by Anne Mallory
She was very clever, he’d give her that. She was only pulling back just enough to keep the company and fund out of their claws but yet continued to keep the promise of the bait dangling. Along with the promise of an ally.
She was buying time.
Johnson stared at the paper, eyes narrowed, then looked at something to the side that Andreas couldn’t see. “Twenty thousand is nothing to scoff at. They could do much with that. I will speak to Lord Garrett, but”—Johnson looked the man over very carefully—“I think we will be willing to agree with your analysis.”
She had just agreed to become a snitch on herself under the guise of a bushy old man. Andreas pressed the heel of his palm against his temple. She gave him a headache.
“Excellent.” She gathered up her satchel and extended a card. “If you need further information or would like to discuss specifics, please send requests to this address.”
“Why don’t you return tomorrow,” he said easily.
“Because of my overworked schedule, I’m more of a written correspondence man myself. I’d rather do the bulk of our business by courier. Less suspicious. And easier, don’t you think?”
“No.”
She nodded firmly. “Yes.” Andreas felt a strange urge to laugh at Johnson’s expression. “Good day, sir.”
And with that she walked from the room. Andreas weighed his options. He could follow her or stay and watch Johnson.
“I think we need to discuss our other possibilities, Johnson.” The voice came from the other side of the room. Andreas stiffened, and hate curled. He had deduced the man would be listening.
Watching the whole thing through a peep, the mirror of his own eavesdropping.
“Yes. Twenty thousand, my lord.”
“I want to know everything. If they have money stashed away, I want to know it. Twenty thousand and with the male heir dead . . . she is the heir. Henry finally will be made to see my way. Wives can be disposed of.”
Garrett would use anything in his power to manipulate. So would Henry Wilcox, his heir. He had been raised exceptionally well to be a manipulative bastard. It was too bad he lacked the intelligence necessary to be good at it. Andreas smiled cruelly. The Wilcoxes had poorly inherited traits.
“Yes, my lord. I will have everything for you by Friday, along with the other information you requested.”
“Good. I’m feeling the need to stop by the club to have a talk with my heir. Another one.” His voice was dark, and Andreas got a little vicious pleasure that the two were on the outs. “And perhaps a talk with the other boy too.”
Garrett grimaced, obviously displeased with his youngest son, who had been a school friend of Christian Pace. Andreas kept only bare tabs on the youngest boy, as he had never really known him, but Edward Wilcox was by all accounts a disappointment to the man, preferring livestock to finance. Garrett had always been a fool who had turned over the running of his estates to others, considering such endeavors weak.
Such an attitude got him little in the way of affection from other landowners. And Andreas had secretly created many situations over the years that had forced Garrett to reveal that attitude in the presence of others.
“Should I forward your mail to Dover?” Johnson said.
“No. The information is far sharper here. The exodus to the country has culled the herd.”
Andreas’s smile grew. He’d have to get the couriers moving quickly. Garrett was too self-absorbed to think himself outflanked.
“What information do you have on the other . . . issue?”
Johnson hesitated. “Alive.”
“I want him dead. Dead.”
“Yes, my lord. But we are having trouble with—”
“I don’t want trouble. I want death. Dug in the ground, beetle-infested death.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“That low-born Yorkshire bastard promised he’d be dead.”
“It seems that Mr. Cornelius has recently developed a different opinion on how to accomplish matters. He wants to wait on Mr. Merrick’s death until he gets his own results accomplished.” He cleared his throat. “And his men are balking. They will help with the Paces, but they’ve lost too many men to Merrick in London.”
“Then hire people outside of him. Like before.”
“That didn’t—”
“I want it done!”
“Very well. But I’ll need increased funds to hire new men.”
Silence.
“My lord?”
“We don’t have increased funds.”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing. They are all gone. Stripped. And I’ll bet you he is responsible.”
“Quite possibly, but—”
“Shut up, Johnson. We need that fund and company. Twenty thousand will let the Paces recover. Unacceptable. I’ve spent far too long, and everything is resting on this. Men like that Yorkshire cretin don’t accept failure either, remember that.” His fists curled. “And I want that bastard dead. I don’t care how it has to be accomplished. Even if I have to do it myself—”
“He rarely leaves his office. There are rumored to be fifty guards inside.”
Andreas manipulated his knife through his fingers. He could just end it now. Right this moment. He was right there in front of him.
