Epilogue
Lark tugged at the sleeves of his coat before strutting into the small, dank tavern on the edge of the wharf. He’d hoped to be invited to the toff’s home, as he’d never once ventured into the finer neighborhoods of London, but he surmised it was best not to be seen in such a place.
Certainly, his new “friend” wouldn’t wish to have Lark roaming about his garden.
“What’s your pleasure,” said the ancient man at the bar dispensing ale.
“I’ve a meetin’ upstairs.” Lark jerked his chin. “I’m Lark.”
“Ah. So you do.” He ran bleary eyes over him. “Door at the end of the hall.”
“Grand.” Lark sauntered up the rickety stairs, pausing only to pat the book in his pocket. He’d paid a scribe to write out the letter to his mark, who he shot after passing the note to the messenger. He could read but his writin’ left much to be desired. He didn’t want to be misunderstood.
A reply came a few hours later.
Lark shot the messenger too.
No witnesses.
The mark insisted and Lark agreed. Didn’t want to risk anyone flapping their gums about delivering notes for Lark to some fancy house.
The mark picked the spot, this broken-down tavern near the water, and the time, which was just shy of ten o’clock.
He made it clear he was willing to pay a king’s ransom for the book.
As well he should, considering the things he’d done.
Mrs. Bean was quite thorough in her research, though why she’d bothered, Lark had no idea.
Only that it would make him rich.
Lark grinned as he made his way down the hall which smelled of the sea, ale and somethin’ greasy.
His price had gone up now that he knew how badly this gentleman wanted the book. Maybe he’d dole it out page by page. Could take years. Lark didn’t mind handing bits of the book over. He’d already memorized the most important parts.
He knocked on the door and waited.
“Come.”
Lark stepped inside, one hand on the pistol at his waist. He’d be a fool to trust this man, given what he’d read, and Lark wasn’t an idiot. He’d had two of his men arrive a bit earlier, instructing them to stay hidden. Wren and Sparrow. Good lads. If anything went wrong, they’d come running.
He paused before stepping over the threshold, realizing neither had been in the taproom.
The room was dark, with only a pale sliver of moonlight drifting beyond the window and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. A gentleman sat at a table just to the left of the window.
He couldn’t make out his face, but Lark could see the rest of him.
Expensive clothes. Smelled like soap. Slender, gloved hands that had likely never done a day’s work, ’cept killin’. If Mrs. Bean was to be believed.
“Ah,” came the low cultured tone. “Mr. Lark.”
“That’s me.” Lark lifted his chin arrogantly, matching the other man’s tone. The duke’s murder had been years ago, when this man was much younger. It was unlikely, after years of a soft life, that he was a physical match for Lark. A pouch, heavy with gold coins, sat at his elbow.
“Show me.”
Lark pulled the book out of his pocket and held it up.
He’d marked the page where this man’s name first appeared, written in a shaking hand by Mrs. Bean.
Opening the small bound leather tome, he took a seat across from the gentleman.
Pulling out his pistol, Lark cocked the weapon and pointed it in the man’s direction before sliding the book across the table.
“Is that necessary, Mr. Lark?” The man shrugged. “Very well.” He peered at the book, showing no emotion at the page mentioning his name and that of the assailants he’d hired. “How careless of me. I should have tidied things up myself.” He straightened.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” Lark said.
“Thinking? Oh, that’s dangerous, Mr. Lark,” the man answered in a silky tone. “Allow me to guess. You’ve decided to raise your price.”
“This,” he tapped the book with the tip of the pistol. “Is worth quite a bit. They might even hang you if this comes out.”
A sound left the man across from him. “Doubtful.”
“Why take the risk.” Lark pulled the book back towards him. “Here’s what I propose. You’ll pay by the page.” He nodded at the sack of coins. “I’ll take that tonight. Contact you when you can have the next page.”
“Oh Mr. Lark,” the gentleman made a tsking sound. “Your greed knows no bounds.” A dark laugh came from him. “But I’m guilty of that as well. Hand me the book and we’ll conclude our business.”
“I don’t think so.” Lark lifted the pistol higher.
“You leave me no choice. Very well. So be it.”
Lark smiled. He was still grinning when the blade flashed out to sink into his throat.
Never saw him move.
“You—” Lark tried to finish the sentence but all that came out was a small gurgling sound as he dropped the pistol. He grasped futilely at the hilt of the knife, buried in his throat. Blood gushed out of the wound, splashing all over the table.
The gentleman hastily picked up the book.
“I’d hate to get blood on this.” Tucking it inside his coat pocket, he stood.
“If it makes you feel at all better, Mr. Lark, you never had a chance at escaping this room alive. I detest blackmail. It is the lowest form of commerce known to man. As if I would allow you to do such a thing. To me.”
Lark fell over clutching at his throat.
“Oh, those two men you had stationed outside. Already dead.” A bubble of laughter escaped the man before him.
“Goodness, I’ve faced far more intelligent men than you, Mr. Lark.
I’m almost insulted you assumed you’d get away with this.
I play a long game, one which I have every intention of winning. ”
Lark lay there, watching the blood seep through his fingers, feeling more and more…tired.
Dead.
What little light there was in the room, dimmed. He couldn’t see the moon outside anymore.
“Mrs. Bean was the wise one.” He stepped over Lark and made his way to the door. “Unfortunate I never had the chance to meet her.”
The door slamming shut was the last thing Lark heard before he closed his eyes.
Then, there was nothing.