Latymer (Nexus)

by Tracey Devlyn

  Off and on over the last month, Latymer had sought refuge from his enemies in these rooms while plotting his next move. The few who had seen him coming and going believed him to be a solicitor working on behalf of his employer, Mr. Dunhammer, who was the ostensible owner of the offices. Of course, if anyone had poked around too deeply, they would have discovered no such businessman existed.

  “Sit here.” Latymer waved a hand toward one of the chairs and then bent to light a fire large enough to knock the chill out of the air. Taking his own seat, Latymer studied his son’s slumped shoulders and watchful, bloodshot eyes. He needed sleep; they both did. Unfortunately, that particular luxury would not be available to either of them for several more hours.

  Pulling out his timepiece, he examined the hands before shoving it back into his pocket. Five minutes. That’s all the time he had to break his son’s heart. “Giles, I wish I had more time to do this right, but I don’t.”

  His son’s features flattened into an expressionless mask. The absence of emotion confused Latymer until he recalled where his son had spent the last month. Abbingale’s ruthless schoolmaster would not tolerate disobedience of any kind. Guilt once again gripped his chest.

  “Your mother is not coming with us.”

  “Why not?” Worry now blanketed his face.

  The distance between them suddenly felt like miles of separation. “Come sit with me.” Latymer moved to the side, making room for his growing boy. He wasn’t sure if the arm he wrapped around Giles was for his son’s comfort or for his own. “She can’t come with us because she had an accident. Your mama…your mama was killed by a runaway carriage.” Better a lie than the awful truth of her murder.

  “No!” Giles shot up. “She’s not dead. She can’t be!”

  “Shhh. Keep your voice down.”

  Ignoring his command, Giles continued, “Monsieur LaRouche said that if I was good they wouldn’t hurt her. I was good, Papa. I swear I was good…” His eyes took on a faraway look, then widened. Then his face contorted into a look of horror as a memory returned unbidden. Tears flooded his green eyes. “No,” he choked out. “I didn’t mean to misbehave. I didn’t. Monsieur LaRouche said we couldn’t talk to visitors. He didn’t say we couldn’t look at them.”

  Latymer knelt in front of his son. “Listen to me, Giles. You did not hurt your mother. Her death was an accident—nothing more.” One day, he promised himself, when this was all over, he would return to England and kill Abbingale’s schoolmaster with his bare hands.

  Giles scrubbed the tears off his face. “How do you know?”

  He cupped his hand behind Giles’s head, forcing his son to meet his unwavering gaze. “Because I was there. No one killed her because of your actions. An animal ran across the road, spooking the horses. The carriage overturned.”

  Hope blossomed momentarily in Giles’s tortured eyes.

  “You did not hurt your mother. Repeat.”

  Giles’s head dropped forward, hiding his face. Several seconds ticked by before he whispered, “I didn’t hurt Mama.”

  Latymer kissed his son’s bent head. “That’s right.” He lingered for one, two, three heartbeats before standing. “There’s something I must do. I need you to stay here until I get back.”

  Giles shook his head furiously. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you won’t.” Latymer adjusted the hidden sheath on his forearm that held his knife. From the depths of his wardrobe, he withdrew a sealed letter. He knew the contents by heart, had labored over each fragile word for hours. If all went well, the letter would remain sealed forever. If not, his son would learn that monsters do exist.

  “Papa, don’t leave me here,” Giles pleaded.

  Hardening his heart, Latymer secured the letter inside his coat pocket and strode into the outer chamber, stopping at the door. “When I leave, lock the door behind me. Then go into the bedchamber and lock the connecting door. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, and then we can board the ship.”

  “Please, no, Papa.” Giles glanced around the stark office. “I don’t want to stay here by myself.”

  “I can’t take you with me, Giles. You’ll be safer here than with me.” He grasped the latch and turned.

  “What if you don’t come back? Like Mama. What am I supposed to do then?”

