A bruised, bulbous face. An ugly smile. Over Christian’s shoulder, the man must have seen some signal, for he eased off, retaking his seat.
O’Shea came strolling over, a foaming pint in his hand. Very casual, all good humor. Each of his idle footsteps on the sloping floor struck like flint against Christian’s banked rage. “Fine day to pay a call,” O’Shea said. “Come to beg my help?”
He took a hard breath. “Yes.”
Surprise briefly showed on the man’s face. Then he turned to the room at large. “Oh ho!” He extended his arms, turning right and left as though to gather his audience’s attention closer. “Did you catch that, boys? The grand Viscount Palmer wishes a spot of assistance!”
The snickers sounded forced. Uneasy. Even in this part of town, even with O’Shea’s protection assured them, these men understood the danger in threatening a peer of the realm.
Let him grandstand. Let him do whatever he liked. Pride, principle did not factor. “Lily said you had three leads. Was she right?”
“Ah, well.” O’Shea fell into a seat, rocking it back onto its hind legs. “I thought I’d made myself clear. My time isn’t for—”
“He may have Lily.”
The chair landed with a thump. “What?”
Suddenly Christian was looking at a different man. No humor now. Only cold, hard focus. “She was outside the auction rooms earlier. Now Catherine Everleigh is missing. And there’s no sign of Lily, either.”
“Goddamned—” O’Shea rose. “A fine job you’ve done! Let him sweep them right from under you!”
“All in Bethnal Green, the three leads. That’s what she said. Which quadrant?”
O’Shea hissed and wheeled away. “Fetch the boys,” he said to the brute at the bar. “Full arms.” Then he cast a sharp look over the room at large. “No harm to this one. He’ll see his sorry hide out.” He started for the door.
Jesus. Christian caught his breath. “You know where he is?”
O’Shea’s lip curled as he turned back. “It’s nowhere in Bethnal Green. Slink on home, Palmer, and let the real men—”
Time elapsed. A flipbook, pages skipped. Somehow he had O’Shea pinned against the table. A knife at his jugular. The goon at the door had not thought to check the folds of his neckcloth. Goons did not wear them.
Cold steel pressed into his own nape. Whoever was holding it barely registered. “We have no time for quarreling. Do you agree?”
O’Shea studied his face. Then gave a grim smile. “Aye. That I do.”
Christian lifted away the blade. O’Shea’s pale eyes flicked beyond him. “Step off, lad.”
The steel retreated. O’Shea sprang to his feet. Caught up with Christian halfway to the door.
“Your Russian just dropped by my club. I sent him scurrying away.” O’Shea shouldered open the door, then hooked two fingers into his mouth to sound a piercing whistle that carried down the street, turning heads. “That’ll bring us mounts.”
“No need. Twenty men wait on the high street. Already saddled.”
“Reinforcements?” O’Shea tsked. “A disappointment. Next time you visit, be sure to come alone.”
“Where is his base?”
“Spitalfields. Mind you, I’d no cause to care before. Hadn’t given me any trouble. Paid his rent on time, too.” As they walked, O’Shea was feeling down his jacket, opening and closing hidden pockets to catalog the weapons he carried, some of which Christian only recognized from foreign armies: throwing stars. A small stiletto. A garrote, Christ God.
“But he’s crossed a line, now,” O’Shea said coolly. He glanced over his shoulder, nodding in acknowledgment to the handful of men who joined their number, keeping pace a length behind.
“Your men are not to interfere,” Christian said.
“Oh, I—” O’Shea paused as they turned the corner and the high road came into view. He whistled again, this time in undisguised admiration of the phalanx of men waiting, saddled and ready, their weapons openly displayed. An astonished goggle of pedestrians had retreated to the other side of the road to gawk. “Aye,” he said slowly. “Won’t interfere unless it’s called for. No use wasting my own.”
Christian lifted his hand, extending two fingers.
A brief conference. Ashmore gestured. Two riders broke from the pack, galloping up and dismounting to hand over the reins.
O’Shea put one foot in the stirrup, then paused. “I’ll be interfering, though. Nobody messes with mine.”
