An unspoken battle waged between the pair. In all her days, not even Helena had gone toe-to-toe with Ryker the way this girl silently dueled Killoran.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But do hurry.” With a final derisive glance for Niall, she marched off.
“You have five minutes.” The rival owner started forward.
Did he believe Niall had been born yesterday? Slipping his pistol out, Niall closed the slight distance between him and Killoran and placed the head of the pistol against Killoran’s back.
Killoran stiffened.
“No guards.”
“I have better form than to kill you in my club,” Killoran said tightly as he led them down a narrow hall lit by a handful of sconces. “It would be bad for my business.”
They reached the office, and Killoran pressed the handle. Niall blinked to adjust to the darkened space and did a quick search for enemies. Shoving the proprietor between the shoulder blades, Niall propelled him forward.
Killoran cursed and turned back. The words withered on his lips at the gun Niall trained on his chest. With the heel of his boot, he kicked the door closed.
“I heard tales of your evil, Marksman,” Killoran said as Niall locked them inside the room, “but I never heard mention of madness.” Of course the man named Diggory’s heir, the final apprentice he’d taken under his wing and made his second, would have been fed both truths and stories about Niall and his brothers.
Not taking his pistol from Killoran, Niall resumed his search of the room.
“You must have a death wish entering my club.”
“Your men stabbed Penelope Black like a dog in the street,” Niall spat. It was Niall who’d failed her, and for that, Ryker’s wife had nearly paid with her life. A red blanket of rage descended over his eyes once more, momentarily blinding him.
Killoran flicked a speck of imagined dust from his sleeve. “I didn’t touch Black’s wife. None of my people did.”
Kill or be killed . . . Kill or be killed.
Niall stalked over, and Killoran hastily backed away.
Niall felled him with a single blow to the nose.
The cur crumpled to the floor.
“That was for Black’s wife.” A move that was long overdue. Revenge should have been sought weeks earlier when Killoran’s men had nearly ended Penny.
Rubbing his jaw, Killoran climbed to his feet with the ease of a gentleman greeting visitors in a fancy parlor. Yanking a pale-yellow kerchief from his jacket, he pressed it to his nose. The fabric immediately went crimson from the flow of blood.
The man before him threatened the hard-won security Niall and his siblings had scratched, clawed and, in Niall’s case, murdered for. “If you come near my people again, I will find you,” Niall pledged, jabbing his gun at him. “I will hunt you down and rip your entrails through your throat and then choke you with them.”
To Killoran’s credit, he gave no outward show to Niall’s threat. The elegantly clad owner stuck a foot out. “If I’d intended to do the lady harm, she would have been slain that day in the streets.” He spoke as casually as a gent discussing the weather or a wager.
Any other person would have felt a modicum of horror at that admission, but this ruthlessness was all Niall had ever dealt in. “Do you think I’m fool enough to believe a lie coated in sugared shite from your mouth?” he jeered.
The right corner of Killoran’s lips quirked, but he said nothing.
Niall lowered his pistol. “Your men have entered our club.”
“That I will take credit for,” he said, touching an imagined brim.
A seething rage took root and grew. Niall fought to suppress his emotions.
Killoran smirked. “Yes, that was entirely me,” he went on, sketching a mocking bow. “You see, your gang ended Diggory, and with the rules you play by, you’d expect . . . what? I should kill you, hmm? Black’s wife?” He flicked a gaze over to Niall. “Your brothers? But I rule differently.” He put his face in Niall’s. “You’ll pay for ending Diggory.” The lethal threat was reflected in his brown eyes. “There are other ways to destroy a man. Ruin his marriage. His business. But murder?” He scoffed. “Why, that would allow a man an easy out for the crimes he’s guilty of.”
The crimes he was guilty of? Killoran’s warped loyalty for a sadistic villain like Mac Diggory defied nature’s logic. “Diggory was a dog,” he spat.
White lines formed at the corners of Killoran’s tense lips.