“Don’t give me excuses, Johnson. Get my information. Get the Paces under our thumbs. Get him dead.”
Andreas could kill him. Right here, right now. Revenge curled. Beckoned. Wanting fulfillment. It was broad daylight, and he would most likely be caught and imprisoned. But it would be over.
Roman had a new life. He was happy—Andreas no longer had to worry about him. And he had provisions in place for Nana. He could just end things now.
He fingered the blade, then a vision of Phoebe Pace walking around, exposed and without guard drifted across his vision.
He gave the steel one last gentle, promising stroke and slipped it into his sleeve. Soon. He had been waiting twenty-three years, four months, and twelve days. Cold certainty washed through him. He could wait a while longer.
Andreas lingered until Garrett made to leave the room, then silently headed in the direction of the Paces’ house. Harris’s going back to give a report to “his employer” would be expected. Then he would see what else she had planned.
Two days later he was still following “Mr. Harris.” He had dispatched and discouraged a variety of people who’d followed her over the past fifty hours while she had been out visiting Pace craftsmen and financiers.
She was walking a thin line, but he hadn’t confronted her yet. His curiosity burned. She had been meeting with their craftsmen mostly, but there had been some surprising other destinations, and he was starting to realize that she was involved in far more plotting than he had assumed.
He was going to have a little talk with her later. It was time to get her the hell out of this web. He wasn’t a guard. And he didn’t like surprises. Nor did he like constantly watching the crowd for people who might attempt to harm her. No wonder Roman had gone insane when he had threatened London on Charlotte’s behalf.
Andreas fixed a dark look of promise on a man who had been staring too long at “Mr. Harris” while waiting at a street crossing. A dark stain spread down the man’s trousers, and he stayed in place instead of following the crowd crossing the road. Just a bystander, good.
Andreas followed the white wig bobbing in a sea of brown. Phoebe Pace would give Roman a run for his money in the crazy department. She was driving Andreas nuts.
He wondered why she wasn’t taking a carriage. Concerned about revealing herself if she chose her transportation incorrectly? Or perhaps the heir to the finest carriage company in London liked walking.
He found himself watching her as she moved. She walked with purpose, but sometimes without continual forward progress. She found holes in the crowd and moved into them quickly, sometimes zigzagging, allowing quick movement without either having to stop or being run over by someone else in the c
rowd.
A man suddenly appeared behind her, but her darting maneuvers forced him farther behind quickly. The man swore as he had to push around a group of women in order to catch up. A poor tail. He was either new, or this was not part of his regular duties.
Andreas had dispatched the more experienced tails in the past two days. Working his way through Cornelius’s men, who were obviously working with Garrett, one by one, two by two. Roman was going to tease him mercilessly for doing drudge work. Andreas usually hated to leave his cave for anything other than exceptional events.
Leaving meant he had to pretend other people existed.
Andreas followed Phoebe Pace and her new shadow though, once more, unhindered, pushing his unfriendliness to the front of his features. The crowd parted when he needed it to.
The man started gaining on her, increasing his speed, his frustration overcoming his movements, his motivation to intercept her instead of continuing to trail her suddenly clear. The crowd parted in front of Andreas more rapidly as he quickly advanced, people rubbing their exposed skin, feeling the sudden need to shrink away, to the sides. He made full use of it, caught up to the man, and gripped the back of his neck. “Let’s have a conversation,” he said in a low voice and thrust him sideways through the crowd and into the alley.
Andreas emerged from the alley with a new low-slung cap to hide the top half of his features. He loosened his knuckles and continued to Phoebe Pace’s house. His pace, always quick, was faster than usual.
He rapped the knocker. He should send a courier. He should send an army. There was no reason for him to be standing here as a goddamn messenger.
No one answered the door. He tried again, then just gripped the handle and pushed it open, striding inside, a messenger of death. Phoebe Pace peered around the edge of a doorway to the left, one bushy brow still attached, contrasting sharply with its well-groomed sibling. Both real and fake brows rose in shocked surprise. Her . . . shirt . . . was open two buttons down from the top.
He stared at her for a moment, unable to say anything.
“Mr. Merrick.” She started to emerge farther, then caught herself and pulled back, her hand suddenly gripping her shirt together at her throat. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to speak.”
She blinked. “It’s not a good time. Perhaps I can visit you in an hour?”