“Mine.” The word ripped from Christian. “Do you understand? Yours no longer.”
O’Shea lifted a black brow. “Remains to be seen. But I like the show of spirit.”
That the ass could joke, even in this moment, enraged him. “Where do we go?” he bit out.
O’Shea settled into the saddle. “No name to the street.” He nudged his horse out onto the road. “Follow close now.”
Lilah had savaged her palm. Could barely bend her fingers. Probably wouldn’t have healed properly. She’d have lived out her life with only five working fingers. Throwing hand, ruined. Oh well.
A ripping sound. Catherine had torn off a piece of her petticoats. “Let me bandage it.”
Lilah held out her palm. Catherine bound it and tied a knot too tight for comfort. But comfort didn’t matter much now, did it?
Catherine joined her in leaning against the wall, her mournful gaze fixed on the window. She looked slack faced, like Bolkhov had smacked the spirit out of her. Her cheek was purpling.
There was still a faint hope, though. “The House of Diamonds belongs to my uncle,” Lilah said. “Maybe he’ll be there. If Bolkhov draws his attention, Nick might follow him back.”
“Do you think?” Catherine turned, her eyes huge in her bloodied face.
“It’s possible.”
Not convincing. Catherine’s glance strayed toward the window again. At length, she said, “Do you suppose Everleigh’s burned?”
Wasn’t that just like her, to be worrying about the auction house when the prospect of her own death might have afforded sufficient concern.
But Lilah liked her for it. That stubborn focus—it wasn’t ladylike. She and Catherine had more in common than she’d once imagined. “Didn’t burn,” she said as a kindness. What did she know? “The fire brigade was there. Everleigh’s will be fine.”
“Of course.” Catherine frowned. Then she turned and kicked again at the door. “This place! What is it? That window. This strange door. What stupid architecture!”
Strange feeling, to smile in the midst of this disaster. “Even now, you’re finding flaws.”
Catherine blinked, then offered a faltering smile. “Architecture is an art, you know.”
“Architecture implies a plan,” Lilah said. “Buildings in these parts just get slapped up.” But they always did serve a purpose.
A prickling feeling touched her. She frowned around the little shed. Focused on the bags mounded along the far wall. “Hay.” She’d seen bags like that a thousand times, hauled home on the back of a costermonger’s donkey.
Catherine snorted. “For what? A pig? This awful reek—”
“A goat.” She looked up at the small window. Nothing to see but a brick wall bound by crumbling mortar. This structure had been shoved straight up against the tenement building.
“It’s a backhouse,” she realized. Had to be. That reek of goat—“Kept a donkey here.” Donkeys got lonely without company. Goats were the usual choice.
“A donkey couldn’t fit through that door,” said Catherine.
She was right. Maybe a goat could wiggle through it. But not a donkey. Which meant . . .
Lilah slammed her palms against the wall. Slowly walked the perimeter, feeling for cracks. “A horse walk.”
“What?”
“A tunnel from the tenement, to bring in the donkey.” Common in crowded slums. No spare space aboveground. She swept her hands wide. “Look for a door, Catherine.” But she saw none. “There has to be a passage f
or the donkey. It couldn’t . . .”
“The hay,” they said in unison, and sprang forward to haul the bags away from the wall.
There it was. A door. An unlocked door! Catherine hauled it open on a happy cry.
The passage was a maw of darkness. Cold breathed out. A musty sigh of death. No donkey had been down that tunnel in ages. It was narrow as a coffin. And Catherine was stepping into it. “Come on,” she said.
Oh, God.
“What is it?” Catherine turned back, scowling. “Are you mad? What are you waiting for?”
“I can’t.” She heard her own words, registered their absurdity. But this understanding felt very distant. Her limbs locked tight. Move, she told them. But her brain had broken from her body.
“What do you mean?” Catherine caught her good hand and pulled. “Lilah, he’s coming back!”
Of course. She would go. She took a step—and the cold flowed over her, and the door swung shut.
Blackness.
Her breath fluttered like a panicked creature in her throat. Impossible to catch. She had to walk. It was this tunnel, or death.
But death lay ahead as well. Better to die in light than in darkness. She’d already escaped death once in a place like this. She wouldn’t be so lucky again. “I can’t.”