  Latymer’s grip tightened on the door latch, and his chest grew tight. He leveled the hardest look he could manage on his frightened son. “If I don’t return in twenty minutes,” he said as he tossed his timepiece to Giles, “retrace our steps back to Lord Somerton’s and pound on the earl’s door until someone answers. Tell him you’re my son, and he’ll take care of the rest.”

  Rather than fearful tears, his son’s features were tense with anger.

  “Be brave, Giles. We’re almost free of this nightmare.” Opening the door, he paused on the other side. “Lock the door.” He pulled it shut and then waited.

  After several long moments, Latymer heard the faint click of the lock turning in place. He released an anxious breath before turning his thoughts to his next task. He had twenty minutes for his meeting. Fifteen minutes to gather his son and cross the gangplank to The Gladys. Barring any unforeseen incidents, he could do it. If he hurried.

  Latymer broke into a run.

  MAC

  10:42 p.m.

  Friar’s Head Tavern

  London, England

  Mac O’Donnell slammed his empty mug down on the scarred table. “Adair’s not coming.”

  “He is.” The Earl of Somerton’s unnerving blue eyes never wavered from the tavern’s entrance. “Under the terms of our agreement, he’s due to collect a portion of his substantial fee once he has information on Latymer’s whereabouts. Since he requested this meeting, I’m assuming he has something to report.”

  For the past five years, Mac had worked for Sydney Hunt, owner of the Hunt Agency. Sydney had established the agency to improve the deplorable working conditions of servants. Mac served Sydney in several capacities—assistant, footman, spy, bodyguard, confidant—whatever the circumstances called for.

  The agency had an impressive array of contacts, both savory and unsavory. But they were nothing compared to what the thief-taker Cameron Adair had at his disposal. Crime victims hired Adair, or others of his ilk, to track down their stolen goods and to bring those responsible to justice. Adair’s ability to locate the most entrenched criminal in London’s underworld was legendary. Some believed too legendary.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing. Rumor has it that once Adair tracks down the criminals and the stolen goods, he’s not above letting the thieves go free after they pay him a protection fee. If true, he’s established a lucrative, and diabolical, business for himself.”

  “I daresay. But Adair knows enough about me to know I’m not a man to be crossed.”

  Undoubtedly true. Mac would never want to be on anything other than on Somerton’s good side. Unless, of course, Somerton tried to stop Mac from killing Latymer—then he would not care which side of the spymaster he was on.

  The outer door to the tavern swung open. Every eye in the establishment, including Mac’s, turned to scrutinize the newcomer, a difficult feat given the dense layer of smoke hanging about the room.

  A gentleman wearing a black hat and clothes too fine for this working-class establishment, yet not fine enough for the ton, ducked beneath the doorframe. Cameron Adair doffed his hat, revealing dark brown hair and sharp chiseled features. His intelligent eyes cut through the gloom, searching until he spotted Mac and Somerton in a far corner. He began a winding path toward them. His lean, athletic build moved through the clutter of tables and tightly pressed bodies with an odd masculine grace.

  The last time he’d seen Adair, the thief-taker had been covered in the blood of Mac’s twin brother, Mick, after Latymer had buried a bullet in his twin’s chest.

  When Adair reached their table, he said, “Lord Somerton. O’Donnell.”

  Somerton rose to shake the thief-taker�
�s hand. “Mr. Adair, please have a seat.”

  Adair ignored the chair Somerton indicated, which would have meant sitting with his back to the room. Instead, he dragged a chair from another table and set it near Somerton’s.

  “Have you located Latymer?” Somerton asked.

  “Yes and no.”

  “Start with the yes,” Somerton said.

  “I’ve come across paperwork that would indicate Latymer either owns or leases several different buildings across London and a few outside the city.”

  “Vast property ownership is not uncommon among the nobility.”

  “True.” Adair’s voice cooled. “However, Latymer has taken great pains to conceal his association with each of these properties by placing them under different variations of the same name.”

