“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Something has happened to her—and someone is responsible,” Max said.
Jack barked out a laugh. “But for once, it’s not me. I have no idea where she went. She took all my money and left me without a word.”
“No.” When Max shook his head, he had to grip the caddies to keep from falling. “That’s not like her. It can’t be true.”
“How do you know?” Jack asked. “You don’t know her as well as we do!”
“I know her well enough to be able to assure you that if she took any money, it would be for her son.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.” Jack’s voice and expression oozed bitterness. “She probably grabbed her boy from wherever he was staying right after she left my place and took off for Manchester or . . . or Liverpool. Used me the whole time.”
“That wasn’t her intention. She told me she was going to marry you. And she didn’t take her son.”
“How do you know?” Jack still sounded angry, but he lowered the hand with the knife.
“Because I’ve got him.”
“You’re lying . . .” He lifted the knife again as if he might try to finish what he had started simply to appease the emotion that had welled up.
“Jack, if you’re going to kill him, do it and let’s get out of here,” Bill cried. “Do you want to hang for this?”
Max ignored him. Fortunately, so did Jack. “It’s true.”
“Then where in the bloody hell did she go?”
He sounded desperate enough that, for the first time, Max almost liked him. He was obviously in love with Madeline. “That’s what I’ve been trying to find out.” Max stripped off his coat so he could wrap it around his wound. “But she didn’t take your money.”
“Then who did?” Jack asked.
“Who else knew where you kept it?”
“No one!”
Max concentrated on the pungent scent of the tobacco, doing all he could to hang on to consciousness. “Someone had to know.”
“Who’d dare?”
Unable to staunch the bleeding, Max gave up on that. “Anyone—if they thought they had a handy scapegoat.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. “You think someone else took the money and killed Madeline so I’d think she did it?” Jack asked.
Before Max could reply, Emmett entered the conversation again. “If that’s the case, it had to be Tom. He was living there, too.”
“Then we’ll never know,” Bill jumped in, “because Tom ain’t comin’ back. Jack already made sure of that.”
“Shut the bloody hell up,” Jack snapped. “It couldn’t have been Tom. Tom wasn’t half that clever. Besides, he adored Madeline. He would never have hurt her.”
The argument that ensued between them caused Max’s ears to ring: “Of course it was Tom . . . But we would’ve seen evidence of the money . . . Maybe he gave it to his brother . . . Then why would he steal it in the first place? And his brother doesn’t seem to be any better off than he was before.”
Max wanted to control the conversation as much as possible, to employ the diplomacy it would require to get out of the warehouse alive. He also had to find his clerk and send for help, if Hobbs needed it. The poor man had to be lying hurt somewhere, if they hadn’t killed him . . .
But specific words wouldn’t come. The moment he tried to speak, tried to straighten, the floor came rushing up to meet him.
Chapter 27
“What do we do now?” Bill asked.
Jack glanced at his brother, who was as pale as he had been the night they caught Tom. Bill didn’t want any more killing, but Bill was weak. Jack didn’t see where they had any choice. If Max lived to see that his clerk was dead, he would go straight to the police.
Max deserved what he was getting, anyway. It wasn’t as if he was any kind of friend. He had hoped to catch them in a crime from the beginning, had admitted as much. It was one thing to lose Madeline; Jack wasn’t going to be blamed for whatever happened to her.
Deciding to get it over with quickly, he shoved his knife into Max’s inert body. Then he rolled him over to steal his watch. That watch was a beauty. Jack had always admired it—but what he hadn’t expected was to find Madeline’s necklace in the same pocket.
“Look at this! Madeline prized this above everything—claimed it contained her father’s hair,” he said as he opened it.
Bill’s mouth dropped open. Then he said, “Agnes would never part with that. So how did Max get it?”
Jack made a clicking sound with his tongue as he pocketed both the watch and the locket. “It’s too late to ask him now.”
“What about that other guy?” Emmett jerked his head toward the office. They’d left Mr. Hawley, who’d refused to say a single word from the moment they confronted him, slumped over his desk. “He might have a watch worth taking.”
Jack wanted to check. But there were noises beyond the warehouse—two men walking past. He lifted a hand, indicating silence. He didn’t want to draw outside attention. Madeline had said her brother was an important man and, if he owned this much cargo, she hadn’t been exaggerating his wealth. Tangling with a powerful family would not work in their favor. If they were caught by the police, they’d all hang.
When those he heard were gone, Jack pulled his knife out of Max’s body, wiped off the blood and put it back in his boot. “We leave them both for others to discover; no one will ever be the wiser if we do.”
“Good,” Bill said. “Let’s go.”
Ebenezer pulled him back. “Wait a second. What about all this tobacco?” He gestured to the vast stores surrounding them. “This cargo is worth a fortune.”
“But we don’t have a wagon with us, and these hogsheads are much too heavy to haul away without one,” Emmett said. “Do you have any idea how much they weigh?”
“We could come back later,” Ebenezer suggested. He was already prying off the lid of the closest one and taking as many of the leaves as he could shove into his pockets.
