Chapter 15 #2
Lady Westcott sighed, though there was no true reprimand in her tone. “We discussed this, remember? No one is going to be kidnapped.”
“But I’ve never arranged a kidnapping before,” Lady Bedford declared. “I was rather hoping it would be as thrilling as it sounds. Perhaps we could lure him into a carriage under the pretense of a parliamentary emergency.”
“Absolutely not,” Lady Westcott said with a shake of her head. “I don’t believe kidnapping one of the peers of the realm is the best way to show our support.”
Dorothea laughed at the exchange, and she found herself sinking a little more comfortably into the settee cushions. For the first time in days, she felt less alone—less like she was fighting an invisible battle no one else could see.
“You two are quite unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” she said, smiling.
Lady Bedford smirked. “That is the highest compliment you could have given us.”
“And we fully intend to be the most meddlesome, loyal friends you never asked for,” Lady Westcott added with a wink.
Dominic sat stiffly in the rancid interior of the hackney. His boots stuck to the grime-slicked floor with every jostle of the wheels, but he scarcely noticed. That was the least of his concerns. What he needed now was information and there was only one man in London who might possess it.
The hackney jerked to a halt along a narrow, soot-streaked street on the east side of Town, far from the polished boulevards of Mayfair.
Dominic pushed open the creaking door and stepped down onto the uneven pavement.
He adjusted the hem of his weathered blue waistcoat and glanced up at the sign swinging on rusted chains above him: The Black Vulture.
He handed a few coins to the driver and didn’t wait for thanks.
Dominic noted the men idling in the shadows—ragged figures leaning against soot-blackened walls or tucked into the mouths of alleys, eyes glinting with suspicion or malice.
They watched him, weighing the cut of his coat and the scuffed quality of his boots.
He met their eyes with quiet warning. He was in no mood to be trifled with.
He had come for answers.
Answers about the man who dared infiltrate his household in the guise of a footman. The man who had tried to hurt Dorothea.
The Black Vulture was just as he remembered it. A thatched roof in desperate need of repair. Greasy windows coated with grime. Nothing had changed.
Dominic reached for the handle, but the door swung open before he could touch it. A man stumbled out, his coat askew and his breath reeking of stale ale. He collided with Dominic and gave a bleary scowl.
“Watch where you’re goin’, Mister,” the drunk slurred, before lurching off down the street.
Dominic didn’t respond. He stepped inside and was immediately assaulted by the pungent smell of tobacco, sweat, spilled ale, and something acrid he couldn’t name. The pub was dimly lit, its rafters low and blackened with age and smoke. Familiar, in the worst possible way.
The tables were crowded with rough men nursing tankards and secrets. Dice clattered. Laughter barked. And in the far corner, half-shrouded in shadow, sat the man he’d come to see.
Blackthorn.
Once a colleague of sorts, now a seller of secrets to the highest bidder. If knowledge was currency, Blackthorn was among the wealthiest men in London.
Dominic wove his way through the hall, skirting spilled drinks and overturned chairs, until two hulking figures rose from a nearby table to block his path.
“I’m here to see Blackthorn,” Dominic said without slowing.
The larger of the two crossed his arms. “No one sees Blackthorn unless he says so.”
A low voice cut through the noise behind them. “Let him through.”
The brutes hesitated, then parted.
Blackthorn hadn’t changed much. Average height, lean frame, black hair slicked back from a sharply angled face. But it was his eyes that truly distinguished him—black as pitch and perpetually assessing, as if dissecting a man’s thoughts before they were spoken.
He didn’t rise, merely gestured to the vacant chair across from him. “I’ll admit, I never expected to see Dominic Stevens again. Word was you’d died somewhere on the Continent. Nice scar, by the way.”
Dominic sat. “Not dead. Just changed. I left Bow Street and took up a different fight.”
Blackthorn’s lip curled. “The war? A pointless venture.”
Dominic met his gaze. “I disagree.”
Blackthorn snapped his fingers towards a passing barmaid. “Well, you look awful. A drink, at least?”
“This isn’t a social call,” Dominic said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard over all the noise. “I need information.”
“Ah, so that’s why you’ve graced me with your presence.” Blackthorn leaned forward, his voice curt. “You disappear for years, no word, and now you come to make use of me?”
Dominic reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small velvet pouch. He dropped it onto the table with a dull thud.
Blackthorn’s eyes sharpened. He pulled the pouch closer and opened it, the glint of silver catching the low light. “Well,” he said, his smile returning, “now you have my attention.”
The barmaid returned and set down two tankards. Dominic took a sip and grimaced. “Still serving watered-down ale, I see.”
“Have a few and you won’t mind so much,” Blackthorn replied with a chuckle.
Dominic set the drink down and folded his hands on the table. “Do we have a deal?”
Blackthorn’s smile faded. “We do. What is it you need?”
“I’m looking for a man. He posed as a footman in my household. Tall. Dark hair. Passed himself off well enough to get past my staff.”
Blackthorn leaned back and surveyed the hall. “That describes half the men in this room. You’ll have to do better.”
