Subtle Blood

by KJ Charles

  Kim was regarding her with awe. “I have no idea.”

  “Seventeen Mount Street.”

  Phoebe announced that like a killing blow. Kim blinked. “And that is—?”

  “The address of the most fascinating woman. Appallingly vulgar of course, but a very sharp wit, and quite stunning still. Well, she must have been to get her way—which she did, you know, I’ve seen the certificates, and she’s certainly done her duty by him, one can’t dispute that. Three, Kim, and all boys! You should see them, especially young Freddie. He’s seven years old and the living spit—”

  Will was very nearly fatally distracted, but the fumble and scrape of the lock turning gave him just enough warning. He was ready as the door slammed open and Chingford strode in, gun pointing at Phoebe. “You bloody—”

  Will brought the spanner down on his arm, hard, and whacked it straight back up again into his face, sending his head snapping back with a spray of blood. Kim scrambled for the dropped revolver as Will slammed the spanner into Chingford’s gut, and clobbered him on the back of the skull as he doubled over, sending him down for good.

  Kim caught him before he hit the floor and lowered him the last foot. Had it all been audible from above? Hard to say, with the throb of the engine.

  Will glanced back at the others. Phoebe and Maisie were both wide-eyed, hands over mouths in identical expressions of shock. Kim was looking at his brother’s head, and the pool of blood spreading around it, but he made a quick gesture to Will: Get on.

  Will went up the stairs, keeping low. It was quite dark now and a lantern hung in the steering cabin, illuminating Lord Flitby. He was looking ahead. Will couldn’t see anyone else. He crawled to the edge of the yacht, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, and made out a bulky silhouette standing at the rear.

  Kim’s head emerged silently from the hatch. Will pointed at himself and jabbed a thumb towards the rear of the boat, then indicated that Kim should go up the other side. The sides of a boat had names, he knew, port and starboard, only he couldn’t remember which was which. That was going to annoy him. There was salt on his lips, seasoning the familiar phantoms of mud and blood.

  He slid forward in the shadows, silent across the oiled teak planks. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that Anton was looking out over the waves.

  Some people had strong views on attacking a man from behind. Well, Will did himself, those views being that it was an excellent idea, best done with a blade. He missed the Messer.

  He rose and took two soundless steps across the deck, spanner at the ready, and an electric light flicked on above them. Its dim yellow was startling against the darkness, and it caught Will like a butterfly on a board.

  Anton spun round, reaching for his gun. Will swung, cracking him across the arm, but missed the elbow joint and he didn’t drop the revolver. Will grabbed his wrist before he could shoot, abandoning the spanner to grapple with him, and they wrestled in savage silence for a few seconds. A shot rang out from the front of the boat. Will hoped that was Kim’s gun, and feared it wasn’t.

  Anton made a ferocious throaty noise, bearing down hard on Will’s arm, and stamped hard on his foot. It sodding hurt but Will didn’t dare let go: if the bastard got any distance, he could use the gun as a club, or just fire it.

  The enemy was bigger, stronger, and armed, but he was also seasick, and Will didn’t like him, and he’d been six inches from killing Kim. Will launched himself into a headbutt, cracking his forehead into Anton’s nose, as more gunshots echoed from the front of the boat. Anton reeled back and Will jabbed two fingers in his eyes, fighting as dirty as he ever had, winning a scream of rage and pain. Will used the second that bought him to stoop and grab the spanner from the deck, and brought it round in a wide arc to connect with the enemy’s head.

  He staggered. Will hit him again, and felt bone crack. He dropped to the expensive teak planks, grabbed the enemy’s ankles, and hoisted. The back of his thighs hit the side of the boat. Will heaved again, putting his back onto it, and this time the weight tipped. There was a cry, a splash, and no more Anton.

  Two down, one to go.

  Another shot from the front. Will dived into the shadows and squirmed forward on his elbows to the side of the steering cabin, wishing he’d got the bugger’s gun before he went over.

  “Anton!” Knowle bellowed. His voice sounded reedy in the great empty space of the sea, competing with the chugging engine, whipped away by the wind. “Anton!”