Jack stopped him. “Are you mad? There are two dead men in here, and you want to walk out with leaves of tobacco stuffing your clothes? Why don’t you just ring a bell and announce what you’ve been doing?”
He didn’t take any more but didn’t give up what he had. He merely squished it down, where it couldn’t be seen.
“So we’re leaving their bodies here for someone else, too?” Emmett asked. “Max is an impressive specimen. He would bring in a fair amount.”
Jack considered his options. It was dangerous to return—but too tempting to resist. They had made fifteen whole guineas off Tom. “We’ll come back later with a cart, when it will be easier to haul both bodies off without being seen.”
“And what about Abby?” Bill asked.
“We won’t be stupid enough to sell either one to Aldersgate.”
“I mean, she might come back and wonder what happened to Max.”
“So? We leave her be. If we do anything else, they could tie this back to us. Besides, we won’t see her. She’s scared to death of me.” He shoved a few of the tobacco leaves into his own pockets. “Maybe when we return, we’ll even be able to get some of this tobacco.”
“This is our lucky night,” Ebenezer said. Then they slipped out, one by one, and each took a different route to Farmer’s Landing.
Abby was still in the parlor, waiting for her father, when Bransby notified her that Gertrude was at the door. Hoping Madeline’s friend had more information than she’d been able to glean earlier, Abby asked Bran to show her in right away.
“Come, warm yourself by the fire,” Abby told her. Apparently, Bran had already taken whatever bonnet and cloak Gertie had worn but, thanks to the weather, she was drenched to the bone.
“It’s so wet out,” she complained, shivering.
“That makes it all the more impressive that you would venture all the way to Smithfield,” Abby said. “I will, of course, reimburse you for the cab ride.”
“I had to come,” Gertie said. “I think something terrible might have happened to His Grace.”
To Max? Fear clutched at Abby’s chest. She’d been so uneasy all night. Was this the reason? Was Max in trouble? “Why?”
“I went back later, as promised, and visited several more taverns, looking for him. I had to be discreet, which took time, but I discovered that he had dinner at the Forrester’s Arms. I spoke to the barmaid who served him. She said that a small boy delivered a message at almost the same time she brought his meal and he left shortly after.”
“What did the message say? Did she have any idea?”
“No. But she recognized the boy who delivered it and told me where I could find him. It took me all evening, but I managed to track him down.”
“And?”
“He didn’t know what the message said, either. But he could tell me that he was hired by a man who works in a warehouse at St. Catherine’s docks.”
“Mr. Hawley.” Relief swept over Abby. “That’s nothing to be concerned about. Mr. Hawley is Max—er, His Grace’s—clerk.” She would never get used to Max’s true identity. “He is also helping to find Madeline. So . . . perhaps Max is with him, safe and sound.” She still wanted to get word to Max about Tom, but as long as he wasn’t in imminent danger, she supposed that news could wait another day.
But then she saw the grim expression on Gertie’s face.
“What is it?”
“The boy told me about someone else who took an interest in that message.”
Abby’s nails curved into her palms. “Who?”
“A big man with a pockmarked face.”
“Jack!”
“It had to be him. The boy couldn’t remember his name but told me a younger fellow with a black eye dragged him to No. 8 Farmer’s Landing and they got the man with the pockmarked face out of bed.”
Abby recognized the address. But who was the younger fellow? Could it be Emmett? Was that black eye a result of what happened at St. George’s? She couldn’t come up with any other explanation.
“At Farmer’s Landing, he was questioned about what he had delivered and who it was from,” Gertrude was saying.
“Did he tell them?”
“He did. It was the only way they would let him go. He said they were angry, that they thought a man named Max had lied to them. The boy was fairly certain they were on their way to St. Catherine’s.”
No longer possessing sufficient strength to stand, Abby sank into the closest chair. “When was this?”
“It’s been some hours.”
“And there’s been no sign of Max?”
“Not since he left the tavern.”
Abby’s mind whirled with images she didn’t want to see—Jack with that knife of his at the table, Jack showing no regret or sympathy when Tom’s brother showed up, Tom lying on a dissection table with his throat slit.
What was Big Jack doing now? Was Mr. Hawley or Max in danger?
After what she had just learned, she could only assume they were, and that meant she had to act. “Gertie, stay here by the fire, and get warm before you catch your death,” she said. “I’ll order tea and cakes after I send Bransby for the police.”
“Even the police don’t like to go down to the docks after dark,” Gertie said with a wince for their predicament.
Did that mean Peel’s bobbies wouldn’t search in earnest? Abby couldn’t take that chance. So she left Gertie to eat alone, donned her finest dress and bonnet and took a cab to Mayfair.
She would get help, even if she had to appeal to Max’s mother.
When Max came to, his mind was so muddled he couldn’t figure out what had happened. He lay on the hard floor, staring up into darkness, trying to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. He may never have found those answers, if not for the smell.
Tobacco. It was such a familiar scent. Why?