  “How do you know Latymer’s behind the name?” Mac asked.

  Adair smiled faintly. “I saw the evidence with my own eyes.”

  Mac wondered whose home or business Adair had invaded in order to find the information. Latymer would know better than to keep such evidence at hand.

  “And the no?” Somerton asked.

  “Latymer remains at large, though not for long.”

  The muscles in Mac’s neck tightened. “How can you be sure? He could be on his way to France by now.”

  “Anything is possible. There are far too many ways for a desperate man to escape the city. Given the fact that he was overheard coaxing his son from Abbingale with promises of sailing on a big ship, I’m concentrating my efforts around the docks. The question is which one and when.”

  “Where do we start?” Mac asked.

  “My men have already begun the search,” he said dismissively.

  Mac’s teeth clenched against the thief-taker’s unspoken refusal to involve him. “Give me the addresses to the buildings away from the river.”

  “Likely a waste of your time.”

  “Better to waste it doing something rather than nothing.”

  Adair glanced at Somerton, who nodded his consent. The silent communication between the two men rankled Mac’s already stretched nerves. In the clouded, logical part of his mind, he understood. Adair’s contract to find Latymer was with Somerton, not him, nor the Hunt Agency. And yet…

  Reaching into a coat pocket, Adair produced a folded sheet of paper and offered it to Mac. “This is a list of all nine properties Latymer has been associated with. I’ll take the top four, the next three are country estates. The rest—do with as you wish.”

  Mac rose, fighting the urge to slam the heel of his boot into the thief-taker’s face. He grabbed the list, unfolded it, committed the addresses to memory, and tossed the paper onto the table. “I’ll start with the last two addresses in London. If neither bear fruit, I’ll be joining you at the docks.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Somerton said.

  “There is no need. I can handle this.”

  “Keep me informed of your progress, O’Donnell.” Somerton’s voice held a harder edge. “The more we work together, the faster we can locate Latymer.”

  Nodding, Mac strode from the tavern. He counted to ten before slowly rolling the tension from his shoulders. He needed to save his anger for Latymer. At the moment, nothing else mattered, because Somerton was right. The sooner they found Latymer, the sooner Mac could avenge his brother and then move on with his life. An image of a petite, no-nonsense blonde danced fleetingly across his mind.

  Mac definitely had something better to move on to.

  GILES

  10:49 p.m.

  Near the White Tower

  If only everything would go back to the way it was before the AWFUL DAY.

  Before the awful day, Mama would take me to the park where we would munch on lemon biscuits and I would play with the other children all afternoon. Before the awful day, Papa would spend hours on the floor, helping me position my British and French toy soldiers in preparation for their next bloody skirmish. Before the awful day, when the mean men came to take me away to that terrible place, I was never scared.

  Not like now. Now, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t scared. And cold.

  Scrunching my shoulders together, I buried my fists under my arms and hurried to catch up. I squinted hard to keep the tall figure in sight. It was so dark. The street lamps did little to cut through the shadows and fine mist.

  I know I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed where Papa told me to, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. What if Papa never came back, like Mama? What if the mean men showed up again and took me away? This time, forever?

  Papa would be angry if he found out I had disobeyed him and followed him. I shivered, thinking about how he might punish me. I don’t like any of the lessons Papa teaches me when I’m bad, but silence is the worst. One time, he didn’t talk to me for five days. I wasn’t bad for a very long time after that lesson.

  This time is different. It’s not at all like running over Mama’s new carpet in my muddy shoes for the third time. No, this time is about making sure Papa doesn’t die like Mama. All I have to do is stay with him and keep him safe.

  Up ahead, Papa slowed his furious pace. After crossing an intersection, he approached a shiny black carriage that rested along—I glanced around to find a street sign—St. Catherine’s Lane. Rising above the buildings behind the carriage, I caught a glimpse of the White Tower. Mama and Papa took me there once. I liked the ravens that protected the fortress far more than hearing the tales of torture that had happened inside.

