by Anne Mallory
“You will fight under a gravestone,” he said, his normal bored tone edged with silk. “And doubtfully a decent one.”
There was a twitch to the man’s puffed eyes. Tiny, but perceptible. Good.
“Or with no marker at all to show you were even of this earth once.” He forced the man to tip his head to the side and saw the diamond mark beneath the starched collar on the back of his neck, the brand. Certainty burned coldly. “No. Straight through to hell. I’ll be waiting for you there too. And your revolution will be snuffed as easily as you extinguished the lives of six men.” He might not keep track of their names from day to day, but the Merricks took care of their own.
And Andreas was very good at revenge.
The twitch became a swollen lurch. “I, I don’t know about any dead men. But, but . . . sometimes losses occur. For the greater good. Any who die will die in glory. And their families will be provided for in the new world.”
“Is that what Cornelius told you?” Andreas smiled at the man’s jerk. He hated the bastard who ruled the north, but he had to be admired for the way he ruthlessly used people while at the same time making those people think plans were of their own design. “Did he also tell you that if by some remote chance I decide to turn you over, you will be sentenced to hang? That you are being held responsible by the Crown for last week’s events?” He put pressure on the blade. “Lucky I got to you first,” he whispered.
The man gave a choked sound, eyes wide.
“All debts will be wiped free.” Words spilled like the trickle of blood down his neck. “Everyone starting fresh.”
Andreas watched the way the man tried to hide the shaking of his limbs, the cold sweat dripping down his face from the pain of his wrist and his fear. “You want the Collateral Exchange burned, hmmm?”
“It is evil. It preys on vulnerable, desperate people.”
Personal feeling. Andreas examined the hilt of the man’s sword before the link slotted into place. “You are Barton’s fourth son, who lost forty thousand last year.”
The man’s eyes widened. Andreas gave a cold laugh. “Of course you would want the Exchange burned.”
He rarely played with the ton. That was Roman’s game. But he had met the senior Barton once when Roman had called him over in the middle of a hand. And Andreas knew everyone, down to their last groat, on paper.
“Forty thousand, seven hundred and forty-two, with seven darlings to spare, as of last week, wasn’t it?” Andreas said, almost lazily. “Gregory Daniels forgave you the two markers for fifteen pounds, twelve pence though. I wouldn’t have. That was a stupid bet to make on O’Leary’s daughter.”
“How—”
Andreas leaned forward, tip pressing and drawing more blood. “I want to know where Cornelius is,” he said harshly.
The man usually stayed holed up in the north, where he held power, but he had been expanding his territory, creeping south more and more over the past year. Trying to make deals and sway those in the middle to his side. Making a play for a piece of the capital. London was the jewel of England, and the Merricks had held that jewel tightly and completely without challenge for the last decade.
Cornelius had smartly latched upon Viscount Garrett as a pawn. Which meant that he knew something of Andreas’s past.
“I don’t know.” The man’s words came faster, as if by doing so it would wipe out the rest of the conversation. “Our revolution’s glorious beginnings will help all.” But the desperation was leaking from his lips like the drops of sweat from his chin.
Raised in the lap of luxury, likely with two nursemaids to wait upon him. Andreas watched him coldly. “Strange how one always wants to destroy for others that which he has taken for granted and destroyed himself.”
“I have seen the glorious light.”
“Doubtful.”
“Debt is evil. You are evil.”
Andreas pricked the other side of his neck, causing a line of warm liquid to course there as well. “And Cornelius is the Redeemer,” he said silkily. “He will burn off the sins of everything foul. He will return you to a life filled with golden light.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you know it is foolish to trust in angels?” Andreas smiled. “He will pretend to burn the papers, then kill the lot of you and take over the Exchange himself.”
“No—”
Andreas pressed the tip into the underside of the man’s jawbone. “You are annoying me now. You have five seconds before I tilt the blade and let it slide.”
“We always meet somewhere different! And never in London! I can help you in other ways. I have information,” he said desperately.
Of course he did. Should have started right away with this course of action. Phoebe Pace’s bloody penchant for commentary was rubbing off on him and ruining his peace.
“Do you?”
“I can tell you schedules and plans and players.”
He smiled darkly. “Good. Make it quick and concise, for my hand grows weary.” He leaned forward an inch. “And don’t lie.”
“I won’t. I know what happened to Christian Pace too,” the fourth spawn of Barton babbled almost incoherently.
Andreas froze but kept the blade steady. “Do you now?” He shifted and scanned the alley, looking for a pair of eyes and arms he could use. The man would need to be moved so Andreas could question him further later.
He forced his voice to stay neutral. A feeling coursed through his body—one he hadn’t had in a long time. That pause before his heart stuttered faster. “What exactly do you know? And whom else have you told?”
Three minutes later, he brushed off his hands, content that his directions would be followed, and shifted his long-term plans once again. He would bring all of them to fruition regardless of Phoebe Pace.
Chapter 5
Fruition was the fruit that realized its own rotting carcass.