  “I think Will got him,” Kim remarked. “As he has already got Chingford. You’re on your own, Knowle. You’ve lost.”

  “I haven’t lost,” Knowle said. “You’ll take me to the Continent or I’ll destroy you. You know I will.”

  “You don’t listen, do you? I don’t care about what is laughably called my reputation. You tell the world I share my bed with Will Darling, and all I’ll get is a swelled head at the envy of my like-minded friends. Consequences don’t apply to people like me.” Kim’s voice was cold, sneering, and extremely upper-class. “That’s how Waring could get away what he did, and why you were never going to replace him, however clever you may be. You aren’t part of the club, Knowle. You’ve always been outside, looking in, with your nose against the window like a Victorian urchin outside a sweetshop, because that’s a world you will never quite belong to. In the Symposium, but as a lackey, not a member. In Zodiac, but never one of the special ones, not like Cheveley, although you had twice the knowledge and three times the brains. You might make yourself useful, but never valued. You aren’t valuable.”

  If he wanted Knowle to shoot him, he was going the right way about it. Will edged forward to the side of the wooden cabin, far enough to see round it, and understood.

  Three of them, facing off. Kim had a revolver pointed at Knowle. Knowle had his arm round Lord Flitby’s neck, and a revolver pressed to his head.

  “You want me to lose my temper.” Knowle sounded remarkably calm. Hopefully the bastard could maintain his self control a bit longer, at least till Will had a chance to kill him. “You underestimate me, of course: I’ve tolerated the oafs and fools of the Club for years, with their endless petty whining and demands. But I have the upper hand now.” He ground the gun into Lord Flitby’s temple. “And all the leverage I need.”

  “I see you haven’t grasped the Secretan family relations yet,” Kim said.

  Knowle laughed. “Oh, I think I have. Lord Chingford struck a bargain with me, you see. He’d take me across if I made sure neither his brother nor his father came back.” His voice dropped low, taunting. “He’s tired of waiting to step into your shoes, Lord Flitby. There’s quite a few of the younger sort who don’t plan to spend the next few decades watching old men squat on privilege and property that could be theirs. I suggested it to Waring, you know: a service of removal and redistribution, to clear the decks for the younger generation who wanted to enjoy their inheritance while it was still worth something. Of course the old fool wouldn’t do it: they were half of them his friends. He was quite insulting about it. But he’s not here any more, the sneering bastard, and I have—I had four potential clients lined up already. Four men ready to see their fathers shoved into the grave and out of their way for a handsome fee, and I’m sure there would be plenty more. Lord Chingford positively jumped at the idea.”

  The Marquess’s mouth was slack. Kim paused a fraction, then said, “Given that context, you will understand that holding my father hostage is unlikely to affect me.”

  “On the contrary,” Knowle said. “Lord Chingford was very useful on the subject of your many weak points. You’re desperate for Daddy’s approval, desperate to be the good son, and that’s why you will drop the gun before I keep my side of the bargain with your brother. Do it or I shoot him. Now.”

  There was a long pause. Then Kim let his revolver drop to the floor.

  Will knew what was coming. He moved, rolling into the shadows that pooled beneath the hanging lifeboat, went soundlessly up and over the side of the yacht,
and swung himself down.

  Which put him on the other side. The one with water on it.

  The stanchions that held up the lifeboat made a useful handhold. Will gripped them for dear life, because the yacht seemed to move a lot faster from down here. Waves splashed his legs with unnerving force, far more violent than they’d seemed on board, and the water was bloody cold. His trousers were already soaked from the knee down, and he wasn’t at all sure if this was a good idea, but where else was a man meant to hide on a fucking boat?

  Knowle was shouting. “Mr. Darling! Come out, Mr. Darling! I’ve got your boy friend here!”

  Will hung on, breathing hard. His hands were wet and cold, and his shoes were sodden. Should have taken them off. He eased them off now, not without regret because they hadn’t been cheap, and planted his stockinged feet against the side of the Aurora as it rose and fell in the waves. This was no way to travel.

