by Ava Rose
He sighed, finally releasing her. “Come, then.” He took her arm and they continued.
“There,” she said, pointing at a sign that read: Lewis’s Bar.
Henry didn’t like the kind of men he was seeing going into the premises. “Is there no way I can convince you to turn back?”
“We have come too far, Henry.”
At the door, he looked down at her. “Libby…”
She shook her head. “If I didn’t stop before now, what makes you think I will stop now?”
“I thought I might get lucky.”
She tugged at his coat and he led them into the bar.
The smell of cigar smoke and alcohol was the first thing to hit him. He scanned the room casually, taking note of the faces of the men, the setting of the bar. His gaze settled on a man who looked to be about his own age behind the bar counter. There were tall shelves behind him with countless bottles of liquor.
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Then, as he turned to look at Libby, the second thing hit him.
His eyes caught a cloak hanging on the coat hanger next to the door. A black medieval-style cloak. Something heavy sank to the bottom of his stomach as his senses picked up. He drew Libby nearer.
“Let's see if we can find Lewis,” he whispered.
On their way to the bar, a man accosted them.
“We don't allow women in here,” he said. He was a burly man with bloodshot eyes and bad breath that indicated he'd over-imbibed.
“Is that so?” Henry asked in a casual yet ironic tone.
“Yes,” the man said slowly.
“Are you Lewis, the owner of this establishment?” He raised his voice so most of the people around could hear. This man was not Lewis. No barkeeper drank his liquor in excess.
“What does it matter? No women allowed.”
“We were passing and suddenly my wife,” he glanced down at Libby who was watching everything with a puzzled frown on her face, “developed chills. We need some whiskey or brandy to warm her. She was born with a rare disease that causes her to feel severely cold.”
Beside him, he felt Libby begin to shake. Clever girl. He did not look at her so as not to lose his composure.
“I couldn't possibly leave her outside in her condition.” He inserted enough emotion into his voice to sound like a distressed husband. He pulled a shaking Libby closer. He was unsure where he was going with this but hoped it would work.
“That's enough, Marcus!” The man behind the counter called out as he walked up to them. “Please forgive me. This fool is always trying to drive my customers away.”
“My wife needs help. Is there somewhere private she could rest, so she does not bother your other customers with her presence?”
“Rest assured that this establishment is not a men-only establishment. It is Marcus who makes such ridiculous claims.” He rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I wish he was not my brother.”
“I think she will still need somewhere private. I will pay you. Handsomely.”
People understood the language of money very well, Henry knew. There was hardly an unfavorable situation that money did not turn favorable.
“Follow me, please,” the bartender said politely.
Henry and Libby followed him into a room that looked like a storage area with barrels of ale and wine on one side and crates on the other. He nudged Libby to sit on one of the three chairs in the room near the crates before taking another seat himself.
“Will any liquor do or is there a specific one that makes her better?” the barkeeper asked.
“Whiskey will be fine, thank you.” He gave the man some money.
When he left to fetch Libby's medicinal drink, she stopped shaking and glared at Henry as soon as the door was shut.
“First, I am your fiancée, and now your wife? Were you ever going to ask my consent?”
Oh, he had done badly.
She had played along perfectly but deep inside she must think him the worst sort of cur. She had every right to be angry with him. She had been forced to marry before and would naturally not find this situation amusing, in the least.
“I am sorry, Libby. I was not thinking.”
“Well, think next time,” she snapped. “I will not play such games again.”
He hoped there wouldn’t be a next time.
“Forgive me.”
Footsteps approached and she began to shiver again. When their eyes met, she shot him another withering glare.
His former self—the man he had been a week ago—would not have been concerned with her feelings and whether or not she was hurt. That was no longer the case.
The bartender opened the door and walked in with an entire bottle of whiskey and two glass tumblers. He placed them on a crate near Henry and made to leave.
“Are you Lewis?” Henry asked.
He turned with his hand on the door handle, looking unsure. “Yes, I am.”
“Thank God!” Henry said affectedly. “We need your help.”
Lewis released the door handle and moved closer. Henry began pouring a drink for Libby, talking as he did so.
“We were led to you by Mr. Read.” Lewis's eyes narrowed just a touch. “I am an investigator and my wife and I work cases together. This particular case is causing her quite a bit of distress, as you can see. We only need information.”
He handed Libby a glass and she took a sip. He refrained from pouring some for himself.
Lewis looked at her shivering, and a sympathetic expression replaced the skeptical one. “Of course, I would like to help if I can. And Mr. Read is a respectable businessman. I trust him.”
“We are looking for the source of a rumor about the Raven ordering the murder of Mr. Nolan Hart.”
“Ah, I told Mr. Read about that one last week when he stopped by.”
“And who did you hear it from?”
“A man came in on the day Mr. Hart's body was found. I heard him telling another man that the Raven ordered it. I overheard the conversation and didn't pay it any mind, but then more people started talking about it.”
