When a Rogue Falls

by Caroline Linden

  He was on his knees, on hard ground. A great pressure bore down on his head.

  There was the water, so much water.

  He opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. Not only did the vile water sting his pupils, but he knew now that he was being held down in a wooden bucket by a pair of hands far too strong to easily shake. All of these realizations took approximately thirty seconds, though he would have sworn a half hour had passed.

  With full awareness of his situation came blinding panic. The knowledge that if he did not get free of this grasp he would surely die. He began to thrash wildly, striking out with his arms until finally he came into contact with his captor’s limbs. The grip upon his head loosened and with one final act of strength, Charlie lifted himself out of and away from the barrel.

  Water streamed down his face, clouded his vision, burned his eyes. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, yet the murk remained. A man stood in front of him, but he couldn’t distinguish much more, and his ears were too water-logged to register sound. He shook his head frantically, then stuck his pinkies in his ears to dislodge the water.

  His hearing returned before his vision. The first sound he heard was unmistakably laughter, a cruel, sadistic laughter he knew all too well. He didn’t have to see to know Jason was nearby; probably the one who had held his head down in the bucket.

  He placed his palms flat on the ground, attempting to push himself up. His limbs wouldn’t cooperate. He got halfway up before his knees collapsed underneath him, and he slid back down to the floor with a sickening thump felt all through his body.

  Footsteps approached. Jason came toward him, reaching out for him—no, no, he wouldn’t let the blackguard put him back underneath the water. He swung out, slapping Jason’s leg. When Jason jumped back, he tried to make distance between them, but he hit the damn bucket and couldn’t go any further.

  What was happening?

  Why was he here?

  He was not going to die by the hand of Jason Baines.

  “Jason,” he croaked out, his voice as rust-edged as that knife he’d had as a child. But he could talk even if he couldn’t see, so he’d make them listen to him if it was the last damned thing he did. “You fuckin’ bastard. I’m gonna kill you.”

  If he could stand, that is.

  “Unlikely.” Jason laughed again, throwing his head back in unbridled delight. “But I’d like to see you try. I’ve got all night to do this, Thatcher. By all means, please make it interesting.”

  He would not, could not, let Jason get the best of him. Rage spurring him on when strength had departed, Charlie grabbed onto the side of the barrel, using it to leverage himself up. This time, his knees held, and he remained aloft, though he didn’t chance walking yet. He swiped his hand across his face, removing the last dredges of water. By the grace of God, his vision began to clear. Although, when he saw their current surroundings, he almost wished for the blurriness to remain.

  The windowless room had only one door, which Jason’s stocky frame blocked. Other than the barrel, there was no other furniture, except for a battered mat in the right corner. Charlie’s heart sputtered. He’d thought he knew every one of Chapman’s safe houses, but he definitely didn’t recognize this place. Where the hell were they? His mind spun through possibility after possibility, but he couldn’t put the puzzle pieces in the right order to assemble a picture. The night before, he’d been with Mina in his flat, and she’d left before the sun came up. He’d sunk into bed around dawn, not expecting to wake up until mid-day to work his shift downstairs.

  He had two choices. One, he could fight Jason and try to escape. He didn’t feel confident in his odds there, since he had no idea what was outside this door, and his whole body ached as though he’d been run over by a hackney. Or two, he could reason with the lunatic and gain more information, and then try to escape.

  Charlie had never been much for solving problems through logic, but at the moment it seemed like the best option.

  Right, then. What would Mina do? She could talk to a brick wall—hell, he’d seen her do it once.

  He went with the one thing he knew would fluster Jason enough to start ranting. “Zacharias gonna have your head.”

  Jason snorted, slouching against the door. “You don’t know my father nearly as well as you claim. But then, how could you, when you’re nothing but rubbish he picked up from the street?”

  “I’m a better son than you’ve ever been to the old man.” Charlie clenched his fists at his sides, his fingernails digging into his palms. His every impulse screamed to act now. Slash Jason limb from limb, then do the same to whoever prevented his flight.