  “For God’s sake,” Knowle said from above. He sounded like he was about a foot away. “You can’t hide. I’ll shoot them both and come after you.”

  “You can’t sail the yacht,” Kim pointed out. “And Chingford’s in no shape to help. Kill us and you’ll be stuck out here till you get caught or die of thirst. I wonder if Will went overboard with Anton? That was quite the splash earlier.”

  “If you believed that, you’d sound more worried.”

  “Oh, well. Plenty more where that came from. And he was getting rather greedy.”

  “Shut up,” Knowle said. “You go first. Try anything and your father dies. And tell Darling that if he doesn’t come out, I’ll shoot you in the kneecaps. Move, both of you!”

  Will heard the steps go past. Kim’s light tread, Lord Flitby more like a shuffle, then Knowle.

  “Will?” Kim called. “Will, where are you?”

  Will braced his legs, pushed himself up enough to see they’d all gone by, and hauled himself up the side of the yacht without letting a grunt pass his lips. Knowle was behind Flitby, the gun pointed at his head, just a few inches away. That could be a problem.

  He swung himself over the side and onto the deck, very aware of the wet flap of trousers round his calves. His sodden socks landed quietly enough. He pulled the spanner from his waistband, and paced silently after Knowle. One step, two, and then Kim, silhouetted in the lantern light, swung round and shouted, “Now!”

  Knowle spun as well, the gun swinging with him. Will’s spanner cracked his shoulder at an ineffectual angle, sending his arm down. The gun went off, deafening, and Will’s leg went from under him as if he’d been kicked by a horse.

  God’s sake. Not again.

  He tried to regain his balance, but there was a searing heat through his left calf and it didn’t want to hold him. Knowle’s face twisted with vengeful triumph for a fraction of a second before Kim came flying in with a rugby tackle, hitting him amidships. Knowle went down, and Kim landed a couple of wild swings before Knowle kicked him off. Will braced to launch himself into the brawl but the yacht lurched underfoot, his leg gave way, and it was all he could do to hang on to the side and stop himself slipping to the deck. Knowle reared up, the gun in his hand, aimed point blank at Kim—

  Another shot.

  Knowle jolted. He put a hand to his belly and took it away again, looking at his dark wet palm, bewildered. He was still looking at it when the Marquess of Flitby walked up, put a revolver to his forehead, and fired.

  Kim scrambled away, too late. Flitby let the gun drop on Knowle’s body. “Where is Chingford?”

  “Tied up in the ladies’ cabin,” Kim said, sounding rather numb. “Probably unconscious. Sir, Knowle sought to divide us. You can’t necessarily take his word—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Arthur,” Lord Flitby said, and walked away.

  Will let himself slide down to the floor, now there was nobody who might kick him in the head. “Jesus.”

  “Will. Where the devil did you spring from?”

  “Spring from? I was right bloody there!”

  “I know that now,” Kim snapped. “I didn’t expect you to be! Are you all right?

  “No.”

  Kim scrambled round the body. “Hell’s teeth. How bad is it?”

  Will let his head drop back against the side of the yacht, not caring about the wet. “Let’s just go home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The bullet had gone clean through Will’s calf, so at least it wouldn’t need digging out. It bled a fair bit, but Kim got him down to the men’s stateroom to lie on one of the bunks. Lord Flitby, astonishingly, cleaned and bound the wounds up for him with surprising competence, muttering something about worse hunting injuries, and gave him a couple of pills from the first aid kit. Will went out like a light after that. It had been a long day.

  He woke with his leg throbbing. The pale light of the cabin suggested it was close to dawn, which meant horrendously early, but he wanted to know what was going on. He hobbled up the stairs from the stateroom, looking for company, and had to pause at the sight that greeted him: the sea huge and glittering around him, the endless sky, the white sails straining. That was when Will realised the engines weren’t running. He could only hear waves and wind, only smell the fresh sea air.

  Kim was sitting at the pointy end of the yacht, arms curled around his knees. He looked bedraggled, exhausted, and beautiful.

  “Hello,” Will said.

  Kim didn’t even open his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  “I got bored. How are we doing?”