“Lilah. You must.”
A searing pain—Catherine had grabbed her bad hand, and was squeezing.
With a guttural moan, she ripped free. The tunnel closed around her, tighter and tighter.
A fist dug into her back. Catherine shoved her forward. “Walk. Now!”
The walls scraped Lilah’s shoulders. She choked on a sob.
The fist dug harder into her spine. “Keep going,” Catherine muttered.
Blind. “I can’t . . . see.”
“You don’t need to see. I can see. Just go.”
She took another halting step, then reached back, fumbling, and found Catherine’s wrist. Warm and alive.
Catherine’s hand slipped into hers. “I’m here.” Firm grip. Strong, for a lady. “We’re getting out. We’re saved. Just walk.”
If they died down here, nobody would find them for weeks. Her knees quaked like aspic, each step shakier. She couldn’t breathe.
“Where will we go?” Catherine’s calm sounded impossible. Eerie. So normal, her voice. “Once we’re out, we’ll have to hide.”
“Yes.” Her lips felt numb. The air was poison. So cold and still. A tomb.
“Everleigh’s isn’t safe. And we don’t know where Palmer is. Do you know a safe place?”
She had to try twice to find her voice. “I do.”
“Is it nearby?”
Very near. The warm glow of the lamps, the smell of fried oysters. Every last patron loyal to Nick, and willing to fight—for Nick’s niece, yes, they would. They had watched her grow up. They would defend Lily Monroe. “The safest place in the world,” she whispered.
“Then keep walking,” Catherine said. “Let’s get there.”
Ashmore came strolling down the street, his steps unhurried. He tipped his hat to Christian as he passed.
That was the signal. Christian took a long breath, his eyes fixed on the turn in the road. They had cleared the street. O’Shea had that kind of power here. Curtains drawn across all the windows. No onlookers. Inside, Bolkhov’s flat stood empty, no sign of the women. They had to take him alive, get the truth out of him. No one shoots. No one. He prayed that Ashmore’s men had heeded him, and kept their fingers off their triggers.
Beside him, O’Shea tensed. “Here he comes.”
A white-haired devil in pinstripes came strolling around the corner. Hands in pockets, scowling slightly, as though cataloging the items he’d forgotten to buy at market.
The sight of Bolkhov passed through Christian like a shock. Disorienting. Electric. Four years since he’d seen Bolkhov in the flesh, but it might have been a minute. At last, this rabid dog was going to be put down. Pray God it was not too late—
He closed his mind to that avenue. To every extraneous detail save Bolkhov, who marched up the steps to the tenement across the road, then pulled a key from his pocket to unlock the front door, calm as a banker returning home from the city.
“Now,” Christian said.
O’Shea split off, swinging wide across the street. The plan was to flank Bolkhov on either side of the stair. But Bolkhov had fumbled his key ring, dropped it on the ground. His curse as he retrieved it came dimly through the roar in Christian’s ears. Later, perhaps, he would wonder at this bizarre moment—the pedestrian nature of a madman’s struggle to fit a key into a lock.
But it offered a distraction he’d not anticipated. On instinct, he abandoned the plan.
Five bounding steps. Time slowed; gravity released him. He was flying. Bolkhov was turning, but Christian descended faster. Bolkhov’s throat, so ordinary. So easy to catch in a chokehold. So easy to crush.
“Not yet!” That was Ashmore. He approached, gun drawn. Bolkhov gave a full-bodied jerk, the overture to struggle—then abruptly fell still. Other men now emerged from concealment, brandishing weapons.
“Where are they?” Christian spat.
Bolkhov’s laugh sounded rusty. “A surprise from you, at last.”
Christian tightened his grip, and had the satisfaction of hearing the bastard wheeze. “I will choke you to death right here.” Yes. “Or you can answer.”
Men carefully stepped past Christian. “Search again, flat by flat,” Ashmore told them.
“Wait!” O’Shea had stepped aside to speak with someone—a man leaning out of a nearby window. “We’ll try this,” he said as he bounded onto the stairs. “Seems the Russian’s been messing about in the backhouse.”