He stared at the devil’s basket in front of him from under the shade of his fingers, which were pressed to his brow, hair falling too long over the top. Hell’s mistress whistled a tune full of seductive entreaty that pierced right through the glass and drapes.
All it had taken was one whiff of the fresh, new damn basket, and one glance at her overly cheerful note the day after apprehending Barton’s son, to make him promptly . . . implement none of those new plans.
He didn’t sleep or eat well on the best of days, but the last week had been worse than most. He violently suppressed any of the dreams that slipped around his nightmares, dreams that all carried the same face. He had woken in a cold sweat from both the dreams and nightmares.
And still, he had . . . done nothing. He had invoked none of the plans that he could have, instead continuing on in a sort of half-witted daze. Listening. Inhaling. Pushing away every damn morsel of sweetness that he could. Who the hell knew what would happen if he ate one?
He could hear her again. He heard her every damn day. In the halls, outside, in the kitchens downstairs when he slipped inside to grab something to eat, in the dead of night in bed—her voice overlapping all of his thoughts of the day.
And the smell of honey had overtaken every other sense he possessed. Honeyed biscuits wrapping her scent firmly in a knot around his neck.
He had lived a wretched life. He was an all-around bad person. He both acknowledged and had never cared about these facts. That Phoebe Pace might be some type of hell-spawned punishment was not out of the realm of possibility. He wondered if the end of twenty years of vengeance and street life had finally marked him for justice. If it had, he would face it like the blackened soul he was and stride home to hell. After his revenge was complete.
Twice he had opened his mouth to tell Milton Fox to get rid of her. To turn her out, to chase her away, to threaten her, to do whatever he had to.
Milton had stood there waiting on the other side of the desk, with a suspicious glint in his eyes. The edge of humor.
And Andreas had said nothing. What was he going to say? That he was scared
of a lady? A little girl?
Of course, that just brought to mind that she wasn’t, nor did she look, like a little girl at all. And he’d angrily dismissed Milton, who should have known what to do without being told.
“Oh, Mr. Fox, that is very sweet of you,” that damned voice in the alley said as she did the weekly sweep she had set up.
It was obvious, when it came to it. Milton had to die.
He struggled with the thought for a minute. They needed Milton. And Roman would be upset. Their weekly card games—family card games, Roman called them—would be one short. Roman would probably invite Charlotte then, and Andreas would have to shoot himself.
“I would be honored.”
His pen slipped and dragged a line on the page. Honored to do what?
“Yes, ten tomorrow is fine. I will be there.” The ever-present warmth in her voice hinted at an unfettered smile as well. One given to Milton.
Andreas carefully blotted the trail of ink.
Charlotte was not the worst addition to the card games. And Roman always understood.
Morning shadows were replaced by the sun’s rays as it rose toward midday. Andreas could tell by the sliver of light that slipped its way around the eternally closed drapes.
Soft slippers and the cracking of the door didn’t surprise him in the least. Not today. “Good morning, Mr. Merrick. I am sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Mr. Fox. Do you know where I might find him?”
The soft voice curled around him. He motioned to the boy who was waiting for the note he had been penning. The boy snatched the paper, relieved.
“Mr. Merrick?” she questioned again from the door, slipping fully inside as the boy quickly exited.
He looked back down at the page and continued writing. “No, I do not know where you might find him.”
“Will he be here later?”
“No.”
“Oh. I was supposed to meet with him at ten.” He could hear her chewing her lip.
“That is unfortunate.”
“Yes. I had an . . . issue . . . I needed to discuss with him. Well, I suppose I will need to deal with it on my own. And I don’t regret finding myself here—a visit with you is always welcome.”
He stiffened as she walked toward him. “You have a report for me?” he asked, his voice even.
“Oh, yes. Plenty of items to report.”
“I have little time.”
“I’ll make my words quick then. I have been working to edge Lord Garrett out of the Pace shares he has been requesting for months. I have constructed careful legal maneuvers in order to do so.” She set a sheaf of papers in front of him. He scanned the first few. He had to admit, the woman knew what she was doing. It would not do to forget that she was intelligent and clever. It should be further impetus to get rid of her.
“We had no cause to deny Lord Garrett the purchase before, as the company was hanging by a thread. But you came in and saved us.” Large smile. “Gave us back our debts and options.”
He tried never to think on those actions too hard. Nor to reflect on the fact that he was still operating under the same conflicted absurdity whenever dealing with her.
“Lord Garrett will not be pleased,” he said. Normally, that would make Andreas very, very pleased. But . . . these maneuvers would make Garrett desperate. It would make him operate out of the construct Andreas had initially placed him in—one of overconfidence.
The original plan had been to have Garrett fully invest his remaining groats with the Paces, then Andreas would crush their company all around him.
“No. I expect him to attempt negotiations.”
Garrett, and the man pulling Garrett’s strings now, would negotiate her death if they grew desperate enough and realized that she was the one making the decisions. At the very least, they would try to eliminate James Pace and buy the shares in the resulting chaos. Garrett would be able to do so if he had bribed the right people.
