The Bishop smiled at the boy. “I have a sound ship, Mouse. One fit to transport everything you saw in the warehouse—and more. And I have a mind to bring you with me.”
“So you’re not going to kill me?” Mouse asked disbelievingly.
“No, I don’t think so,” the Bishop answered, nearly as surprised as Mouse. “You have grown on me. Besides, I will need help setting up my business in America. And I believe you might make a good partner.”
The boy slid forward in the chair until his feet rested on the floor. “What do you want with America, anyway? Just take your money and get out of London. Mr. Bourne won’t follow you. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Oh, Mouse, if it were only that easy,” the Bishop replied, a loud crash reverberating in the back of the house downstairs.
Both startled at the noise, the Bishop’s gaze sliding toward the closed door.
“Who practices plays in the dead of night?” Mouse asked, looking down at the floorboards as if he could see the actors below.
The Bishop stood up from his chair and leaned over his desk, pulling the window curtains open and staring out at the dark street. No one was there.
“America, sir?”
The Bishop returned to his seat. “Yes, America. You see, one way or another, word is going to get out that I’ve kept the choicest pieces of the organization’s plunder for myself. And that will not please my boss. Not at all. But an ocean between us should keep me safe.”
Another crash ripped through the theatre, this time followed by yelling and several grunts of pain.
“I believe your Mr. Bourne has come for you,” the Bishop told Mouse, standing again.
Mouse jumped up from his chair and moved toward the office door. “He’s no match for the boys. You’ve got to call them off before somebody gets hurt.”
“It’s as I told you in the park, Mouse,” the Bishop answered, opening the top desk drawer and removing a thick-handled, wickedly sharp knife, “even I cannot predict what others will do. If Mr. Bourne chooses to come for you, he must go through Paddy and the boys first. It is only fair.”
Heavy footfalls sounded in the hall, then Paddy’s deep, Irish brogue yelled out, only to be cut off mid-sentence.
The Bishop pointed the knife at Mouse, gesturing for him to move back. “Stay behind me, Mouse, and no harm will come to you.”
Someone threw themselves against the door, their weight rattling the hinges. Another battering followed, and another, until the upper right panel of the door gave way.
“Stay behind me. Do you hear?” the Bishop yelled at Mouse as he backed up toward the wall.
A second panel was crushed to pieces, then one more charge from whomever stood on the opposite side and the door fell into the office, nearly hitting the Bishop before it landed at his feet.
“Stay back,” the Bishop ordered, but Mr. Bourne charged over the threshold and came straight for him, then continued on past. The Bishop swung around in time to see the man lunge across the desk and grab for what looked to be the bottom of a small boot at the open window.
He didn’t see Mouse!
Suddenly the room filled with men and the Bishop was shoved against the wall, one man holding his wrists together as another tied them with a length of rope to restrain him.
Bourne roared and slammed his fist on the desktop.
“We have him, Nicholas,” another man assured him, physically turning Mr. Bourne until he was looking straight at the Bishop.
“Is the boy dead?” the Bishop asked, the rope beginning to cut at his wrists. “Tell me.”
Bourne spared only a moment to capture him with a look of pure fury before running from the room, the sound of his footfalls on the stairs quickly muffled by the screams and confusion from the actors below.
June 19
YOUNG CORINTHIANS HEADQUARTERS
LONDON
Sophia stared at the man sitting across from her, a wooden table all that separated them. She had been blindfolded, loaded into a carriage, and driven the good Lord only knew where, only to be unloaded from the carriage and led into a building. From there, someone had taken her hand and pulled her along, down a set of stairs and then another, through a room that smelled of alcohol and medicinal supplies, until she was finally allowed to remove her blindfold.
Sophia would do it all again, ten more times, for the opportunity to interrogate the Bishop. After all, she had been through hell and back to get to this point; what was a bit of discomfort in comparison to such a journey?
She knew hers were not the first set of questions the man had faced. Langdon and Nicholas had returned to the apartments at the Albany at half-past three in the morning, leaving the Bishop in the capable hands of Lord Carmichael and a few of the more senior Corinthian agents. It was now nearly nine a.m. The Bishop looked tired. He’d revealed very little in his first interview, admitting only to the crimes he’d committed as a magistrate.
But Sophia had knowledge that neither the Bishop nor the Corinthians did. And she would use it to her full advantage, no matter what.
She did not expect the Young Corinthians to value her work; after all, how could they when they knew nothing of it? Sophia stared at the Bishop, watching him study her, and decided that if she was successful in convincing him to talk, she would make sure the Corinthians came to appreciate the value of scientific forensic work.
She had to break the man first.
“Do you have news of the boy?”
Sophia tilted her head and looked at the Bishop. “Have they not told you?”
She watched as his bound hands, placed on the tabletop, trembled slightly. “I see,” she said mournfully, casting her eyes down in a mournful pose. “Mouse worked for you, correct?”
The Bishop blinked hard. “Yes. He ran errands, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, do we have to play this game?” Sophia asked sadly. “It is hardly respectful to lie when speaking of the dead—particularly when you played a part in their demise.”