  But he couldn’t be certain he’d be successful if he charged Jason, so he had to stay put. Marshall his strength.

  For now.

  Jason’s dark eyes flashed with anger. Good. The angrier Jason got, the more he acted on impulse, and the easier he became to defeat. He’d been this way since they were children playing Blind Man’s Bluff in Cat Gut Alley, never able to think past the first clue he received.

  “We’ll see who Father prefers, won’t we?” Jason’s smirk returned as he reached into his coat pocket, his fingers closing around the hilt of a dagger. “You may have tricked him into thinking you’re a golden boy, but even he can’t excuse murder.”

  Charlie’s heart pounded against his chest, bam-bam-bam. Reddish-brown stains crusted the width of the blade—blood, and lots of it, by the looks of it. Mina. God, had he hurt Mina?

  He pushed the terror down, reminding himself that Jason played this game for his father’s approval, as he always had.

  Zacharias didn’t care about Mina. Her death wouldn’t cause him to exile Charlie from the gang.

  He forced himself to take a breath, then another. Draw out the moment. Pretend he wasn’t internally screaming. Anything to make Jason feel like he had less control over the situation. “Who did you hurt, Jason? What did you do?”

  “I think you mean, what did you do?” Jason took a step toward him, the knife laid out on his palm, hilt toward Charlie as though he expected him to take it.

  He’d sooner sell his soul to the very devil than touch that blade. Charlie cast a quick glance around the room, his heart sinking damn near his stomach when he confirmed he’d been right the first time and there wasn’t another exit.

  Suddenly, the door opened. Matthew Harper poked his head in, took one look at Charlie, then at the barrel, then at Jason. He stormed into the room, slamming the door behind him. Within seconds, he had positioned himself directly in front of Jason, blocking him from advancing.

  “Oh, come on, Harper.” Jason tried to dart to the side, but Harper was too quick for him.

  “The knife, Baines,” Harper demanded, holding out his hand.

  Jason held onto it, glaring at Harper. “Why should I trust you with it? You’re the one that said him defending that Mason bunter was the same as defending any of our women. Tell that to McNair now, why don’t you?”

  “Baines,” Harper said through gritted teeth. “None of this is necessary.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You can’t. McNair’s dead.” Jason waved the knife at Charlie. “Because he killed him.”

  All at once, the pieces fell into place before him, forming a sickening puzzle indeed. The slam of his heart became deafening. He couldn’t look away from the knife in Jason’s hand, brandished with such callous enthusiasm.

  He might not know how he got to this room, but he was certain he had not killed Al McNair.

  “You can’t really be thinkin’ I killed him.” He turned his head toward steady, rational Harper, for if he had any hope of getting out of this alive, his best chance was with Zacharias’s second in command. “Come on, Harper, I don’t know where McNair’s been hidin’ this past week! None of you lot told me, not that I wanted to know, regardless.”

  “You’re a resourceful man.” Jason lifted his chin, meeting Charlie’s stare. “Hell, you even managed to convince my distrusting father to take
you in when your bottle-headed father drank himself to death. Wheedling one little location from Al’s sweetheart Peg must have been devilishly easy for you.”

  “You can’t be serious.” One look at the two men made it quite clear how deadly serious they were.

  Charlie squeezed his hands tighter, his fingernails leaving imprints in his palms. The tiny bursts of pain did nothing to center him, when all he wanted to do was lunge at Jason and make him pay for this false accusation.

  No. That would mark him as exactly the kind of man he thought he was. He’d have to fight his way out of here through words. He must have learned something from Mina after all these years, right?

  “Look, Harper, I haven’t said more than ‘what’re you drinkin’ tonight, Peg?’ to her in months, if not years.” Charlie rubbed his temples. He’d served drinks to so many people; he couldn’t be sure if he’d seen her two nights ago or not. But he knew he hadn’t spoken to her about McNair, and that was something. “Bring her here, why don’t you? She’ll be tellin’ you the same.”