Exploiting that weakness, Niall continued to taunt. “If you didn’t order Penelope Black’s attack, the men you’ve inherited are less loyal than you credit.” Niall pressed the mouth of his pistol to Killoran’s head. Killoran swallowed loudly, and Niall took pleasure in that display of cowardice. “Let this serve as your warning, Killoran.” He thumped a hand over his heart. “An eye for an eye.” The mark etched in Niall’s flesh by Diggory burned with the memory of a long-ago agony. They were words Killoran had beaten into every boy and girl to serve in his gang.
Killoran faltered and then his nostrils flared. “Get out.”
Having once had his every movement dictated by another, Niall now reveled in control. “Remember what I said this night,” Niall warned. Since Niall had escaped Diggory’s clutches, he’d both beaten and threatened men over the years. However, every single act had been to protect and defend. It was a detail neither Killoran, nor any other man in St. Giles, could know. Not if Niall wished to retain his power. With a jeering grin, Niall backed away, keeping his gaze trained on the proprietor. One never presented one’s back to the enemy.
Not if one hoped to live.
He had reached the door when Killoran called out. “Does Black know you’ve come?”
Niall stiffened. Ryker’s softness of late came from his roots as a duke’s illegitimate son. Niall, however, had nothing more than the blood of a whore and a nameless stranger running in his veins, and he wasn’t subject to the norms that drove civilized society.
“I do not believe so.” The other man stank of his own self-confidence.
But for the boys who’d wrestled him for supremacy when he’d been a boy, Niall wouldn’t hurt a child. Nor did he intend to begin. Niall was not, however, above the threat of it. He held his pistol up, and Killoran went motionless. “I believe Cleo is waiting for you?”
Killoran turned white, and all further cocksure gibes were silenced. Holding his weapon close, Niall yanked open the door. He ducked his head out and searched. Finding it silent, he slipped from the room and then, with purposeful strides, rushed deeper into the hell.
Killoran’s guards, standing sentry at the door, sprang to attention. Niall shot both elbows out simultaneously, crumpling the men. They landed in a noisy heap. Not breaking stride, Niall stepped around their prone frames and slipped into the empty kitchens. Picking up his pace, he rushed for the back door and then stepped outside.
Blood pumped through his veins the same as it had when he’d picked his first pocket, with the thrill of capture at war, and the thrill of surviving. He padded silently through the alley.
A boy stood in wait with the reins of his mount.
Sticking his weapon back in his waistband, Niall handed over a fat purse and then climbed astride Chance. He nudged the mount into a quick canter.
No honorable man would have entered a gaming hell and threatened another man at pistol point.
Kill or be killed . . .
It was the merciless way of their world. Ryker had forgotten. It was, however, a lesson ingrained into Niall by the gang leader who’d bought him and had him thieve and murder to grow his street power and wealth. Niall had sold his soul to survive long ago. He’d battle the Devil himself to protect his club and the employees and family dependent upon him. Even if that meant defying Ryker’s new, misguided sense of honor.
Niall leaned over his mount, giving him room to stretch his legs.
He drew hard on the reins as he reached the front of the Hell and Sin. The facade was awash in candles’ glow as
patrons streamed through the front doors, a testament of the club’s prosperity.
A servant clothed in black came forward to collect his reins.
“Marksman,” the younger man greeted. His gaze touched on Niall’s sweaty brow and bruised knuckles, but the man was wise enough to say nothing more.
Niall stalked up the front steps and stepped through the double doors that were thrown open by a liveried guard.
The smells, sounds, and sights of the Hell and Sin were familiar and welcoming. Home. And Niall would be damned if Killoran or anyone else shattered that. Moving into position on the sidelines of the gaming hell floor, Niall surveyed the club.
A tall figure stepped into his line of vision. His brother from the streets, one of the four proprietors of the hell, Adair Thorne eyed him suspiciously. “You’re late.” It was spoken as an observation more than anything.
“My meeting with the liquor distributor went long,” he lied. Niall sharpened his gaze on a garishly clothed dandy in purple breeches, striding close to a faro table filled with drunken lords. “Has there been any trouble tonight?”
“None.”
“It is coming,” Niall said from the side of his mouth.