“I know it isn’t much. But you’ve found people with less to go on.”
“True,” Blackthorn responded. “What’s he done to earn your ire?”
Dominic’s expression hardened. “He threatened someone under my protection.”
Blackthorn raised a brow. “A woman, I presume.”
“Yes,” he replied. “My wife, in fact.”
Blackthorn let out a low chuckle, his voice laced with amused disbelief. “What unlucky woman married you?”
Dominic didn’t dignify that with a response.
Blackthorn smirked, but rose to his feet with a languid stretch. “Give me a moment,” he said, strolling towards the bar with the ease of a man who had no enemies—or who had already dealt with them.
Dominic watched as Blackthorn leaned in to murmur something to the barman, a wiry man with a thinning hairline and a permanent scowl etched across his face.
They spoke in hushed tones, their exchange swift and efficient.
At one point, Blackthorn gestured subtly over his shoulder, and the barman nodded in reply.
Finally, Blackthorn returned to the table, resuming his seat with a more serious expression. He leaned forward, his voice lowered.
“Blake—my man behind the counter—mentioned someone who came in here a few nights ago, asking dangerous questions. Tall fellow, dark hair. Spoke of revenge. Matches your description of the impostor.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “Does he have a name?”
“No name,” Blackthorn said, a glint of satisfaction lighting his eyes, “but I can do even better. He’s here. Now. Sitting in the corner, drinking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.”
Dominic turned his head slightly, pretending to scan the room casually. His gaze landed on a shadowed figure at the far table, half-hidden by a wooden beam. The man held a tankard, his posture relaxed, but when their eyes met, recognition flared. It was him. The false footman.
Dominic stiffened, pulse quickening. Could it truly be this easy?
He began to rise, but Blackthorn’s hand shot out to stop him. “Don’t make a mess in my tavern,” he warned. “Take it outside if you must.”
Dominic gave a single nod. “Understood.”
As if sensing danger, the man in the corner abruptly stood. His eyes darted around, then locked on to Dominic again—this time filled with alarm. Without a word, he bolted for the door, nearly knocking over a barmaid in his haste.
Blackthorn sighed. “Oh, splendid. We’ve got a runner.”
Dominic was already moving, pushing through the crowd, ignoring shouted protests and overturned stools as he charged out the door. The cool night air hit his face as he spotted the man careening down the street, shoving past pedestrians and sending crates tumbling in his wake.
Dominic gave chase, his boots pounding against the cobblestones. The man ducked into a side alley, and Dominic followed without hesitation, drawing his pistol as the foul, narrow passage swallowed him whole.
Ahead, the man scrambled up a stack of broken crates, clearly aiming to scale the crumbling wall that marked the end of the alley.
“Stop right there,” Dominic barked.
The man hesitated, then froze at the top of the crates, but didn’t turn around. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice rough with exertion.
“Answers,” Dominic replied, raising his pistol.
Slowly, the man turned, revealing his own weapon—a flintlock, already cocked and aimed directly at Dominic’s chest. “I could just as easily kill you as talk,” he said.
“Then we’re at an impasse,” Dominic stated, his grip tightening on the handle of his pistol. “You hurt someone I care about.”
A bitter laugh escaped the man’s lips. “And you did the same to me.”
Dominic frowned. “I don’t even know you.”
“No, but you knew my sister,” the man spat out. “You had her transported for theft.”
Dominic’s mind quickly scanned years of arrests and cases. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve arrested dozens of thieves.”
“She was known as the Mayfair Robber.”
Realization dawned on him. “Yes… I remember her. Clever, bold. I always suspected she had a partner.”
“She did,” the man growled. “Me. But she never gave me up. Not even when she was caught.”
Dominic felt no regret. “Your sister stole thousands of pounds worth of jewelry from some of the wealthiest households in London. She knew the risks. Her sentence was just.”
“She didn’t deserve to die,” he snapped, his voice cracking with raw emotion.
“She wasn’t hanged,” Dominic remarked. “She was only sentenced to being transported.”
“No,” the man breathed, his voice trembling with fury barely contained. “She died on the voyage. Fever took her. Starved. Forgotten in the belly of a rotting prison ship while rats gnawed the boards around her.”
The words hit Dominic like a blow. He tightened his jaw, his grip steady on the pistol, though a sliver of guilt threaded through his chest. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t!” the man snarled, his voice rising with each word. “Why would you? You never cared about her. She was just another name in your ledger. Another criminal to cart away.”
Dominic met his gaze without flinching. “That’s not true.”
The man’s lip curled into a bitter sneer. “Isn’t it? You claim to care now, but where was your pity then? You never saw her as a person but rather a case to close. But you didn’t just ruin her life. You ruined mine.”
The man’s expression darkened as he continued. “And now,” he said, “you’re going to learn what that feels like.”
Dominic heard it before he saw it—the cold, metallic click of a pistol being cocked behind him. He tensed, then slowly turned his head.
Blackthorn stood at the mouth of the alley, his pistol raised and aimed squarely at him. “Lower the pistol, Stevens. You won’t be needing that anymore since dead men can’t shoot.”