  Harper pursed his lips, his gaze darting from Charlie to Jason and back again. “That’s just it. You see, I did talk to Peg—this morning, after we found McNair with his throat slit open. She says you asked her two nights ago where you could find McNair. That you wanted to apologize.”

  “Then she’s lyin’.” He hated how frantic his voice sounded. How he couldn’t keep the alarm from mounting in his throat, twisting his words until they sounded like admissions of guilt, even to him. “Why the devil would I wanna apologize to McNair? He’s the one who threatened Mina. He violated the truce first.”

  “The truce is as dead as McNair,” Jason said. “Not that you’d care, since you’ve been working with the Kings all along.”

  Harper spoke before he could defend himself. “Give me the knife, Jason, and go tell the guards we’ll need them for the rest of the night.”

  When Harper held out his hand for the knife again, Jason handed it to him with a sigh. “I grow bored with this. Either let me drown him now, or pick a time for a public execution. You know what will happen if we don’t make an example of him.”

  “And you know Zacharias put this under my control.” Harper’s stony gray eyes were flat as he directed a pointed look toward the door. “Go.”

  Even Jason, with all bluster and bullying, would not disobey a direct order if it came from Zacharias. As Harper slid the knife into the empty sheath at his side with a frown, Jason left the room. Once the door shut behind him, Charlie’s breathing began to return to normal—until Harper’s gaze fastened on him.

  Harper had never regarded him with such pity before.

  As if he believed Charlie really had killed McNair.

  As if his fate was already sealed.

  “What the devil is happenin’ here?” Charlie drove his fingers through his hair, needing action—any sort of action—to keep from losing his grip. “Last I remember I was sleepin’ in my own bed, and then this…” He waved his hands in front of him, words failing him.

  Harper frowned as he came nearer. He stopped at the barrel, his nose crinkling as he turned it over. Water splashed from the sides, swamped the dirt floor and turned into a thick mud smelling of salt and refuse. “I’m sorry about that. I thought I’d get here before Jason. Unfortunately, I was waylaid at the shop.”

  “’Tis not your fault.” Charlie matched the other man’s grimace with one of his own. “You know me, Harper. You know I wouldn’t do this. Not to a fellow Chapman.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Harper’s frown deepened into a scowl that spread from ear to ear. “I defended you. Thought what you did for the Kings’s Princess was honorable. But this—” He paused, his forehead wrinkling as if he was equally perplexed by Jason’s accusations. For a second, Charlie felt a glimmer of hope, until the other man shook his head. “I never thought you’d go this far.”

  “I didn’t.” His protest fell on deaf ears, for Harper now peered at him with disappointment, which was somehow worse than the pity from before.

  “I saw you.” Harper shoved his hands into his pockets, taking a step back from the barrel. His half-boots sunk in the mud, but he didn’t notice. “With Peg, two nights ago. You were talking at the bar.”

  “So? She wanted somethin’ to drink.” That must have been it, because he wouldn’t willingly have engaged in a conversation with Peg. She was a perfect match to McNair—as vulgar and ill-tempered as he was gin-addled and belligerent.

  “I don’t think so.” Harper shook his head again. “Because it’s not just Peg who says you asked her how to find McNair. Peg’s friend Eva was there too. And Blue Pete says he saw you near the grounds.”

  “God’s balls, Harper, you’re gonna trust a blighter like Blue Pete over me, when he got his name because he drinks too much blue ruin?” Charlie sank down on the straw mat in the corner of the room, propping his elbows up on his knees. This was a fucking mess, and he didn’t know how the hell he was going to get out of it. “And Eva would say whatever Jason told her to—she’s too gone off the pipe to ever be reliable.”

  “I’m sorry,” Harper said once more, his lips pressed into a thin line. “It wasn’t a hit by the Kings. No one’s taken credit for it, and it doesn’t match their style. Besides them, you’re the only one who wanted McNair dead, and the only one seen near him. It fits, Thatcher. We can’t ignore it the way we did when you fought for the Mason girl.”