“You’re worrying needlessly,” Adair insisted. “Attendance is nearly back to the previous numbers,” he pointed out.
Niall grunted noncommittally. Following Ryker Black’s marriage to a lady of the ton, the number of their patrons had climbed. But numbers had nothing to do with danger. Two gentlemen now snared his attention. Hooding his lashes, he studied their exchange. They nodded periodically and gestured to a table.
Dandies were slurring fools and staggering drunkards. They were not, however, the coolly unaffected figures now sizing up the club.
“What is it?” Adair’s hushed question reached through the din of the raucous activity at the hell.
Years of living on the streets had elevated Niall’s senses. Just one mark of his skill as a fighter.
The two gents previously conversing scurried off. There it is. “Trouble,” he said in a gravelly whisper.
A shout went up at the back of the club. “Cheat!”
Niall was already moving. “Be sure the private suites are secure,” he ordered, and Adair sprinted off. Too many times in the past year, the private suites had been infiltrated. He’d not see them make the same mistake again. Niall surged forward, as the guests at the faro table erupted into a volatile explosion.
“Dishonorable to be angling for a man’s cards,” a young lord with greased blond curls shouted to the man seated at his left.
The other noble jumped to his feet. “By God, I’ll face you at dawn.” He knocked his opponent in the temple with a sloppy blow.
Even had the gent been armed with a knife and pistol, he wouldn’t have survived a day in the Dials. Niall quickened his step. Not taking his gaze off the instigator in purple breeches, he lifted his left fist in a signal to Calum, another club owner, who was closest to the fray. Calum had long been the calm to Niall’s ferocious temperament. From the corner of his eye, he detected the other man separating the nobles.
Fury pumped through Niall’s veins. Even the inebriated patrons had sense enough to step out of his path. He made for the man who’d wrought chaos at the table. Niall, Ryker, Calum, Adair, and every employee here had sacrificed too much to see the dregs set upon them by a dead Mac Diggory destroy their empire. Gritting his teeth, Niall surged forward.
The shifty-eyed gentleman spied Niall and stumbled.
“Ya bloody whoreson,” Niall hissed. Arms out, Niall launched himself at the new patron.
The man cried out, staggering back, but Niall’s fist easily connected with his nose, felling him with a single blow.
Frenzied shouts sounded through the club, and with the thrum of the fight raging through him, Niall grabbed the dandy’s neck. He hauled him up by his lapels. “Who sent you?” he demanded.
“R-release me,” the blubbering lord cried.
“I asked who sent ya.” He gave him a violent shake.
“By God, unhand me. I am an earl and a patron, and Lord Chatham will not take to your—” The man’s warning ended on a swift exhale as Niall punched him hard in the belly.
“That is enough.” The sharp command cut across Niall’s haze of fury as Ryker Black captured his wrist, preventing another blow from landing.
A primal growl rumbled from Niall’s chest, and he fought off the other man’s hold. “This ivory turner was—”
“I said enough,” Ryker uttered quietly, fury glinting in his eyes.
Niall’s chest moved fast with the force of his exertions. Married not even two months ago, Ryker had once been the most ironfisted leader in St. Giles. Until he’d gone and married—a fancy miss, high on the instep. Niall liked Lady Penelope. Respected her. But Ryker’s marriage to her had left the man weak in ways that put them all in peril. Niall wrenched his arm free.
“This man accosted me,” the earl said, with a bolder confidence than before. He pressed a purple kerchief to his bloodied nose and glared over the scrap. “I took membership here only because I believed reports that your club was safe once more.” Once more. And that was only after Diggory’s men had wrought havoc here, orchestrating brawls that had sent their daily attendance into a decline.
Just as Diggory man had intended. Niall gnashed his teeth. Not deigning to look at the ugly blighter, he directed his words to Ryker. “He knocked into a toff at the faro tables.” Niall motioned to the other fop responsible. “They attempted to start a brawl.” And Niall would be goddamned if he allowed a cracksman from the Dials or a lord from the London ballrooms to enter this hallowed place and destroy it from within.
