Burning for the Baron

by Alyson Chase

  She rolled up onto her toes, wishing she wore her boots. “If you aren’t interested in joining, then why are you here? In my private rooms?”

  “We have a business matter to discuss.” Striding to her guest chair, he pulled out a pocket square and swiped at the seat.

  Colleen narrowed her eyes. “This is my office, not a den of iniquity. Nothing inappropriate happens here.” And really, what call did some foreigner have to come into her establishment and insult the clientele? And they weren’t all loose screws. Most just wanted to have a bit of amusement in this harsh world. There was nothing wrong with that.

  She poked her tongue into her cheek. She was starting to sound like the baron, defending this lot and their predilections. What was happening to her?

  The man seated himself, and Colleen followed suit. Resting her elbows on the desk, she asked, “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to arrange a mutually-beneficial agreement between two parties.” He flicked a piece of lint from his trousers. “I believe you have received some correspondence indicating a desire to enter into a business arrangement?”

  Colleen sat back. “You’re Zed.” Finally, the snake had revealed himself and she could get this business over with. She glanced at the open doorway. But where was that blasted baron? For the past week he’d been underfoot so much she’d tripped over him. Now, when she needed the man, Sutton was nowhere to be found.

  “Who I am isn’t important,” the man said. “It’s what I can do for you that is.” Pulling a cheroot from an inside pocket, he looked to her fireplace and started to his feet.

  “I don’t allow smoking in my office.” That rule was as recent as her last breath, but it seemed like a fine one. And it was always an advantage to put an opponent in his place in a business negotiation. And that’s what this was to her. A business matter to be resolved. The sooner she could obtain the evidence implicating this Zed and deliver it to Lord Sutton, the sooner she would receive her premium, and her flower shop.

  With his bum hovering over the chair’s seat, the man looked at his cheroot like it was a dying friend. He dropped back down. “Fine. This isn’t a social call in any event.” He tucked the cheroot back in his pocket. “Zed is interested in coming to terms with you. You have access to information he’d find interesting. He has access to money you’d find useful. It seems like a fair trade. He’s willing to pay you from ten to one hundred pounds per communication, depending on how valuable your information is.”

  “How generous.” Extraordinarily so. Enough to pay off all her debts and more. Colleen laced her fingers together. “And what will he pay me to betray my customers and my morals? Surely there must be an extra reward for that.”

  He blinked. “That cost is embedded in the price.”

  “And how much are you paid to deliver this message.” Pulling a piece of parchment towards her, she picked up a quill and dipped it in her inkwell. “If I’m to go into business with someone, I must know all the numbers. Only by having a full picture can I make a decision about whether to partner with that business.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be a partner. Are you cracked? You’d be a very small cog on the wheel.”

  “How many cogs are on this wheel?” Picking up a pen knife, Colleen shaved the end of her quill. This investigation business wasn’t so hard. A few more questions and she’d have the information Sutton needed. And then her premium would be as good as in the bank.

  “Look, lady, I don’t think you’re understanding how things work.” Pulling out his cheroot, he rolled it between his fingers. “You see a tasty tidbit you think might be worth money, you tell me. I give you coin. But you don’t ask questions. And you don’t tell anyone else about this deal. Got it?”

  “What happens if I tell someone else about the deal?” Sutton already knew about it. And she supposed he’d told others. Really, this Zed should know better than to buy a pig in a poke.

  “You don’t want to know what happens.”

  “But if I did,” she persisted. “Full disclosure is only sensible.” As was not looking like easy prey. She tapped the flat of her small blade on the desk, holding his gaze.

  He shook his head. “Lady, if you talk …” He brought the end of his cheroot to one side of his neck and started to draw his hand across to the other side. The cheroot snapped in two, dropping clumps of tobacco onto his coat and pants. He cursed.

  Colleen drew a pocket square from her skirt’s pocket and handed it across the desk to the man. She frowned. “I don’t see how covering me in ash will do me much harm. You’re going to have to be more explicit.”

