for her family home. Five endless days since she had called him a coward—words that cut deeper because they were true.
He had thrown himself into hunting Westbury with ruthless determination, as if capturing the villain could somehow fill the emptiness in his chest where Beatrice had been.
A sharp knock interrupted his brooding.
“Enter,” he called, straightening in his chair.
Adrian stepped inside, taking in his disheveled appearance with a raised eyebrow. “Good God, man. When did you last sleep? You look like hell warmed over.”
“Your observational skills remain unrivaled,” Leo replied, irritation edging his voice. “Was there something you needed?”
Adrian settled into the chair opposite, uninvited. “To prevent you from working yourself into an early grave, apparently.” He gestured toward the empty decanter. “Your valet says you’ve barely eaten since Tuesday.”
“I’ll eat when Westbury is in chains,” Leo muttered, avoiding the concern in his friend’s gaze. “Why are you here, Adrian?”
Adrian studied him for a long moment. “The servants tell me the Duchess has left for her family home.”
Leo flinched at the mention of Beatrice, her name alone enough to make his heart clench.
“A temporary arrangement,” he said tersely, “until this business with Westbury is concluded.”
“Is that what you told her, or what you told yourself?” Adrian’s voice remained conversational, but his eyes missed nothing.
“Don’t start.” Leo rose abruptly, moving to the window to escape his friend’s perceptive gaze.
Outside, rain misted the garden, turning the world gray and formless.
“Someone must.” Adrian’s voice softened. “You’re destroying yourself, Leo. And for what? You think capturing Westbury will heal what you’ve broken with your wife?”
“This isn’t about Beatrice.” The lie tasted bitter on Leo’s tongue.
“Isn’t it?” Adrian challenged. “You could have protected her here, under your watchful eye. Instead, you sent her away—not for her safety, but for yours. Because it’s easier to hunt a criminal than to face your feelings.”
“Enough.” Leo’s voice dropped dangerously. “You overstep.”
“And you underestimate her.” Adrian stood up, meeting his glare without flinching. “Did it ever occur to you that Beatrice might have preferred the danger at your side to safety without you?”
The question struck too close to truths Leo couldn’t face. “I have work to do.”
Adrian sighed, recognizing the walls rising between them. “Very well. Hunt your villain. Exhaust yourself in the chase. But ask yourself this, Leo. When this is over, when Westbury is caught and justice is served, what then? What life will you return to?”
The question lingered in the air between them, unanswered as he took his leave.
Alone again, Leo stared out at the rain-soaked garden, seeing not the present gloom but the memory of Beatrice walking there, sunlight in her hair, quiet determination in her steps.
The image twisted in his chest like a knife.
Days blurred together in a haze of reports, meetings, and dead ends.
Leo slept little, ate less, driving himself and Blackwood’s men with relentless purpose. Each lead pursued, each witness questioned, each piece of evidence examined: all with singular focus, as if Westbury’s capture could somehow fix what Leo himself had broken.
On the morning of the sixth day, Peters entered the study bearing a silver salver with a single letter.
“Delivered by an urchin, Your Grace,” he explained. “The boy disappeared before anyone could question him.”
Leo broke the unfamiliar seal, immediately tensing as he recognized the elegant script.
Your Grace,
Your persistence has become tiresome. Perhaps it is time we reached an understanding. I propose a private meeting to discuss terms that might prove beneficial to us both.
Come alone to the abandoned Morrison warehouse near the east docks tomorrow at two o’clock. Should you involve the authorities, I shall know immediately and disappear permanently—along with certain knowledge that would prove most distressing to your family.
Lord Westbury.
Leo read the message twice, recognizing the trap in its cordial phrasing. Westbury was desperate, which made him more dangerous than ever.
“A trap,” he murmured, feeling the first stirring of satisfaction in days. “Good.”
Within the hour, Blackwood stood before him, examining the letter with shrewd eyes.
“He’s desperate,” he concluded. “Which makes this opportunity valuable, and exceedingly dangerous.”
“I’m going,” Leo stated, his tone brooking no argument.
“Alone?” Blackwood’s weathered face contorted with concern. “That would be unwise, Your Grace.”
“Westbury believes I’ll come alone,” Leo said, a cold smile touching his lips. “And so I shall. But you and your men will be positioned nearby, ready to move when I give the signal—or if you hear gunfire.”
Blackwood considered the plan, then nodded slowly. “Three men across the street, four at the rear entrance. We’ll stay out of sight until your signal.”
“Perfect.” Leo withdrew a small pistol from his desk drawer, checking its mechanism with practiced hands. “Tomorrow, this ends. One way or another.”
That night, standing at his bedroom window, Leo stared out at the darkness, feeling the weight of Beatrice’s absence like a physical ache.
Tomorrow, he would confront Westbury and end the threat to her safety. But would it matter? The walls he had built to protect her were the same walls that now kept her away.
Adrian’s question echoed in his mind. “When this is over, what then?”
The answer terrified him more than any physical danger.
The Morrison warehouse loomed against the gray London sky, its abandoned silhouette casting long shadows over the rain-slicked cobblestones. Leo approached alone, his strides purposeful despite the tension in his muscles. His pistol pressed reassuringly against his ribs, hidden beneath his coat.
He paused at the entrance, listening for any sound that might betray an ambush. Hearing nothing but the distant cry of gulls, he pushed open the weathered door, wincing at the creak that echoed through the cavernous space.
Dust motes danced in the shafts of afternoon light piercing through broken windows. The vast space echoed with his footsteps as he moved deliberately toward the center, his senses alert for any movement in the shadows.
“Your Grace. How good of you to come.”
Westbury emerged from behind a stack of forgotten crates, immaculately dressed as always, his cultivated refinement at odds with their squalid surroundings. Not a hair out of place, not a speck of dust on his perfectly tailored coat.