Bolkhov stiffened. That was all the confirmation Christian required. “Take him,” he growled at Ashmore, and shoved the Russian into the barrel of Ashmore’s revolver before following O’Shea inside.
No words passed between them as they strode down the hallway. O’Shea led him through a doorway into a lightless passage, cold and moist. Damp earth sank beneath their boots.
Some silent prayer was making itself known. Let there be light for her. She did not like the dark. Let there be light ahead.
A sliver of illumination. A cracked door. O’Shea shoved it open.
The backroom stank of wet hide and rotted hay. Empty. God damn it, where was she?
Shreds of rope lay scattered across the floor. Christian stooped. Piece of woven hemp, frayed and split. He felt numb. This could not be. He would not bury her.
“Christ,” O’Shea whispered. He lifted a hand away from the floor. His fingertips were red with blood.
The blood seemed to expand in a violent wave, hazing over Christian’s vision. When a sound came from behind, he wheeled.
“Easy,” said Ashmore. He was prodding Bolkhov at gunpoint into the tight quarters.
“Stand aside.” He could see only Bolkhov now. Hear only the roar. He would make Bolkhov weep before he died.
Ashmore kicked shut the door and shoved Bolkhov into the middle of the room. The Russian turned full circle, his black gaze moving from gun to gun.
“Your last chance.” These words came from him. Distant, echoing, as though in a dream. “Where are the women?”
A curious smile hooked up the corner of Bolkhov’s mouth. “Gone. Very clever. Too bad for you.”
Christian cocked his pistol. Bolkhov lifted his chin. He had a chipped tooth, bared now in a maniacal smile.
Someone was speaking. “This rope was sawed,” O’Shea was saying. “Palmer. Lily carries a knife. You follow?”
Bolkhov’s smile widened. “I cut out that one’s entrails,” he said. “Then I chewed on her bones.”
“Bloody lunatic,” O’Shea muttered. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to look—”
“Hold.” Christian spoke softly. He was nothing now but murder, a moment away from blood. “This won’t take a moment.”
“There’s no call for this.” As
hmore edged into his vision. “Kit, listen to me. I’ll see he rots in the darkest pit this kingdom has to offer.”
Bolkhov chuckled. “He is a killer. Like me. He knows the way.”
“You don’t know what it does to a man,” Ashmore said, very low. “To kill in cold blood.”
Cold blood? He was burning up. He would take Bolkhov with him. That grin would incinerate. But first, Bolkhov would confess what he had done to Geoff, and to Lily.
Lily.
She carries a knife.
The red haze thinned. Fine details returned to him: dust floating in the light. The wrinkled sag of Bolkhov’s eyelids. The looseness beneath his chin. Even madmen aged.
He’d envisioned this moment for so long. An obsession and a mantra: the words he would speak before he killed this man. The curse he would leave ringing in Bolkhov’s ears before he dispatched him to hell. The fear he would put in the bastard’s face, the agony of oncoming death—
But Bolkhov was still grinning. And it signified nothing. Whether he feared, whether he repented, did not matter. Only one thing mattered.
Wordless, Christian pulled the trigger.
If the gunshot made a noise, he did not hear it. He heard nothing, but saw each detail: the blood blossoming between Bolkhov’s eyes. The gory spatter raining against the wall. The sudden slackness in Bolkhov’s face. He fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the floor.
Christian turned away. O’Shea was waiting. “Let’s find her,” Christian said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I quite like this public house,” said Catherine.
Lilah pulled her eyes from the door. She was doing her best not to keep watch. But it was tearing at her, not knowing where Christian was. Neddie said he’d lit out with Nick shortly before she and Catherine turned up. Had they found Bolkhov? Her nerves were strung tighter than a street-musician’s harp.
Catherine looked far more relaxed. Chin propped on one fist, she slouched on the bench across from Lilah, a plate of fried oysters and two half-drunk tankards before her.
The sight was sufficient to inspire brief amusement. “I think this pub likes you back,” Lilah said. Had anybody told her six months ago that she’d be visiting Neddie’s with Miss Everleigh, she would have laughed in their faces and then directed them to an asylum.
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