  He brushed the tobacco from his shirt onto her floor. “Not ash, lady. This!” He brought his hand up to his throat, scowled at the handkerchief dangling from it, and snatched the linen away with his other hand. Pinning her with a glare, he slowly drew his finger across his throat.

  Colleen’s shoulders snapped back. Of all the … “Sir, I can only assume you are ignorant of the horrors of the French Revolution as there is no way you would invoke it otherwise.” As a child, one of her uncles had told the family the story of what he’d seen during his time in Paris. He made the very same motion to describe a poor man losing his head to the guillotine. She’d had nightmares for a week.

  She eyed the sot across from her. It was a nasty threat, to be sure, but hardly practical. One which no sane person would fear. Did Zed have his own personal guillotine in his rooms? Colleen snorted at the thought. Really, if this Zed was going to send someone to intimidate her, he could at least have found a suitably villainous-looking scalawag, and one whose threats held some real teeth. “Guillotined? Truly?” She shook her head sadly.

  The man swore under his breath. “It figures. I’d have to be given the dizzy ones to manage. Not dirtied up. Not guillotined.” He jabbed one broken half of the cheroot at her. “You really need me to spell this out for you?”

  Colleen nodded. “I’m afraid you’ll have to as your pantomimes are incomprehensible. And it’s best to have all terms clearly defined in a contract to prevent any confusion later on.”

  “And you don’t understand this?” He sawed the cheroot back and forth in front of his neck, making odd squeaking noises with each jerky movement.

  She wrinkled her nose. He sounded like a rusted water pump.

  “I believe what our blackmailer is trying to say, however inarticulately, is that he’ll cut your throat if you talk.” Sutton leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. A slight smile floated on his lips and he looked the very figure of ease. But the muscles beneath his trousers were taut, his legs ready to spring into action.

  Of course, now he would show up, interrupting before she could get her visitor to reveal the identity of Zed. Just like a man. Never around when she needed him and underfoot when she didn’t. Her irritation almost made her miss his words.

  “Wait …” She glared at the stranger in outrage. “You’re saying you’d cut open my neck?” If properly delivered, that would have been a threat she would have taken notice of.

  Jumping to his feet, he stumbled back, away from the monolith at the door. “I wouldn’t want to! It would just be business.”

  Sutton shrugged his coat off and tossed it on the back of a chair. He wore no waistcoat beneath, only a snowy white shirt. Every drape in the linen emphasized the strength in his arms, the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. “‘You wouldn’t want to.’” Sutton shook his head. “I guess that makes it all right, then.”

  Colleen stood and fisted her hands on her hips. “It does no such thing. How he feels isn’t relevant. I’d still be dead.”

  Both men stared at her.

  “Dizzy bitch.” The visitor shook his head, pity in his eyes.

  “She’s too straightforward to understand sarcasm,” Sutton said. “It’s one of her many charms.” He cracked his neck from side-to-side and prowled towards the man. “So, for her sake, and yours, I’m going to speak quite literally. Unles
s you tell me who you are and whom you work for, I’m going to rip your arms from their sockets and beat you to death with them.”

  ***

  Christ, Max threatens a fellow just once with dismemberment, and the bloody fool turns into a fucking wet-nurse. Zed’s accomplice had turned into such a puddle of snot and blubber, Max had felt it necessary to send Colleen from the room. No need to humiliate the man further.

  “This is my office,” she argued. “And I’m the one he threatened with …” She drew her finger across her neck and tried to mimic the man’s earlier noises. She sounded like a cat in heat.

  He winced. “Yes, but I think he might speak more freely if it’s just the two of us.”

  “Oh God,” the man wailed. “I can’t tell you anything. I’ll be killed if I do.” He eyed Max. “And killed if I don’t.” He pounded both fists into his head, cursing.

  Max worried about permanent damage. He’d seen battle-shocked men act such, and their instability could be dangerous. “New plan. Go downstairs,” he told Mrs. Bonner, “and announce that the club is closing early tonight. Once it’s empty, we’ll be down to join you.” He strode to the desk and dashed off a quick note. He folded and addressed the missive. “And give this to a footman to deliver. Tell him to make sure the earl gets it immediately, even if the lazy bastard has to be kicked out of bed.”

