Night of the Scoundrel

by Kelly Bowen

  “They were good,” she said. “Better than most. You may wish to reconsider.”

  He ignored her suggestion. “Tell me about the inn.”

  “Why?”

  He twisted the knife in his fingers. “Do I need a reason?”

  “I suppose not.” Adrestia shrugged. “But since I’m sure you’ll read all about it in the papers over the coming days, I’ll tell you. The Dockyard is Howells’s favorite lodging house, where he goes to conduct his treasonous business and then stays to obliterate his regrets and woes. Usually with gin, occasionally with women. He’s been there a half dozen times in the last fortnight. Tonight he’s selling information to a Frenchman who is not a Frenchman at all. He will never face justice for what he did in the past, but he can answer for his actions now. If both transgressions were brought before the courts, treason would be considered the more heinous of the two.”

  “Clever.”

  “There is nothing particularly clever about an anonymous informant informing of the truth,” Adrestia said, and once again King was struck by the sense of weariness that lingered beneath her cool demeanor. “This was by far one of the most artless contracts I’ve executed.”

  King understood that weariness, and the exhaustion that came from surviving in a world where honor was scarce and trust scarcer still. A world where the soul standing next to you was more likely to offer a blade in your back than to offer aid. He wanted to tell her that he understood. He had no idea how. Or why he would ever be so foolish as to do so.

  Adrestia exhaled. “If you’re done asking questions, I’d like to take what I came for and go.”

  “No.” His answer was immediate and unyielding.

  “No?”

  “No.” It didn’t matter that there seemed to exist a tenuous, terrifying connection between him and this woman that was as dangerously intoxicating as it was dangerously tempting. If every pretty girl who had ever told him a sad story had been allowed to manipulate him, he would have had his throat and his purse strings slit a hundred times over. That lesson had come early in his unforgiving education, and perhaps the best thing he could do now was offer Adrestia a reminder of the same.

  King pushed himself away from the desk and closed the distance between them again. He leaned into her, lifting his hand to trace the midnight silk of the ribbon tied around her neck. “You may go,” he said. “Because I understand that you are merely working on behalf of a client and because you seem to have the respect of my colleagues. I’ll defer to…professional courtesy. But you’ll leave the sapphire here.”

  Adrestia shifted, yet she didn’t move away. “And if I refuse?”

  “You can’t refuse.” It was a ridiculous response, but his ability to think seemed to have deserted him again. Too late, he recognized the foolishness of his arrogance, and that touching her had been a horrible mistake. His fingers slipped from the ribbon to her neck, sliding up and along the graceful column until they found the softness of her hair. He studied the glossy tresses, the delicate curve of her ear, the angle of her jaw, the shape of her parted lips.

  The heady scent of jasmine swirled around him, feminine and foreign all at once. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her. If he settled her on the expanse of his desk and worshipped her the way a goddess deserved to be worshipped.

  “You can’t refuse because you’ve stolen something from me,” he managed to finally whisper, his voice hoarse.

  Like his wits. Like his judgment.

  “Then it seems we’re at an impasse.” Still, she hadn’t moved. “I’m not leaving here without the sapphire.”

  “Bid on it like everyone else.” His mind was still sluggish.

  “I will not buy what should never have been sold.”

  King traced the edge of her bodice with the tip of his quill knife. “Things don’t end well for those who steal from me.” That wasn’t what he had wanted to say. But she had backed him into an uncharted corner where his calculated, curated control had long since slipped through his fingers like smoke.

  “Again, we are at an impasse. Because I might say the same.”

  Too late, he felt the edge of her blade pressing against his abdomen beneath his coat. From the pressure and the length of the steel, he knew it was far more substantial than a blade used to trim goose feathers. With a flick of her wrist, she could disembowel him where he stood.

  If such a thing had been possible, King would have fallen in love right there.

  “That’s the third,” she murmured.

  “Third what?”

  “The third assumption you’ve made. The first one was bold, the second overly simplistic, and this one potentially fatal. I never go anywhere without my weapons.” Her lips curled, and King’s thoughts scattered all over again. “You should have a care in the future,” she continued softly. “The next person to exploit an abundance of skirts may have far less…professional motivations than I.”

  King gazed down at her, her mouth inches from his. “Noted.” His eyes did not leave hers.

  The door to his study abruptly opened, the sounds of the crowd and the pianoforte intruding.

  King didn’t move. Nor did he look away from Adrestia. “Get out,” he growled at whoever had entered.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” It was the voice of Elliot, his youngest footman. “The Duke of Rotham requires a moment of your time—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “But His Grace wishes—”

  “I do not answer to dukes.” King finally lifted his gaze from Adrestia.

  The striking blond boy looked suspiciously between King and Adrestia, though the pressure of her blade had vanished, the knife no doubt concealed neatly back in the abundance of her skirts. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Quite,” he assured his footman, lying through his teeth. I am far from all right.

  “Do you— Blimey, that is Smithers’s key,” Elliot said, and King followed his distracted gaze to where the key still lay on the corner of the desk.