  The carriage door opened and a well-dressed gentleman wearing glasses and carrying a leather bag stepped out. Papa glanced up at the driver and then motioned for the passenger to join him near the back of the carriage.

  I wanted to move closer so I could hear what they were saying, but there was no place for me to hide. Instead, I pressed up against the nearest building, like Papa had taught me, and waited.

  After exchanging a few words, Papa pulled a letter from his coat pocket and handed it to the gentleman, who slipped it inside his own pocket. Papa pointed to the hidden letter and seemed to be giving the gentleman instructions.

  Movement to the left caught my attention. A pretty, dark-haired woman wearing an unusual dress and a large blond-haired man strode down the pavement between the row of buildings and the black carriage. Unlike Mama’s narrow skirts, the woman’s dress stopped several inches above her ankle, allowing her to walk much more freely.

  I stared at the forbidden sight of her skirts bouncing against her tiny boot-clad ankles until she and the gentleman disappeared behind the carriage. Heat rose into my cool cheeks, and I glanced guiltily toward Papa in time to see the well-dressed gentleman giving Papa a string-tied packet.

  What was this secret meeting about?

  The pretty woman and the large man emerged on the opposite side of the carriage. She immediately drew close to the well-dressed gentleman whose back faced her. Suddenly, I could see his eyes open wide, and then his mouth gaped open in an O of shock. He plunged facefirst into Papa, who caught him and lowered him to the ground.

  Confused, I watched the pretty lady step away from the protection of the carriage. She smiled at Papa. Then I noticed the large knife in her hand. It dripped with blood. I shrank back, my heart pounding.

  Someone yanked the driver down and slapped the horses into motion. The carriage bolted down the street, revealing the driver’s crumpled form on the pavement. Thick, dark liquid pooled around his head.

  Papa grabbed for the fallen packet at the same time the knife-wielding lady kicked it away. Focused on the packet, Papa failed to notice the second, larger man coming at him.

  “Papa, behind you!” I called out.

  Papa whirled around, ducking a split second before the man’s massive fist connected with the side of his head. Papa landed a hard punch to the man’s lower back, the impact making his spine arch. The man bellowed with rage. Papa didn’t stop. He thrashed the man until he lay unmoving on the street.

  “My, my,” the
lady said in a husky, French-accented voice. “Such vigor, William.” She held up her hand in a staying action when the first big man charged for Papa.

  “Collette.” Papa straightened, pulling a blade from his sleeve. “What are you doing here?” His attention shifted briefly in my direction, long enough for me to see his thunderous expression.

  “Your son?” the lady asked, her smile broadening.

  I glanced around and felt the blood drain from my face. No longer did I stand in the protective shadows of the building. Now, I stood at the edge of the street. Out in the open, vulnerable, and in trouble.

  “Who sent you? Bonaparte?” Papa asked.

  “Seems you’ve been a naughty boy, darling. The emperor is not happy with you. He wanted that list of agents. He wanted it badly.”

  Napoleon Bonaparte? I shuffled closer.

  “I told his first assassin the list did not exist. Somerton would not be so careless as to commit the names of his Nexus agents to paper.”

  She waved a negligent hand in the air. “Men in power often become deaf to reason.”

  My shock at being caught faded when I realized Papa knew the French lady. How could this be? And why was Papa carrying a knife up his sleeve?

  “So he sent you,” Papa said.

  Fingering the tip of her bloody knife, she began to move in a circle around him. “He felt the situation needed a woman’s touch. We do tend to be much more tidy in these circumstances, don’t you think?”

  The big man circled around Papa from the opposite direction.

  “Papa,” I whispered.

  As if he’d heard me, his dark eyes bore into mine. “Run,” I heard him say.

  I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. I couldn’t leave him.

  The lady began to walk in my direction, a look of determination on her face. Something about her eyes seemed lifeless and cold…empty somehow. A tremble of unease started in my stomach.