  “All right,” she grumbled. She took the letter, her fingers grazing his. “But I expect to be fully informed of any developments.”

  “Of course.” Within reason. He waited to hear her step on the stairs and handed his handkerchief to their visitor. “Clean yourself up, man.” Two other pocket squares littered the floor. Max picked up the one with the letters C and B embroidered on it, folded the cloth, and tucked it into his pocket.

  The man dropped into a chair, burying his face in his hands. They waited, unspeaking, for several minutes, the occasional sniffle and curse from the bugger the only sounds in the room. Giving Colleen plenty of time to clear the club, Max jerked his head at the door. “All right, let’s go.” When the man didn’t move, Max grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, careful not to inflict too much pain. Not yet. He marched him out the door and down the back set of stairs reserved for the servants. It led to a narrow corridor. The kitchen was to the left. Max steered them to the right where the hallway connected with the club’s back rooms.

  He headed for the room he and Mrs. Bonner had been in earlier. It should be perfect to scare the shit out of someone.

  Max pushed the man inside. “Go. Sit on the bed.” Locking the door, he slid the key into the top of his boot. He strode to a tall, rough-hewn bureau and pulled it open. Thick coils of chain lay coiled in the bottom, a row of attachable manacles lined up on the shelf above. Lengths of rope were tied in neat bundles and hung from nails hammered into the back of the bureau.

  Picking up two manacles and a small two-foot chain, he walked to the side wall and slid the metal through a hook screwed in the wall. “Come here.”

  “Like hell.” The man jumped to his feet and backed away. “What the fucking hell is this room? You Brits are goddamn—” His tirade broke off in a gurgle.

  Max dragged him by his throat to the wall and slammed him against it until the fight drained away. Picking up a limp hand, he attached the manacles to the dazed man and let him sag against his bonds.

  Max wiped his palms on his pants. “Now, let’s say we have a chat. After your many threats upon Mrs. Bonner’s person, I’m not predisposed to like you.” He bared his teeth. “And I assure you, you want me to like you.”

  The man struggled to stand. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped forwards.

  With a sigh, Max slapped his cheek. “Focus. Let’s start with something easy. What’s your name?”

  The man mumbled.

  Max cocked his head close. “Pinkie?” That couldn’t be right.

  “Pinkerton.” The man blinked several times then opened his lids wide. “William Pinkerton. And that’s all I’m telling you. It’s more than just my life I have to protect.”

  “You have a family?” Max nudged the man when he remained silent. “Come now. You’ve already given me your name. Telling me about your family won’t give me anything more than I could discover in a couple hours’ time.”

  “A wife. A son.” Pinkerton glared at him. “Who are now almost destitute thanks to you and your friends.”

  Max stepped back. “What did we do?”

  Heavy pounding rattled the door. Pulling the key from his boot, Max unlocked it and cracked it open.

  Julius Blackwell, Earl of Rothchild gave him a gimlet eye. “I spent all day on the back of a horse responding to Summerset’s letter and was in need of a solid night’s rest. One of your persistent footman didn’t allow that. Care to explain what was so bloody urgent?”

  Max opened the door wide. “Glad you could make it.” He eyed his friend. Aside from a slight puffiness under his eyes, Rothchild looked good. Content. His marriage agreed with him. “I haven’t seen you since your wedding breakfast, such as it was.” A quiet meal of not more than ten people. And the couple seemed to be settling into an even quieter life at Rothchild’s country estate. Max was sorry he had to interrupt it.

  “Come in. Meet our guest.” Max swept his hand out in front of him.

  Rothchild strode through the door. Before Max could shut it, Mrs. Bonner scuttled in behind him.

  Max took her elbow and tried to guide her back out. “This isn’t the place for you.”

  She jerked her arm free.