Then, a little late and rather lethargically, the answer crystalized in his mind. This had to be his warehouse. And with that memory came a surfeit of others: the boy with the message, finishing his dinner and trying to look unhurried as he made his way to the docks, being attacked as soon as he threw open the door and called out Hobbs’s name.
But it was the memory of Jack with that knife that really got his heart pumping. He had been stabbed! Or was that a dream? He felt no pain, just a pervading numbness and an inability to move . . .
“Hobbs?” he croaked, but he didn’t think anyone as far away as the office could hear him. He didn’t possess enough energy to project his voice.
Putting more effort into it, he tried again. “Hobbs?”
When he received no answer, he nearly closed his eyes and went back to sleep. It was too daunting to move. Just opening his eyes proved a difficult task. But the fear that his clerk might need him goaded him into fighting the temptation to slip away.
He felt around to make sure he was alone and quickly determined that he was lying in a puddle. He could hear the rain outside. At first, he believed the roof was leaking. That explained why he was so wet and cold. But the consistency of this liquid—it was too viscous, not like water. Then he found that his shirt was sticking to him and began to feel pain—a burning sensation that overtook him, suddenly radiating out from his chest, his arm, his head.
Obviously, he was hurt—and the puddle wasn’t water. He tasted it to be sure: blood. Not only had Jack stabbed him, Jack—and the others—had left him for dead!
That realization gave him the jolt he needed to get to his feet. Using the caddies on either side of him to support most of his weight, he staggered to the end of the row. He needed to reach the office, but he was so damn disoriented in the darkness.
“Hobbs?” he croaked again.
This time there was a rustle. Had that noise come from inside or outside the warehouse? It was tough to tell. Like always, there was a lot of shouting and movement on the wharf, the usual din. Max wasn’t even sure he was truly awake—until someone lit a lamp.
Max’s town house was every bit as well appointed as Abby had imagined it would be. And the dowager duchess was just as austere and frightening. It wasn’t until Abby insisted she had news of His Grace that Max’s mother would even agree to see her, and then she made it clear that she was skeptical of the visit and not pleased to have her evening so rudely interrupted.
“You are not friends with Madeline, are you, come here to beg for money?” This was the first question she asked, as soon as she stalked into the drawing room where the butler had Abby wait. The glance she gave Abby’s dress acted as a second slap. It made Abby well aware that her apparel was far behind the latest fashions and beneath the duchess’s standards. But surely she didn’t look quite as desperate as one might expect a friend of Madeline’s to look. That Max’s mother would treat her this way was further proof that he was miles above her humble, middle-class station.
“No, Your Grace. I’m here about your son, as I told your butler at the door.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Lucien is visiting a friend in the country. He isn’t even in town.”
“In the country?” she repeated, surprised by this statement.
“Yes. He has been gone for several weeks.”
Apparently, his mother didn’t know, didn’t even suspect, what Max was doing. But of course, given how she felt about Madeline, he wouldn’t be foolish enough to tell her. Otherwise, she would have done all she could to stop him.
Now Abby was about to divulge the big secret. If he didn’t need help, he would probably never speak to her again. But they had no reason to remain in touch, anyway. And the possibility—the strong possibility—that he was in danger forced her hand.
“I�
��m afraid that isn’t true, Your Grace.”
The dowager’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Excuse me?”
Abby cleared her throat and stood. “I regret to inform you that your son is actually in Wapping and has been there some time.”
“How do you know that?” she asked. “How is it that you know Lucien at all? Don’t tell me you’re from there—that you’re one of his little . . . diversions—and you dare come here, to this house!”
Abby wasn’t sure whether she could honestly answer that she wasn’t one of Max’s diversions. Given the difference in their social status, she was no one who could expect him to take her seriously. But she had not been working as a prostitute. And she had given her heart as well as her body.
As she explained how they met, the dowager stepped closer. “He went after that . . . that trollop?” she cried.
“Because he feared for her safety, Your Grace. I’m sure he felt he had no choice.”
“But to risk his own life in the process? A life worth infinitely more than the one he is trying to save?”
Abby said nothing. She valued Max’s life more than any other, too, but she couldn’t approve of how careless his mother seemed to be of Madeline’s safety. Madeline was her husband’s bastard child, which would rankle—Abby had to admit it—but Madeline had no culpability in her conception. She deserved to live as much as anyone, even a member of the aristocracy.
“What I am here to convey is that . . . I believe Jack Hurtsill has figured out your son is there under false pretenses,” Abby said, “and Jack is a very dangerous man.”
As soon as Madeline explained why she was so concerned, the color drained from the dowager’s face, but she flew into action—calling for her brougham to be prepared, for her coachmen and footmen to be armed, for someone to send a message to the home secretary to get some of his bobbies over to St. Catherine’s as soon as possible.
“I have also sent for the police,” Abby said. “I just thought . . . I thought you might like to be notified as well.” She had paid the dowager a visit for her own peace of mind—because she knew, if anyone would provide the help Max, or Lucien, needed, it would be his powerful family.
A Matter of Grave Concern Page 28