~~~~
Snelling was in need of a stiff drink after Lord Gareth left. His heart was still pounding, though shaky relief was already beginning to spread through his veins. He poured himself a shot of brandy and sank back into the sofa. Thank God he'd found a way to get the lad to do the fight, after all. For a harrowing moment there he'd thought all was lost.
Very well then, Snelling ... I want Swanthorpe Manor.
Snelling cursed out loud as he recalled Lord Gareth's words. That wasn't all the arrogant young nob had wanted. He wanted his friend Lord Brookhampton to be his second for the fight instead of Woodford. He wanted Snelling to give Nails's widow enough money to allow her to live comfortably for the remainder of her life. And, not content to trust Snelling's word, he wanted Brookhampton to witness the impromptu agreement the two of them made regarding the terms of the match.
"Otherwise, I'm not fighting."
Bloody hell. Snelling had just poured himself another shot when Sanderson, his butler, announced that he had a visitor.
"Woodford!" He smiled in relief. "Where the hell have you been?"
"It's de Montforte."
Snelling's smile vanished. "Shut the door."
Wordlessly, Woodford went back and pushed it closed. He glanced nervously around, then pulled up a chair opposite Snelling. "He's on to us."
"What are you talking about?"
For an answer, Woodford reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of folded vellum. "Creedon the gardener caught Tom Houghton trying to take this to the Duke of Blackheath late last night." He tossed the note onto the table before his employer. "The idiot just brought it to me now. I thought you'd better see it immediately."
Snelling hurriedly read, his face going purple with rage. "Damn that de Montforte for a clever, sneaking rogue!" he snarled, crumpling up the vellum that, had it actually reached the powerful Duke of Blackheath, would've had Snelling swinging from the nearest tree, so damning were the words. He shook the thing in Woodford's face. "He knows everything, damn his eyes!"
"Yes, I figured he was on to us when Osgood, the chemist, mentioned he'd been snooping around and asking rather strange questions, so I paid Creedon to keep an eye on him. When Creedon saw him ask Tom Houghton to carry this note for him, he knew something was up. He followed the lad, bashed him over the head, and took the saddlebags — which contained the letter."
"Why the hell did it take him so long to get the letter back to us?"
"There was also a flask of gin in the saddlebags."
"Bloody hell."
Woodford put both hands on the table, shot a nervous glance over his shoulder, and leaned close. "What are we going to do, Jon?"
Snelling held the damning letter over a candle, watching as it dissolved into a black, writhing curl. "Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" He flicked the ash from his fingers. "Lord Gareth knows too much. He must be dealt with — before he can tell Blackheath everything he knows. Christ, if that happens, I'm a dead man."
Woodford drew himself up. "Fine. I'll go take care of him now. Did you say he's gone into town to find Brookhampton? I'll just waylay him as he's coming back through the Meadow, stick a knife in his back, and toss him into the Thames —"
"No, no, that won't do at all. I've sunk enough money into de Montforte; I'm not going to waste it all by throwing him into the damned river." He rose and poured himself another drink, his jaw working furiously as he sloshed the liquid around his mouth and swallowed. He turned to Woodford, his eyes blazing. "No, Woodford, we've made a staggering amount of money off of him ... but that will be nothing compared to what you and I are going to make off of him tonight."
"And how are we going to do that? He's on to us. He'll be expecting us to drug the Scot so that he'll win yet again, and then all he'll have to do is denounce us right there in front of everyone —"
"Don't be a pillock, Woodford. I am not going to drug the Scot. I didn't wager all my money on the Butcher just to see him lose."
Woodford raised a heavy brow.
"Lord Gareth is English," Snelling continued, "and I can tell you right now, every Englishman at that fight tonight is going to back him — no matter how big the Scot is, no matter how likely it is he'll make pulp of our young Wild One by the end of the first round. We're talking about national loyalty here."
Woodford, all ears, rubbed his jaw and listened.
"Everyone will be betting on Lord Gareth," Snelling said, his eyes gleaming. "But my money — every penny I own — is on the Scot. And do you know why? Because Lord Gareth is going to lose tonight."
Woodford shook his head. "Really, Jon, if you think he's stupid enough to drink anything you offer him before the fight, you've got another thing com-"
"I don't need him to drink anything, Woodford. Have you actually seen the Scot fight?" He gave a little laugh. "There's no way in a million years Lord Gareth will ever beat him. He's good, but not that good." Snelling stood up, hatred and fury radiating from him like gas from a flame. "Oh no, Woodford, this time, his opponent will not be drugged. This time, our Wild One is going to get the stuffing knocked out of him."
Woodford raised a brow.
"You see, Woodford, it's not just my fortune that's at stake here, but also Swanthorpe. I had to offer it up just to get Lord Gareth to fight tonight. If he wins, it's his; so he has to lose, do you understand me?" Snelling's fist came down hard on the table. "He has to lose! And just to make sure that he never, ever opens his mouth and tells what he knows, I think we'd better offer the Butcher a hefty financial incentive for doing something a little special tonight ..."
"And that is?"
"Not just knocking Lord Gareth out — but killing him."
The Wild One Page 73