“Do you know the name of the first man you heard it from?”
“I'm afraid I don't. I didn't see him again, until now.”
“Now?”
“Yes, he is in the bar as we speak. You arrived not long after him.”
Henry shot to his feet. “Show me, please.”
Lewis nodded and opened the door. He stared around the room, with Henry following his line of sight.
“I am sorry,” he said. “It appears he has gone.”
Henry released a disappointed breath but then remembered something and his eyes went straight to the coat rack by the door. The black cloak was missing. If the cloaked person stalking them was the same as the man spreading the rumors, then they would just have to double their efforts to locate him. At least now they knew it was a man.
“Lewis, did this man wear a black woolen cloak?”
“Yes. Yes, he did. How do—”
“I am a detective.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved some money which he offered to the man. “Thank you for your help.”
“You don't have to pay me for that. I am happy to help a good cause.” Lewis paused then. “You are looking to solve the murder, aren't you?”
Henry nodded.
“Mr. Hart was a menace, but a murder is a murder. We need to feel safe in our neighborhood. I will not accept payment from you, Sir. You are doing a service for us all. As a matter of fact, I wish to return the money you paid for the whiskey.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I insist.”
“Then you can give some of the customers here a drink on the house.”
Lewis smiled. “I will do just that.”
He felt Libby come up beside him and instinctively, his hand found hers and held it.
“I feel much better, Lewis, thank you,” she said.
The bartender bowed slightly. “It is my pleasure.”
“Should we go?” she asked Henry and he nodded.
He went back into the storeroom to retrieve his bag. He was used to this; carrying this bag around with him all over the city.
They left the bar and although the person they were searching for still eluded them, Henry was convinced they were getting closer. The streets were almost deserted and they walked briskly back to his carriage and were soon on their way back to Beacon Hill.
“I heard what Lewis told you,” Libby said, sounding tired. “You made mention of a black cloak.”
He leaned forward. “The person I saw following you wore a woolen medieval-style cloak with a hood. There was a similar cloak hanging in the bar and Lewis confirmed that he heard the rumor from the cloak’s owner.”
“And he doesn’t know the man’s name?”
“Sadly not.”
She sat up suddenly as though she was just realizing something. “We are very close, Henry. We only have to find him now. We need to ask around.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I would suggest we return in the daytime.”
“Of course.” She smiled at him then and he found himself smiling back as the worry tightening his chest began to loosen.
“Libby…I wasn’t thinking when I made up—”
She held up a hand to stop him. “It worked and that’s what matters. I am just a bit sensitive about it. I was forced to marry a man who abducted me and now, by law, I am a widow.”
“I think you are very brave.” He took her small gloved hands. “I know of a man who may be able to help expedite the annulment without waiting until the investigation is concluded. I can have him call you if you wish.”
Her eyes misted. “You will?”
“Of course.” Henry was starting to think he would do anything for her at this point. “He owes me a favor.”
“Thank you, Henry,” she whispered.
“Think nothing of it.”
Libby leaned back and the journey continued on in silence with each of them lost in their thoughts.
They were close to finding the truth. He was certain of it. Henry couldn’t be happier but at the same time, a feeling of dread was building. Once the case was solved, he would no longer have a reason to spend time with Libby. Things would go back to the way they were before he knew her, and she would probably marry some wealthy gentleman with a fancy title.
No, no, no. This Libby sitting opposite him would not marry a wealthy gentleman with a fancy title. This Libby might never marry at all. That thought worried him the most.
He looked at her and realized she had fallen asleep.
He moved very carefully from his seat to hers and shifted a lock of hair off her cheek. The street lamps they passed cast a sporadic glow across her delicate features. He committed every feature, every contour of her face to memory, for he may not get such a chance again.
Very slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. He would have loved to kiss her on the lips but that would be a liberty too far. He had never been more certain of someone’s innocence than right now, and he had never been more determined to discover the truth.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On the front steps of Armstrong-Leeds House, Libby invited him to have dinner with her and her family, but he declined politely. “Your mother has already invited me tomorrow.”
“That was my mother’s invitation. This is mine.”
“I need to get home and record our findings, Libby. I will see you on the morrow.”
She pouted like a child and he tweaked her nose playfully.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she enticed.
Of course, he was, but he had to get back to his place. There was too much swirling around in his mind.
“Good night, Elizabeth,” he murmured.
“Good night, Henry.”
Instead of stepping down onto the street, he remained looking at her. How foolish he must appear to any passerby that should encounter the scene, but he did not care.
“Come inside,” she insisted.
“I should not.”
This time, he did try to leave. It was difficult but he managed it in the end, with a rather large and probably silly grin.