  “I’m the manager of this club until the time you see fit to hold up your end of our bargain.” She crossed her arms over her waistcoat. “I should be aware of everything that goes on under its roof.”

  She caught sight of Pinkerton chained to the wall and her eyes flew wide.

  Rothchild lounged on the narrow bed. He covered his mouth with his hand as he yawned. “I’d like to get some sleep tonight. Can we move this along?”

  Mrs. Bonner kicked the door shut. “You’ll have to pick me up and throw me out if you want me gone.” She turned the key in the lock and dropped it into her waistcoat pocket, shooting Max a challenging look.

  It was tempting. He had no doubt she’d fight like a hellcat, and that was always entertaining. But this man had threatened her. Perhaps she deserved to hear what he had to say.

  “Fine. You can stay.” He rested his hands on his hips. “But don’t interfere.”

  “Now that’s settled,” Rothchild drawled, “care to tell me why I’m here.” He jerked his head at Pinkerton. “Not that the wall hangings aren’t intriguing. Do you have a new decorator?”

  “Please.” Pinkerton tugged at his restraints. “That man is goddamned soft in the head. He chained me up for no reason.” He stared imploringly at Rothchild. “Let me go and I won’t tell anyone about this.”

  “An American?” Rothchild asked.

  Max nodded. He’d recognized the accent, too. How a continent had managed to butcher their shared language so quickly was a mystery. He stepped forward and slapped Pinkerton in the face. Not too hard, but enough to get his attention. “First, watch your tongue in front of a woman.” Although, Mrs. Bonner had insisted upon staying. She was going to hear a lot worse than rough language. “Second, you’re appealing to the wrong man. I brought my friend here because he’s so much better at convincing people to talk than I am. I can bloody and bruise you”—and break bones, but he thought that was better left unsaid—“but my friend here will make you beg for death. And he does it all without leaving a mark.”

  Rothchild slid his coat off, folded it. “Is that why I’m here? You should have given me some notice. I would have brought my ropes.”

  Mrs. Bonner furrowed her brow. “We have plenty of rope in the club. But why? He’s already restrained.”

  Rothchild sent her a wolf’s grin. “Rope can do so much more than restrain.” He turned back to Pinkerton but spoke to Max. “This man works for Ze
d?”

  “So we think. Unless he is the man himself.” Max cocked his head and looked at the sot drooping from his chains. “But that would be a disappointment. I have his name and the fact that he has a wife and son. The rest is up to you.”

  Locking his fingers together, Rothchild straightened his arms, palms out. His knuckles cracked, a startling sound in the still room.

  Mrs. Bonner inched closer to Max, and he kept one eye on the widow and one eye on his friend. Zed’s organization had nearly killed Rothchild’s wife. It was before the couple had married, but still, not something a man forgot. Or forgave. Max needed to make sure his friend wasn’t overzealous with his interrogation.

  And Colleen … well, she was an unknown. How she’d react in this situation was anyone’s guess.

  Rothchild stepped close to the American, dragged his nose along the curve of the man’s neck and up to his ear. Rothchild’s lips moved, but Max couldn’t hear what he said.

  The American shook his head, setting his jaw.

  Max huffed. Why did people insist on making life hard for themselves? With the application of enough pain, everyone talked. He focused on Mrs. Bonner. Saw her eyes widen with shock, her fists clench tight when the first scream tore from the American’s throat. She stepped forward, and Max grabbed her about the waist, pulling her back to his front.

  “If you’re here, you have to let us work,” he whispered in her ear.

  “But …” Twisting her neck, she stared up at him. “All your friend did was touch him. I don’t understand.”

  Rothchild loosened Pinkerton’s cravat, slid it from his neck, revealing the man’s throat. “The human body is made of a series of meridian lines. Certain points on those lines are especially sensitive. If I apply the right amount of pressure”—he notched his thumb at a spot in the side of Pinkerton’s neck and pressed, earning a strangled gurgle—“the individual will experience an alarming amount of pain.”

  “It’s effective, with no lasting damage.” Max ran his thumb along her arm. “Also, less clean up than doing it my way.”