  King swept the key from its resting place and tossed it to Elliot. “Yes. And you can tell Smithers that the next time he leaves his pockets unguarded, he can look for work elsewhere.”

  The boy caught it effortlessly and regarded Adrestia with something akin to awe. “You bobbed Smithers? Blimey—”

  “That will do, Elliot,” King chastened.

  “Of course, sir,” the boy replied, not looking chastened at all. “What do you want me to tell the duke, sir? He’s arrived with an additional guest who does not possess an invitation,” he forged on. “Shall I have them escorted from the premises, or—”

  “Jesus.” King cursed under his breath. This was the problem with entitled peers. Believing that they could do what they wished with impunity. Yet Rotham, with his bottomless coffers and voracious greed, was good for business on nights such as this.

  “Sir?”

  “Show the duke in. He has one minute to explain himself.” He tipped his head until his lips were a breath away from Adrestia’s ear. “But you and I are far from done.”

  The boy vanished, and King stepped away from her. She retrieved her mask from the desk, swiftly donned it, and retreated to the shadow of the bookcases.

  Elliot reappeared. “Sir, His Grace, the Duke of Rotham.”

  “Another glorious event, King,” the portly duke announced as he stepped into the room, flapping his hands like a flightless bird. “The Hercules piece at the entrance is a marvel.” He stopped just inside the door, fingers of one hand tugging on the constricting cravat beneath his jowls, the other hand clutching his mask.

  King stared stonily back. “Thank you. Though I’ve been advised that you have brought a stranger to a private affair.”

  “Not a stranger,” the duke said hurriedly. “But an old acquaintance of discerning taste, newly returned to London. I can personally vouch for his discretion. I’d like to introduce you.” Without waiting for a response, the duke turned and gestured at someone unseen beyond the study do
or.

  King’s jaw clenched with impatience and irritation. He didn’t have time for this. This wasn’t a bloody ball at Almack’s, and he didn’t need introductions to anyone—

  King froze as his mind tried desperately to comprehend what he was seeing.

  Whom he was seeing.

  A trim, gray-haired man dressed impeccably in rich navy evening clothes, but without a mask, had entered his study, his gait marred by a slight limp. He was looking around with interest, blue eyes lingering on the art and the books and the diamonds on the desk. He came to a casual stop beside Rotham, clasping his hands behind his back, his attention finally turning to King.

  The air was sucked from the room, and dark spots danced around the edges of King’s vision. Bile rose in his throat, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. Prickles of icy sweat crawled down his spine and more gathered at his temples. He shuddered, cold and hot at the same time. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. This man was supposed to be dead.

  “May I present John Westerleigh, the new Baron Marstowe, recently returned from the Americas.” The duke was talking, though it sounded as if his voice were muffled by a thick fog.

  Shock and incomprehension were giving way to something far darker bubbling up from the deepest parts of his soul along with a suffocating rage. King was distantly aware that he was breathing raggedly, old memories of hatred and, worst of all, helplessness twisting through his chest and constricting his lungs.

  King met the baron’s gaze, but there was not a flicker of recognition in the older man’s eyes. King wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

  The duke was droning on, presumably making some sort of introduction to the baron, but King didn’t hear him. He could only stare, trapped in past memories until he became aware that a silence had fallen. Rotham was looking at him expectantly now.

  “Shall the duke and his guest stay, sir?” Elliot prompted from beside King. King didn’t remember the child moving.

  Only so that I can keep an eye on the devil.

  King nodded slowly, still afraid to speak.

  “Splendid.” The duke was beaming at him, and the baron inclined his head, still without a glimmer of recognition.

  But then it had been almost twenty years. And King was no longer a child.

  Elliot produced a mask and handed it to the baron with a quick grin. Marstowe smiled back at the boy, and without thinking, King stepped in front of his young footman.

  “You are dismissed, Elliot,” King said, his voice sounding rough even in his own ears.

  “Sir?”

  “Go.”

  “Yessir.” Elliot looked confused but did as he was ordered.

  “I can’t wait to see what other prizes you’ve managed to procure for our enjoyment this evening.” The duke was donning his mask. “Come, Marstowe. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “I am already enchanted,” the baron said, following suit.

  King watched them leave the study, crossing the room to close the door after them. He returned to the desk and leaned back against the edge, his vision still blackened at the peripheries, rage still making it difficult to breathe.

  “King.”

  Adrestia had appeared directly in front of him, her forehead creased and what looked like concern filling her silver eyes.

  “You want the sapphire?” he rasped.

  She raised her hand, touching the sleeve of his coat before her fingers slid down to his wrist. “Yes, but I—”

  “It’s yours.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “In exchange, I’m hiring you.”

  “I see.” Her voice was steady. Soothing. “May I ask what for?”

  The rage inside him crystallized into cold certainty.

  “I need you to destroy someone.”

  Chapter 5

  Adeline eyed King warily. He was speaking to her, but she wasn’t sure that he even saw her.