  Kim pointed forward. Will had a squint, and saw the dark smudge of approaching land. “Is that England? Thank God for that. It’s taken a while, hasn’t it?”

  “We decided to stick with sail and have both of us on deck, rather than me stoking the boiler all night. And I didn’t much want to come into dock at two in the morning. Maisie consented to the delay once she was on deck: the air seems to be helping. How’s the leg?”

  Will lowered himself carefully to sit on the smooth teak, looking back along the length of the boat. There was what looked like a heap of sailcloth half way down: Knowle’s body. “Sore.”

  “It would be. You should stop getting shot.”

  “Thanks. Are you all right?”

  “It’s been quite a long night.”

  Will bet it had, him and his father on deck together. He waited, and after a moment Kim went on, “We talked a little. Mostly me. I told him some things. What I was doing for the Bureau; about Waring; about you. I wanted him to know who I am. He can despise me on that basis if he cares to, but at least it will be accurate.”

  Will took a deep breath. “If he doesn’t realise what you did—”

  “I think he noticed,” Kim said over him, dry as dust. “Certainly he listened. Or at least he didn’t speak over me. He may have been thinking about something else.”

  “What’s happened with Chingford?”

  “Well, he’s woken up.” That was a relief: Will had hit him pretty hard. “His nose will never be the same but that’s unlikely to be his chief concern. We have him tied up in the ladies’ cabin. The girls are on deck, at the back. I think Phoebe’s been talking to my father.”

  That would serve the Marquess right. Will reached for Kim’s hand. “What happens when we get back?”

  “Chingford’s going to need a doctor. We’ll have to contact the Bureau, and the police.”

  “What about this letter Knowle’s supposed to have left?”

  “If it exists, there’s nothing we can do about it. I doubt it, though. He was playing to win, not lose.”

  “Was that his grand plan? Getting people’s fathers out of the way?”

  “Patricide as a money-making opportunity, and I suspect as a perverse form of vengeance on ‘good society’, by encouraging such a taboo act. The scheme was clearly close to his heart.” He made a face. “I suppose I can see why he came to loathe my sort so.”

  “He could have got another job,” Will said. “And that’s what Pisces stuck on, and Wari
ng? They were all right with a plan to start a plague in a city, but not with killing posh old men?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Christ.”

  “Mmm. One might almost feel Knowle had a point.”

  “None of them had a point,” Will said. “What the hell is wrong with people?”

  Kim just shrugged. They sat together for a while, listening to the wind and waves, the snap of the sails.

  “What was that story the girls had?” Will asked after a few moments.

  Kim perked up slightly. “Oh, that’s hilarious. Worth the price of admission. It turns out Chingford’s been married for nine years, to a barmaid.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “God’s truth. She obviously has a hell of a personality along with her other charms, because she wouldn’t let him touch her till they were legally wed, Anne Boleyn style, then agreed to keep the business quiet as long as she got set up in a very nice townhouse. Furs, jewellery, no expense spared. She’s been living high off the hog while not having to see him too often, but now the boys are growing up, and she wants them acknowledged. Chingford’s been throwing money at her in an effort to keep her quiet.”

  “How long did he think that was going to work?”

  “Your mistake lies in the word ‘think’,” Kim said. “He was focused on preventing Father finding out. Instead, Fairfax did, and decided to use that for a big pay-out before he fled Knowle’s new Greek-tragedy version of Zodiac. And, God bless his blackmailing heart, he mentioned something about an earl with a secret marriage to Florrie Jacobs, who trotted it out as special gossip on the girls’ visit the other day. Maisie put two and two together, and here we are.”

  “Blimey. And his sons—”

  “Legitimate heirs. Three of them. I’m off the hook for good, even if the bastard hangs.”

  Will tipped his head back, feeling Kim’s relief as his own. “About that...”

  “We’ll have to see,” Kim said. “Knowle killed Fairfax, but Chingford must have at least suspected it, and aided and abetted his escape. There could yet be a charge of conspiracy to murder. Not to mention everything else for which he’ll have to face the music.”