“Lord Westbury.” Leo kept his voice neutral, maintaining a careful distance. “Your note mentioned an agreement.”
“Indeed.” Westbury gave a smile that never reached his cold eyes. “I find myself in the unusual position of demanding a compromise.”
“Compromise?” Leo arched an eyebrow, scanning the periphery for hidden assailants. “I wasn’t aware we had anything to negotiate.”
Westbury circled him slowly, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture of contemplative ease. “Come now, Your Grace. We’re both men of the world. Businessmen in our own ways. Surely, we can reach an agreement that serves our mutual interests.”
“I fail to see what interests we might share.”
“Safety,” Westbury replied smoothly. “Security. The continued enjoyment of our respective positions in Society.”
Leo remained still. “Elaborate.”
“It’s quite simple.” Westbury paused, studying him with calculating eyes. “Your cousin and his… companion remain silent about what they believe they witnessed. You cease your inquiries through official channels. In exchange, I make sure that no further… misfortunes befall your lovely Duchess.”
At the mention of Beatrice, Leo’s control nearly slipped. Blood roared in his ears, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to lunge for the man’s throat.
He managed to keep his expression neutral, though his pulse quickened with rage. “You poisoned her.”
“A regrettable misunderstanding.” Westbury waved a dismissive hand, the gesture casual as if discussing a faux pas. “Merely intended as a demonstration of reach, not permanent harm.”
“A demonstration that failed.” Leo took a deliberate step closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. “She recovered. And now I know precisely who my enemy is.”
Something shifted in Westbury’s demeanor, the veneer of civility thinning. “Think carefully, Stagmore. You have more to lose than anyone else.”
“Do I?” Leo maintained eye contact, watching for tells—the slight twitch at the corner of Westbury’s mouth, the fingers that couldn’t quite stay still.
“My investigation has uncovered interesting details about your operation. The customs officials you’ve bribed, the shipments of contraband, the violence against those who threaten your interests. ”
“Allegations without proof,” Westbury countered, but his voice lacked its earlier confidence.
“Oh, I have proof,” Leo lied smoothly. “Documents. Testimony from those who’ve seen too much to remain silent. All safely delivered to people beyond your reach, should anything happen to me.”
The practiced charm vanished from Westbury’s face, replaced by cold calculation. His eyes flicked briefly to the warehouse’s rear entrance. “I see. Then perhaps we should discuss terms more… concretely.”
“There are no terms,” Leo replied, dropping all pretense. “You attacked my family. Threatened my wife. There’s only one acceptable outcome, Westbury.”
“Your father would have understood business,” Westbury sneered, backing away slightly. “He knew when to negotiate and when to compromise.”
“I’m not my father.” The words felt like freedom as they left Leo’s lips.
Something shifted in Westbury’s expression—a flicker of uncertainty, quickly masked by hardening resolve. “No, you’re not. More’s the pity.”
The movement came with practiced speed—Westbury reached inside his coat; metal glinted in the dusty light. Leo reacted instinctively, lunging forward even as pain exploded across his ribs.
They crashed together, momentum carrying them into a stack of crates that splintered beneath their weight. The impact knocked the breath from Leo’s lungs, but his hand locked around Westbury’s wrist, forcing the knife away as they grappled on the warehouse floor.
Blood soaked through Leo’s waistcoat, hot and slick against his skin. Each movement sent fresh agony through his side, but the pain sharpened his focus rather than dulling it. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as he clenched his teeth against a shout.
Westbury fought with the desperate strength of a cornered animal, landing a blow to Leo’s wounded side that sent stars across his vision. Leo retaliated with calculated precision, driving his fist into Westbury’s throat, cutting off his cry for assistance.
“Your men aren’t coming,” he growled, yanking the knife out of Westbury’s grasp. “They’ve been detained.”
Fear flashed in Westbury’s eyes as Leo pinned him, and blood from Leo’s wound dripped onto the man’s immaculate cravat.
For a moment, Leo savored the terror on his enemy’s face, the man who had threatened Beatrice. It would be so easy to end it here, to ensure that Westbury could never threaten those he loved again.
Loved.
The word sliced through the rage clouding his mind. Not cared for. Not felt responsible for.
Loved.
Leo pressed his forearm across Westbury’s throat, just enough to restrict his breathing.
“You’ll stand trial for your crimes,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “Every one of them. And when you’re rotting in Newgate, remember it was your own arrogance that put you there.”
Footsteps pounded through the warehouse as the Bow Street Runners swarmed in, surrounding them with drawn pistols.
“Excellent timing, gentlemen,” Leo praised, rising to his feet with deliberate dignity despite the blood staining his side. He swayed slightly, the thrill ebbing to reveal the true extent of his injury.
“Your Grace!” Blackwood rushed forward, catching his arm as he stumbled. “You’re wounded—”
“It’s nothing,” Leo lied, even as fresh blood seeped between the fingers pressed to his side. “See to Westbury.”
Blackwood signaled to his men, who hauled Westbury roughly to his feet and secured his hands behind his back. “We’ll take him directly to Bow Street. The magistrate has already been alerted.”
Westbury’s face contorted with hatred as the Runners dragged him past Leo. “This isn’t finished, Stagmore.”
“On the contrary,” Leo replied coolly, meeting his venomous gaze without flinching. “It’s been finished since the moment you threatened my wife.”
Only when Westbury had been removed from the warehouse did Leo allow himself to sag against a nearby beam, his hand coming away from his side slick with blood.
“You need a physician, Your Grace,” Blackwood said, concern creasing his weathered face.
“Later.” Leo straightened, ignoring the protest of his wounded flesh. “I have two people to reunite.”