  She shifted, gently lifting his hand. It was fisted around the small quill knife he’d been toying with, and blood now dripped through his clenched fingers onto the expensive Turkish rug. King glanced down at the rivulets of blood and opened his hand to reveal the knife and the long cut across his palm where the blade had bitten. Silently Adeline slipped it from his grasp and set it on the desk. Without asking she reached up and unknotted his cravat, pulling the linen from his neck and wrapping it around his hand. He didn’t seem to notice, and that, for a man for whom control seemed paramount, was exceedingly unsettling.

  “Are you sure?” she murmured. “You have your own men who—”

  “My men can’t do this. I need you.” Those last three words were stark.

  Adeline swallowed. It wasn’t the first time someone had said that to her. But each time, they had meant only that they needed what she could do for them. She was a fool if she believed that King was different. He, like everyone else, didn’t need her.

  I need you to destroy someone.

  The man recently back from the Americas. The man recently made a baron. The man who had made this unflinching man flinch.

  “My services will cost you more than a sapphire,” she said deliberately.

  That statement, more than a sharp blade or a soft voice, seemed to bring King back from whatever personal hell he’d tumbled into. “Name your price.”

  Adeline faltered. She hadn’t expected that answer. She’d expected him to negotiate with the ruthless cunning and callousness he was known for.

  “Name your price,” he repeated.

  “Falaise d’Argent,” she blurted recklessly.

  “What is that?”

  “A chateau. Near Lille. In France.”

  “Done.”

  “Done?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You don’t even know what it would cost to—”

  “Money is of no consequence.” King glanced down at his wrapped hand. His complexion was still the color of pale linen, though an unnatural flush had stained the edges of his cheekbones. “I will buy you the entirety of Versailles if that is what you require.”

  “That is not funny.”

  King looked up at her, his eyes icy. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  Adeline suppressed a troubled frown. “Perhaps this is something that you would prefer to deal with on your own—”

  “If I deal with Marstowe on my own, I will simply kill him. And that would be too kind.” His features were a mask of granite. “I want him to suffer.”

  Adeline moved away from the door, coming to stand in front of a large canvas depicting a resolute Judith beheading a terror-stricken Holofernes. “I’m not sure what it is that your sources have told you, but I do not possess a dungeon full of racks and thumbscrews and burning stakes. I don’t torture people, nor, may I remind you, am I an assassin. I recover stolen objects, stolen fortunes, and return them to rightful owners. I bring individuals to justice when and if circumstance allows, as I did Howells. But often, I merely extract monetary compensation by whatever means necessary when justice is not possible—”

  “Are you refusing to work for me?”

  “Not at all. I am merely suggesting that perhaps you would like to consider this matter further? Take the night, at least?”

  “I don’t need to consider this matter further.”

  Adeline shook her head. “My clients engage my services when all other recourse has been exhausted. I’m hired when no one else can or will help them. Once the job is done, I move on. Disappear, so as not to remain a reminder of what was likely the worst moment of their lives.” She paused. “Perhaps there are other solutions that you might first—”

  “I already told you that I don’t need to consider this matter further. Do not make me repeat myself a third time.”

  Adeline crossed her arms, still studying the curve of Judith’s blade, trying to pick the order of her questions. “What did Marstowe do?”

  “He killed someone I cared for very much.”

  “I see.” Not the f
irst time she’d heard that. “Who?”

  King didn’t answer. A coal shifted in the grate with a loud pop, the only sound in the heavy silence.

  “If you are to engage my services, you are going to need to prepare yourself that I will know things. Things that you may not want me to know.”

  “I don’t need you to know things,” he snarled. “I just need you to destroy Marstowe. I don’t care how you do it.”

  “I can’t agree to that.”

  “Why?” he demanded angrily.

  Adeline turned away from the painting to face King again. “Because I don’t chase justice recklessly. In Howells’s case, I listened to my client and her sisters tell the same story, saw how their lives were altered, witnessed the damage done. I collect facts with diligence and care. I am not a bloodthirsty hound that can be unleashed blindly at the whim of a master.”

  “I didn’t suggest such.” King had picked up his walking stick and was leaning on it with his uninjured hand, the tip making a pattern of indentations in the rug.

  Adeline approached King. “If I agree to this, then I will start by looking into the dark corners of Marstowe’s life. I will have my answers whether you give them to me or not. Because while I do not chase justice recklessly, I will chase truth relentlessly.”

  King didn’t answer.

  “What am I going to find in those corners, King?”

  King shoved his walking stick aside, and it banged against the edge of the desk. “You will find that John Westerleigh is the younger brother of the late Harold Westerleigh, former Baron Marstowe. As a young man, John was once destined for an appointment in the church before he sailed for Boston in 1798, immediately after the tragic, accidental death of his nephew, Evan Westerleigh.”

  “Mmm.” Adeline watched King carefully. “Is that whom he killed? His nephew?”

  “Yes. Though the account in the Times, if and when you go looking in their archives, will say that Evan Westerleigh, young heir to the Marstowe fortune and title, was discovered in the mews of the family’s London home. In the absence of witnesses, it speculates that he fell and struck his head or that he may even have been kicked by one of the horses. It describes his death as a tragic accident. You’ll find the story is the same in all the papers. It was quite the sensation at the time.”