“I told him to stay behind me.” His voice was controlled, even, but a tic was developing in his right eyelid.
Sophia pursed her lips with disdain. “Did you really expect him to listen? After all, you stole him away from his family when he was only a very small child.”
“His mother sold Mouse to me,” the Bishop offered, resettling in his seat. “And he was far better off with me than with his prostitute mother.”
“Are you sure? You had the boy picking pockets by the age of five; stealing from homes and businesses by seven because he was inordinately skilled and small for his—”
“The boy was nine,” the Bishop spat out, “get your facts straight.”
Sophia looked down at the papers she’d brought with her, flipping through each as though searching for something. “Really? I feel certain he was seven.”
He pounded his fist on the table, shaking the stack of documents. “He was nine. I think I would know better than you.”
“I absolutely agree,” Sophia answered, looking up from the stack and offering him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. Of course you would remember. He spent most of his life in your employ—as a member of the Kingsmen. To Mouse, you were family. Tell me, was he as dear as he seemed? I spent very little time with him, but he made an impression.”
The Bishop flexed both hands then folded them together. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Sophia replied in a low, even tone.
The Bishop gazed at her, a haunted quality in his eyes. “The others asked after businesses, bank accounts, who I run, who runs me. Not you; you seem intent on making me suffer.”
Sophia listened to the timbre of his voice. It was growing wearier with each syllable, as if he was running out of will.
“You assume I’m a monster, but I am not,” he continued. “I never wanted any part in this. Do you believe me? You should. All I ever wanted to do was act; oh, maybe own my own theatre one day. Acting made me happy.
Until I made a mistake. It was a small something. Still, it changed my life forever—and turned me into what you see now. I am cold and calculating—one cannot exist in my world and be anything else. And now I only want the things I do not have.”
Sophia measured her breathing and sank slightly in her chair, effectively almost disappearing from the room, but still present enough so that the Bishop would continue his confession.
“It was the death of your mother that destroyed any hope I had of escape.”
Her heart stopped for a split second and Sophia willed herself to remain calm. “In what way?”
The Bishop’s voice was failing him. Even so, he looked determined to continue. “I didn’t understand at first how the Kingsmen worked. I thought that one could work off their debt, then be released. Your mother’s murder was to be my last job. I hadn’t killed anyone up to that point—nor did I have any desire to do so. I took advantage of Smeade’s recent recruitment and convinced my superior to allow him to do the deed with my supervision. But they twisted my involvement around, you see. Once I’d played a part in a murder, they had me for life. Stealing and cracking a few skulls was nothing the Runners had time for. The death of a lady, though? Now, that was something to build a career on.”
“They blackmailed you,” Sophia replied, her eyes locked with his. “And you exacted your revenge by stealing from those who’d stolen from you.”
The Bishop closed his eyes for a moment and sighed deeply. “That’s far more poetic than I deserve. But yes, I continued to act. I rose in the Kingsmen’s ranks, played the loyal lieutenant, and quietly robbed the organization blind. And I nearly got away with it, too.”
Sophia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. “Then you are not the man responsible for my mother’s death?”
“I am to blame, at least in part,” he answered, opening his eyes again. “Understand me, though. She would have died even if I’d refused. And I am sorry for that. As I said before, I’m not a monster.”
“Prove it to me.”
The Bishop furrowed his brows in confusion. “How can I, my lady? What’s done is done.”
“Tell me who you work for,” Sophia urged him.
“If I do that, I’m a dead man.”
“Not necessarily,” Sophia replied simply. “You tell me the name, and I will see what can be done about your American dream.”
The Bishop unfolded his hands, placing both palms on the table, understanding lighting his eyes. “You lied to me. Mouse isn’t dead. That is the only way you could know of my plan.”
“I never told you he was,” Sophia countered, “merely that it was rude to speak so of the dead.”
He looked down at his hands, a small smile appearing on his haggard face. “You’re better at this than all of those men out there combined.”
“I too had my life taken away,” Sophia answered the man, then rose from her chair. “Which left me with an abundance of time to plot my revenge. That is where our similarities end. For I have every intention of reclaiming mine.”
30
June 20
STONECLIFFE HOUSE
MAYFAIR
Climbing from the hired hackney, Nicholas realized he had been home in England for nearly two months, but this was only his second visit to the family townhome. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the impressive pile. He had very good reasons for staying away, Smeade and the Bishop the most obvious two. Still, he had to admit, even without the search for Lady Afton’s killer, Nicholas was fairly sure that he would have avoided the townhome one way or another.
The sky above him opened up and large, fat drops of rain began to fall in earnest. Still, Nicholas remained standing in front of Number 3 Grosvenor Street. He was waiting for the sense of dread that always appeared whenever he set foot on his father’s property. The dread was habitually accompanied by the humbling realization that he was nothing compared to Langdon, and the inescapable truth that he never would be.
Nicholas brushed his wet hair from his eyes and continued to wait. His greatcoat grew heavier and wetter by the second, soaking up the rain as if it were made to do so, and yet he waited.
“Nicholas!” Sophia stepped from her carriage and joined him on the sidewalk, followed closely by Mrs. Kirk. “What on earth are you doing out here? You are soaked from head to toe.”