The grin did not last long, for he caught sight of a hooded figure in the distance. A medieval cloak! This time, he ran. The cloaked figure began to run too, and Henry moved even faster. He had closed half of the distance between them when the figure turned into an alley. Henry had no choice but to follow.
It was a closed alley but there was no sign of the person he had chased in. Henry started to reach for the pistol in his coat pocket but before he could pull it out, someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides.
The figure was definitely a man and one who was larger in body mass than Henry. Since they were almost the same height, with the attacker being an inch or two taller, Henry threw back his head and hit him in the face, stunning him. The grip around his arms slackened and he freed himself, but before he could fully get away, he was tackled to the ground. The man tried to kick Henry but he rolled out of the way and gained his feet as fast as he could. The attacker then pulled out a knife.
He had to bring this man down and question him. He pulled the gun out of his pocket and aimed it.
“Stand back or I will shoot.”
The attacker stopped advancing but Henry still cocked the pistol in readiness to shoot, just in case. “Why have you been following us?” he demanded.
“I am not here to answer stupid questions, detective. I come with a warning. Stop digging for the truth.”
With lightning speed, the man threw something at Henry, and in reaction, he pulled the trigger. The attacker clutched his arm and loped off before Henry could do anything more. It was only when he was lowering his arm that he noticed the knife wedged in his shoulder. He began to feel the pain.
He reached to pull it out, but quickly changed his mind. He was already bleeding, but pulling it out could mean more blood and he did not want to risk losing too much blood. Not here.
He swayed on his feet, blinking as his vision began to blur. Moving as quickly as his failing body would allow, he picked up the bag he had been carrying all day with his good arm, and staggered out into the main street.
The further he walked, the weaker his body got and he greatly suspected poisoning. No matter how deep the knife had gone into his shoulder, it was too soon for his body to become this poorly. It felt like a never-ending journey but he reached the house eventually. Libby’s house. He used his last strength to lift the brass knocker and on release, his legs gave way and he crashed to the ground.
***
Grace, Libby’s maid, was about to start undoing her corset laces when Anna stormed into the room looking frantic.
“Libby, come quick! It’s Detective DeHavillend. He is injured.”
Her heart crashed against her rib cage as she dashed for the door. Grace quickly pulled her back and grabbed the dressing gown she had laid out on the bed. Libby speedily covered her body and cinched the sash tightly about her waist before running out with Anna.
Henry was hurt. It was the only thought running through her head as she ran down the hallway and stairs to the lower level guest room.
He was on the bed lying still, undressed from his waist up, and he did not look like he was breathing. Her hands went up to cover her mouth as her vision blurred with tears. Fear filled her. Antoine and Penforth were standing over him as a footman brought in towels and a pitcher of water.
He was alive! She held the door for balance as relief crashed through her.
Penforth turned and saw her. At first, he waved her away, but must have seen something in her expression as he seemed to change his mind and gestured her to come forward. She did so on shaky legs. There was quite a bit of blood and a knife buried in Henry’s right shoulder. The sight made her feel ill.
“W-what…happened?”
“He was stabbed,” Pen said grimly. “We suspect he has been poisoned, too.�
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Libby shut her eyes and looked away. “Has a doctor been called?”
“Yes.”
“Who could have done this?” Anna asked.
Libby had an idea. “Someone who doesn’t want us searching for the truth,” she said, staring at Henry’s still form. Antoine was cleaning the blood around the knife. “Can’t the knife be removed?”
“Not yet, my lady. It might make him lose a lot of blood before the doctor arrives.”
She buried her face in her hands for a moment and breathed deep. Henry was in this situation because of her. If he—
No, she could not think like that. She should not.
“What can I do?” she asked. Pen took her arm to lead her out of the room, but she pulled away. “I need to do something for him, Pen.”
“There is nothing you can do right now. There is nothing any of us—save for Antoine—can do at the moment.”
“I’ll sit with him. I am the reason he is hurt.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself, Libby.” He squeezed her shoulder.
How could she not?
As Pen and Anna left the room, she pulled the chair by the vanity table over to the side of the bed and sat stiffly. Reaching carefully, she took his left hand in both of hers, stroking it gently, and pleading with him to be all right and to forgive her.
Their family doctor, Dr. Poole, arrived half an hour later. One part of her wanted to flee and not watch the doctor work on him, while the other wanted to remain and support him. Libby chose the latter.
She conceded her place beside him and moved to the window while Dr. Poole and Antoine worked together. Antoine had some medical background and treated minor wounds quite well. This was out of his depth because of the suspected poisoning.
With incredible care, Dr. Poole placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder so the blade was between his thumb and forefinger then pressed his palm down as he swiftly pulled out the knife. Blood gushed, causing Libby to momentarily lose her composure.
The blood was cleaned away and Dr. Poole stitched the wound neatly.
“I believe he will be all right. We only have to watch for infection,” he said, when he was through treating him.
“What about the poisoning?” Libby asked.