Ryker narrowed his gaze but otherwise gave no outward reaction to that reveal.
“Marksman, in my office,” Ryker ordered, sending Niall’s hackles up.
The other man might be majority owner of the hell, and a friend turned brother from the streets, but long ago Niall had bristled at directives. It was a resentment that had come from being beaten down like a dog by the man who’d reared him.
Ya answer to me, boy . . . Unless ya want a bullet in your belly, do it.
The loud report of a pistol echoed in his mind, and he flinched, coming swiftly back to the moment.
They locked in a silent battle, and, swallowing back a curse, Niall jerked his shoulder in a dismissive gesture and stalked off, leaving a trail of loud whispers in his wake.
A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye. Aye, to the bloody toffs who entered the Hell and Sin, their comfort mattered most.
But then, that self-centeredness should not astonish him. After all, he’d been an emaciated boy, starving in the streets, invisible to these same people. That truth had made him celebrate every pocket he’d nicked as a hateful, snarling lad. And it made it all the sweeter to collect the fortunes they now lost at his table, as a man.
Niall reached the back of the club, and the guard Oswyn inclined his head. “Mr. Marksman,” the big, bald man greeted.
Niall lifted his head in slight acknowledgment. He stole a final glance over his shoulder in time to see Ryker ushering the dandy with a bloodied nose over to a table, setting him up with a bottle of brandy. A sound of disgust escaped him, and, shaking his head, Niall climbed the stairs to the private apartments and stomped down the hall. Ryker would cater to a man whose services could be bought. Free of scrutiny, Niall let loose a string of black curses. When had the other man become so bloody weak that he’d allow anyone seeking to ruin them a place at their tables?
He reached his brother’s office and pressed the door handle, stepping inside the nauseatingly cheerful room. Niall flexed and relaxed his bruised knuckles as he took in the changes made to the once cluttered, now austere space. He gave his head another disgusted shake. Isn’t that what had inevitably become of Ryker? After he’d killed Mac Diggory and saved a duke in the process, he’d become a hero to the Prince Regent and earned himself one of those hated titles.
Niall jutted his chin out. “Oi—”
“I said sit,” Ryker bit out, claiming the chair behind the broad mahogany piece. Once sloppy and littered with ledgers and reports, the room had been put to rights by his brother’s new wife. Not a book out of place, not a speck of dust on the furniture. The lady had exacted change not only on the objects in this hell but on the owner of it, as well.
Niall let his arms fall to his sides and, with stiff movements, claimed a seat. It was one thing to change your office. Quite another to shape yourself into someone altogether different.
Ryker propped his elbows on the surface and leaned forward. “I’ve already spoken to you. You cannot go about bloodying every single club member.”
“He was working for Diggory’s men.” Niall answered with a confidence that came from knowing just how those vile thugs thought. People of the streets would pledge their loyalty to Satan himself, if it meant safety. That loyalty was honored in living and in death.
Ryker gave a slight shrug. “Mayhap.”
That was all he’d say? Niall gritted his teeth. “Oi saw the exchange.” Fury had made him slip back into his Cockney.
“I don’t doubt it.” The other man, impossibly cool, leaned back in his seat. He layered his palms on the arms of his chair. “But they are noblemen. By their birthright and their place in this club, they are afforded protections.” It was the way of their world. As a boy that truth had grated. It had kindled a burning hatred for those pompous lords and ladies who cared for nothing and no one but their own pleasures, until his loathing had spread through him.
“Oi won’t have a man at me tables who’s out to ruin us.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Ryker said with a blunt matter-of-factness that set Niall’s teeth on edge. Equally driven and ruthless, they’d never see eye to eye over leniency with the nobles who visited their hell. “The Earl of Dunwithy is in deep.” Ryker pushed back. “He’s a man in need of coin. Those men can be bought.” All men could be bought. “Those men also spend at our tables, and we cannot afford to beat down a nobleman for the message that sends.” Ryker leaned forward. “Are we clear?”
The Lady's Guard (Sinful Brides Book 3) Page 2