He ventured one last look at the exterior of the house, daring the old, tired feelings to return. But they were gone. “Saying farewell to the past, as it happens.”
“Isn’t it possible to do so in front of a warm fire?” Sophia asked, adjusting her parasol to cover Mrs. Kirk.
“I suppose so,” Nicholas answered, smiling widely at the woman he loved. “I do like a bit of drama, though. Besides, I’ve always let the past define me. And now that I am embracing my future, I want to leave it behind. Out here, in the pouring rain, where it belongs.”
“A future?” Sophia asked, either hesitation or excitement in her voice, Nicholas could not quite tell which.
“Yes,” he answered, “a future. Or, to be more precise, our future. I don’t know why Langdon summoned us here, but I am not going to waste the opportunity. We owe it to my brother to tell him the truth. And we owe it to ourselves. I do not want to spend one more day without you—nor you, Mrs. Kirk,” he added dryly.
“Then I suggest we go inside before we’re all swept away,” Mrs. Kirk said, picking up her skirts in an attempt to keep the hem somewhat dry.
Nicholas gestured for the women to go first, then followed them to Langdon’s front door. The footman, who had been patiently waiting to assist them, bowed and opened the door wide.
“Good God, have you all drowned?” Langdon exclaimed, rushing to Sophia’s side and relieving her of the dripping silk parasol.
Nicholas allowed a footman to remove his greatcoat, then shook his head. “Almost,” he said meaningfully, discreetly locking glances with Sophia.
“Yes, well, from the looks of it we’re readying for a biblical flood in the entryway,” Langdon replied, handing the parasol to the footman who had assisted Sophia in removing her pelisse. “So if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Kirk, James here will show you to the parlor, where tea and a seat by the fire await you.”
Mrs. Kirk curtsied before the duke and dutifully followed James down the hall, looking over her shoulder and giving Sophia a supportive smile.
“As for you two, come with me,” Langdon continued, calling a maid over and asking that she bring drying towels to his study before walking on.
“You have news of the Bishop, I hope,” Nicholas said as he followed his brother past the green drawing room, Sophia by his side.
Langdon sighed at his impatience. “All will be revealed, Nicholas.”
They reached the study at the back of the townhome, the maid Langdon had asked to bring the towels hurrying toward them from the servants’ stairs.
“My lord,” she said in greeting, handing one length of linen to Sophia and one to Nicholas. “Will there be anything else?”
Langdon gave her a brief smile. “Yes, please. Have tea sent up in thirty minutes. That will be all.”
“Of course, my lord,” the maid dutifully replied, bobbing a curtsy before turning back down the hall.
“Shall we?” Langdon asked, waiting as Sophia entered the study, and then Nicholas.
Sophia took her seat in front of Langdon’s large mahogany desk, patting dampness from her cheeks and chin.
Nicholas took the opportunity to swipe his towel across his face and neck. “Don’t remain standing on my account,” he told Langdon, who appeared to be waiting to take his seat.
Langdon nodded in understanding and sat down, settling into his chair. “As to the Bishop …”
“Starting right in, then,” Nicholas commented, tossing the linen onto a nearby chair and dropping into his seat.
“He was found dead in his cell this morning,” Langdon continued, his face somber, disappointed. “An apparent suicide.”
�
��I’d told him I would see to his plan for America,” Sophia blurted out, sitting forward on the edge of her seat and reaching out to grasp the edge of the desk with one hand. “He was going to tell me the name of his superior! He was not suicidal, I am sure of it.”
Langdon looked at Sophia. “I do not know what happened between you and the Bishop yesterday—yet something else about you, Sophia, that seems to have slipped my notice.” He frowned down at the crystal paperweight sitting on his desk. “Still, I have to agree with you. I find suicide unlikely. A full investigation is under way. But he is dead either way, and with him, the search for your mother’s killer, I’m afraid.”
Sophia slumped back in her chair and covered her face with her hands.
“Surely there is more the Corinthians will uncover?” Nicholas asked, watching Sophia absorb the painful truth and knowing he could not do a damn thing about it.
“I cannot say, Nicholas,” Langdon answered, his tone turning cold. “I can tell you that even if there are new leads uncovered in the future, neither you nor Sophia will be allowed to continue the investigation.”
Nicholas turned to take in his brother, anger flaring. “You yourself admitted that our work led to the Bishop’s capture. How can you presume to make such a decision on our behalf?”
“Do you love her, Nicholas?” Langdon asked simply.
Nicholas froze, Langdon’s question catching him off guard. He swallowed hard, his mind racing for a response. In the end, he decided upon the simple truth. “Yes. I always have. And I always will.”
Langdon picked up the paperweight and appeared to be testing the weight of it in his right hand. “And you, Sophia? Do you love my brother?”
“Langdon, how did you know?” Sophia asked, her voice tortured.
Langdon turned and looked out the French window. “I’m smart enough to see when two people are in love. In fact, I suspect I’ve known for some time—since we took tea at Halcyon House together. My suspicions were not confirmed until the night Mouse was abducted.”
The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 26