Men Argue. Nature Acts. #2
“Yes, but…” He covered his face with his hands.
“It’s Chambers. It’s always Chambers, or Cluny as he calls himself here.
He was behind it all. I-I thought I’d got rid of him in London but he found me.
Always finds me. Turned up here as valet.
He likes to-to…play games with people. Makes sport of me. Takes all my money.”
“How so?”
“B-blackmails me. Knows things about me that my family…” He gulped.
Miles thought he’d get to the point. “So is he blackmailing you to kill me?”
“What?” Webb’s head shot up. “Hell, no! What do you mean kill you? I loathed you back then, Firth, and still do for the court martial, what it meant to Father, but…” He shook his head. “I loathed the army more, was glad to be out in the end.” He blinked. “I-I couldn’t kill anyone.”
Miles nodded. Could quite believe him but…
“What happened here? Why the mess? Where’s Cluny? Or Martin Chambers, I should say.”
“H-he was in a fair temper yestereve, but tonight, tonight he was downright odd, been at the laudanum again, I think. Gets a gleam in his eyes and loses his mind, mutters and throws things about. Mumbles about you too. Hates you.”
“Why?”
“’Cos you ended his little racket.”
“Where is he now?”
“How would I know?” Webb’s brow creased. “Muttered stuff that he’d had enough, was going to The Angel or someplace. Wherever that is.”
“Coaching inn on the North Road,” said Lynch. “He’s leaving Town.”
Webb shrugged but a cold dread filled Miles and his fists clenched tight as he slowly turned to his groom. “But that’s not the only Angel in London, is it?”
Dempster’s eyes widened.
“And would you say,” Miles rasped, “that Chambers himself could be violent?”
“Oh, aye,” his groom said low. “Saw him backhand a laundrymaid once. Broke her nose.”
Miles’ boots were already at the door. “Lynch, fetch Dair. We’re to St James’s.”
“Evenin’, Angel.”
With a deep breath, Verity willed her limbs to cease their tremble. Could smell starch and sweat over her shoulder as the forearm tightened around her neck. “W-who are you? Is it Mr Webb?”
Breath was hot in her ear with the sickly stench of laudanum. “That pathetic fop couldn’t piss on a fire.”
“Then who–”
He jerked the arm tight to her throat, something sharp against the bodice of her smock yet she could not lower her head to look.
“Answered yer questions in the hospital once, Angel. All about bloody Firth, weren’t it? But I’ve been watching him, saw the two of yer at the fair.”
Verity closed her eyes. “W-who are you then? What do you wan–”
“Name’s Chambers. Or Cluny, on occasion,” he rasped. “And I’m ever so pleased to make your acquaintance once more, Miss Seymour.” His accent had changed from St Giles Rookery to Mayfair and back again. “And wot do I want? Well, I want ter hurt yer.”
“Why?” She was desperate to try and keep him talking. “I’ve done naught to you.”
The sharpness pressed against her breast, not enough to pierce the material but she knew it was a blade.
“Yer lover has. And though it’s been entertaining watching him chase his own tail around London, now yer’ll all pay.
You, with yer life. Pathetic Webb, when this knife is found in his rooms and he dances in the noose.
The captain… Maybe he’ll blow his own brains out at losing such a prime piece as you.
Maybe I’ll do it fer him. Revenge is best taken in me own time, I’ve learned. ”
“R-revenge for what?” She inched her hand to the open pot of marble dust.
“No time, Angel. Now shush. I’ll be quick with yer.”
Verity closed her eyes. “They’ll find you,” she whispered, fingers clenching on the pot. “You’ll hang. Put the knife down and I’ll forget this ever happened.”
“They ain’t gonna find me, Angel.” He cut a bib string to her smock.
With the laudanum, Verity knew there’d be no reasoning with him, gritted her teeth as he slid the knife beneath her second bib string and–
“Don’t you dare!” The fearsome demand caused Verity’s breath to hitch and the madman to flinch.
But he swung them both to face Miles. “Well, well, the captain has come ter play. Worked it out ’ave yer?”
“Drop the knife or you’re dead.”
Verity drank in the sight of Miles: his jaw clenched tight, shoulders square, temper coiled to erupt, hair tousled and eyes cold as Death’s hand.
“And how yer gonna do that, whoreson!” Chambers spat. “I’ll take this Angel with me. Watch from hell as yer tear yerself apart.”
“All this,” Miles growled, “just because I ended your little racket? You weren’t the one court-martialled.”
A harsh laugh as the knife abraded her bodice, his grip tightening.
“I was making a tidy profit till you ruined it all. Had it good. But those Spanish mercenaries thought I’d crossed them and when they found me, beat me half to death.
I was sent home to some flea-infested hospital, caught a fever, and all of it due to you taking a piss that night!
” He hissed a breath. “Then a gift from hell. Cos I saw yer. Just two streets from Webb’s and followed yer to that bloody nob’s house of yours.
Thought to make it look like an accident at first… ”
Verity could feel sweat from his skin trickle upon her cheek, heard the savagery that gripped him, knew they were at an impasse.
And Miles dared not move.
But in that moment of silence…
A rustle of leaves and she slid her eyes to the side, saw Mr Alasdair Firth and another man behind the greenery of the Ficus carica.
Knew what to do.
“I-I’m going to be sick!” She gurgled. Then heaved.
Chambers flinched and she flung marble dust over her shoulder, into his eyes.
Then Miles was there, taking the wretch to the ground, Mr Firth and Mr Lynch dragging her from them and that blade as they fought.
Miles slammed Chambers’ hand to the tiles, the knife skittering.
A smash to his face, another and another, the fiend no match for Miles’ wrath.
Mr Firth surged forwards, grabbing Miles’ fist with both hands. And even then, struggled to hold it.
“Enough… He’s…” They all stared to the groaning and bloodied face of Chambers. “Not going anywhere.”
Miles watchfully rose, his face pale, knuckles bleeding, and she darted into his embrace.
“Hell, Verity, my precious Verity… Forgive me, it was my fault.” His hands swept over her shoulders, her face, as though assuring himself she was truly unharmed. Then he crushed her against his chest. “You’re trembling.”
“I-I am well. You’re here.” She buried her face briefly against his coat and drew a shaky breath. “How did you know?”
“Your painting, Verity. You painted him.”
“Did I?” She peered down. “He said we’d spoken in a hospital and called me Angel but I don’t recognise him.”
“He had red hair then. Was in our dragoons but under a different captaincy than mine. But if you were asking for men of the regiment in the hospitals, you would have found him.”
She blinked.
Colonel Brandon meanwhile had now found a softer perch and had sat himself atop the villain, chewing his claws.
“Yes! Now I recognise him. He wanted a guinea for his picture and I swear stole my gloves. I’m glad I threw my expensive marble dust in his eyes now.”
Miles laughed. “As am I, my Amaranth.”
And without another word, with Verity’s eyes wide, he cupped her face with both hands, pulled her towards him and kissed her.
To a roll of eye from Mr Firth, a grin from Miles’ factotum, gold tooth glinting in the lanternlight, and…and wasn’t that other one-armed man a soldier she’d met in the hospital, too? He winked at them.
The plants, of course, just silently began to furl for the night, awaiting a new day.