  “Mina,” he corrected, resting his head in his outstretched palms. “Her name is Mina. Not the Mason girl. Not the Kings’s Princess. Just Mina.”

  “Mina,” Harper repeated. “I hope she was worth it. Because as much as I hate to admit it, Jason’s right. I can belay them a little while, but Thatcher…you better prepare for the end.”

  “I didn’t do this.” Charlie looked up into the eyes of the man he would have called a friend a week ago. No more. “But if I had, she’d be worth it. She’s always been worth it.”

  Chapter 11

  All afternoon, the townhouse had been aflutter with activity. At first, Mina attributed the influx of people to the preparations for her wedding to Donaldson. Preparations that no matter how she tried, she couldn’t stall. Every objection she presented to Joaquin, he ignored, claiming that this was what their father would have chosen for her. Mina highly, highly doubted that, since when he was living, her father had never made any promises to Donaldson.

  Papa had wanted the best for her.

  The best was, and always had been, Charlie.

  He hadn’t contacted her since that night at his flat. She believed in his promise. Believed in his love. But she was running out of time.

  Mina frowned at her reflection in the three-way mirror set up in the parlor specifically for today’s session with the modiste. Madame Cécile had once been Joaquin’s mistress, but when they parted ways she’d used the money she earned as his mistress to set up her shop. With her resourcefulness, contacts in the courtesan world, and her natural talent as a seamstress, she’d expanded her business dramatically in the last few years, finally moving to a spacious shop on Bond Street. She still outfitted Mina, out of loyalty to Joaquin.

  Usually Mina loved fittings with Madame Cécile. But today, not even the most tawdry bits of gossip about the aristocracy could make her laugh. Instead, she stared ahead mutely as Cécile fussed with minute changes to the gown she’d wear on her wedding day to Donaldson. It was sky blue and of the finest silk, with horsehair-lined puffy cap sleeves and darker blue lace edging the skirt hem. Underneath the gown, she wore a petticoat with a heavy corded ring to give her skirt the proper fullness.

  It was a beautiful gown. One she’d never wear, if she had her way.

  If only Charlie had agreed to ruin her! She cursed his honorable notions to the devil and back, despite knowing that very honor was one of the reasons she loved him in the first place. So though he had not agreed to take her maidenhead—yet—she at least had the memory of his lips against her own, his fingers strok
ing her sensitive breasts, his tongue dipping between her thighs and drawing the most blissful, radiant pleasure from deep within her.

  She squirmed at the thought, making one of the modiste’s pins dig into her side.

  “Ow!” she exclaimed, reaching down to pull out the offending pin.

  “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Mason, but if you’d hold still—” Madame Cécile didn’t bother to finish her thought, for Mina had already gathered up her skirts and hopped off the base. “Mademoiselle, please. Your brother made it very clear he wants these alterations finished today.”

  Mina scowled, fixing Cécile with her best haughty glare, which she’d learned from another of Joaquin’s mistresses. “What my brother wants is irrelevant. You and I both know he is a tyrant, and it would do him some good to be displeased for once.”

  Cécile considered this for a minute as she packed up her materials. Finally, she nodded, her rosy lips parting in a giant smile. “Oui, Mademoiselle. I could use the time off. You will make sure he pays my bill?”

  “Absolutely.” Mina returned her smile, mentally adding it to the ever-growing list of things she had to accomplish. “I shall tell him you did an exquisite job, as always.”

  “Merci, Mademoiselle.” Cécile dropped a perfect curtsy. Once she’d helped Mina out of the gown and into her day dress, Cécile gathered up her things and hustled from the room.

  As soon as she heard Cécile close the door to the servant’s staircase, Mina breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, she had some time to herself—time to investigate what in heaven’s name was going on at the house today. During her fitting with Cécile, the door to Joaquin’s office had opened and shut at least twelve times. She’d recognized the voices of several prominent Kings, and the fragments of conversations she’d overheard had her curious.

  “Baines will think we did it,” one had said.