Andreas made a notation on the edge of his page.
“And the viscount’s sons?”
“They will keep their shares. I cannot in good conscience hurt friends just because their father is an . . . unkind person.”
“You will fail at business with that philosophy, Miss Pace.”
“Then I will fail with my head held high, Mr. Merrick.”
“Even if it dissolves your father’s company?”
“I would like to think that I could do both, Mr. Merrick. And there is no need for such a scowl. I know I dream in purple.”
There was something very calm and even about her that he appreciated in an associate. Even though she was greener than green about the way the business world truly worked—which was dark and vicious to the bitter end. Still, she projected a quiet fortitude that would always be respected. Her brother had possessed that trait as well.
Right up until he had been betrayed.
Andreas could picture Christian Pace’s expression overlaid on Phoebe’s face. It made him edgy.
“I set a few plans in motion this morning. Small things. And I have a few resulting issues already that I need to work through, of course.” She waved a hand and stood. “I will be by tomorrow.”
She gave him a sunny smile and slipped from the room before he could say anything else or ask what she meant.
Dammit. He considered sending someone after her to drag her back.
She had been keeping things close to her chest—within her immediate sphere—or else he would have heard the whispers. He needed to lean on her harder and make her tell him everything. It just meant that he had to spend more time with her, though.
He looked at the notation on his page. If he didn’t crawl on top of her actions though, Garrett or Cornelius would.
A thread of uncertainty coiled. He crushed it quickly and decisively. He had made the mistake. He would rectify that mistake. Garrett would not escape his fate; nor would he be allowed to hurt the Pace family.
But Andreas would have to maneuver Phoebe Pace out of the situation without her realizing it.
He fisted his fingers. From that first smile in a darkened theater . . . he had known from that smile. He should have changed all his plans then and there, cut the Paces completely out of the picture instead of weaving them in more tightly, binding their fate to his.
Something about that damn smile had hooked its claws into him.
He refused to do anything more idiotic because of it.
Like the idiot he was, Andreas looked at the three-story Georgian house across the street from his hiding spot in the darkened park bushes. Groomed gardens and overly colorful plants disregarded, it was a sound stone structure in a fine location overlooking the park square. A good land asset.
I set a few things in motion, she had said. Small things.
Why the qualifier made him more nervous, he didn’t know. But here he was.
He assessed the home’s defenses. The park allowed for a stealth offensive—since it was far harder to sneak through streets lined by row houses on both sides. But it also made escaping easier, should it be needed, for one could also shake off pursuers in the greenery.
There were two exits to the house, one in front, one in the rear. A garden wall low enough to scale bordered the neighbor’s yard on the back side. That house had an easy ingress and egress as well. If one needed to escape over the wall and through to the other street, the locks on the other property were barely fit for a child to pick. And the wood around the doors had mites. Two good kicks, and he could be through.
He had also analyzed the houses on either side of the Paces’ property and the ones to the sides of the neighbor’s property behind. Those were less effective exits. Still, he knew those layouts as well, just in case.
Exits scoped out, he examined the windows. Two could be used as entering points, though someone had been smart enough to plant thorny bushes below. The swearing that would accompany that method of entrance would negate any stealth gained. There was a window in the back that was unsecured, and
it was the main security weakness. One of the boys would shore it up later. The occupants would never be able to open the window again, but that wasn’t his concern.
There were three servants. A housekeeper, a maid, and a footman. They had lived on what appeared to be goodwill for the last few months, as there were no increases at all in their accounts, and their expenditures had dwindled considerably.
They had remained tight-lipped as ever though.
Again, Andreas was struck with the same uncomfortable notion that had led him to that damn theater. Sure, he had lived for twenty-odd years with someone inhuman enough to provoke uncompromising loyalty. But Roman was Herculean. He existed on a pedestal Andreas was loath to touch. But the rest of the populace was broken and shattered on the floor, beneath Andreas’s regard. Normal souls just didn’t instill such devotion. What had made the Pace servants so loyal? Loyal enough to follow the Paces into near bankruptcy.
It was unnerving. Just like everything surrounding her.
And here he was, lurking outside her house himself instead of letting his very qualified men do it. He had grabbed two of his most capable to stay here for the night. There was no need for him to do sweeps and reconnaissance like some lackey.
He would get a royal amount of shit from his brother upon his return to town. Andreas automatically started planning his responses.
. . . the Paces were now working for him as a result of Phoebe Pace’s promises.
. . . he was enveloping the family further into his plans for revenge.
. . . they had already been enveloped.
. . . he had already deployed men to watch them. This added protection was to ensure everyone’s safety.
Mocking laughter echoed in his mind.
His fingers tightened into a fist. He stared up at the one window where the drape was parted just an inch. It had been thus since he’d been there, no cause for alarm. Still, he pictured her peeking through, a smile pulling red lips.