“No.” He walked forward, looking around the house. It was a standard layout. He headed for where the study was sure to be.
“Mr. Merrick.” She hurried after him. “Mr. Merrick, what—”
He looked around the interior. It was cluttered and disorganized. He ignored the mess as best as he could, disorganization always made him feel tense. “Pack and leave for the country, Miss Pace.”
“What?”
“Now. Start packing.”
“No, I have two more meet . . . I mean, our man of business has two more meetings with—”
“Miss Pace.” He thought it was said quite pleasantly. He was quite pleased by the widening of her eyes. “You have forgotten to remove your eyebrow.”
Her hand immediately went to her brow, dropping her fisted collar, exposing the skin just enough to see the cleft of a shadowed canyon squished together and bound by tape. “Oh. How . . . how could that have happened?”
It took him a moment to recover from the sight. “How, indeed. Let us just put it down on the register of absurdity that you continue to enact—dressing up in men’s clothes in your own home, hmmm? Perhaps Madame Vestris inspired you?”
She brightened, as if it were the perfect excuse. That was not good.
He rushed on, completely against the natural order of things. “However, that is beside the point. Start packing. You have two hours and not one minute more.”
“I think we are failing to properly communicate, Mr. Merrick.”
“You have one hour and fifty-nine minutes to pack,” he enunciated.
She blinked at him. “No I don’t.”
“Good. You have only fifty-eight minutes then.”
She looked flustered for a moment. Her eyes drifted to something in the corner, and she regained a cheerful mien. “I am unable to leave for the country at this time, unfortunately. In a few weeks—”
“The Watch is coming for your father in the morning.”
The color left her face abruptly. Rosy cheeks bled to parchment.
“But—”
“Your little antics have forced someone’s hand. Your fund’s results will be released early and with . . . modifications.”
He knew whose hand had been forced. It was better if she just went on her merry, flighty way though.
“You came to warn us.” She looked at him through hair mussed and falling over her eyes.
He took a step back. “I was in the neighborhood.”
She took a step toward him. “Thank you.”
He almost took another step back. He was here . . . because he had helped the situation degenerate. Yes. He had given her those debts back. Enabled her stupidity. A society girl with no claim on real-life matters.
“Don’t thank me, just leave.”
Her plump lower lip disappeared between her teeth. “I . . . yes. I will have my parents leave immediately. Of course. They can’t stay. I will get things settled in the meantime.”
He wasn’t sure what that cold feeling was in his gut. “All of you will leave.”
“But I need—”
“To what? Stay here and reap the consequences of whatever mob comes to make the arrest?”
“I . . . no, you make sense. I will go elsewhere for tonight and tomorrow. But I need to—”
“You need to leave permanently.”
“I can’t, I—”
“If you don’t leave London in one hour and fifty-six minutes with your parents,” he said pleasantly, “I will burn down your house.”
Silence. Then—“I think I’m misunderstanding you.”
“You are understanding me perfectly well.”
“You just threatened to burn down my house. I think that is uncommon enough a response for me to question.”
“What do you know about me, Miss Pace?”
It was actually a question that burned deeply and undesirably.
“I know that you are a fair man. And a kind man, when you want to be.” Where the hell did she get these notions? “And true to your word . . . oh.”
He gave her a thin smile.
Wide eyes stared back. “But I, I mean, I need to coordinate with our man of business. He has all manners of tasks to . . .” She sighed, obviously reading his expressions without trouble. “I need to be here for a few more weeks as my man of business.”
“You can do your business from elsewhere. You have plenty of correspondence capabilities.” He motioned toward the doorway.
She stared at him. “And if I say no?”
“Do you really want to say no? To continue whatever idiotic game you are playing? What the hell are you wearing?”
She stared down at the eyebrow in her hand. “I’m in too far to be embarrassed at this point,” she muttered.
“And why do those trousers fit you?”
My God. He had not just asked that.
She looked down at the article of clothing in question, and he swore for a moment that a smile curved her lips, but when she looked up, that perpetually innocent expression was back in place. A trick of the light . . . maybe. “Took a few goes to get them right. I can give you instructions, though you don’t require tailoring.” She critically examined his seams—where they met. “You look quite sleek in—”
“If you haven’t moved in two hours, I will guarantee you will.” He swiftly walked toward the exit. He had thought to go through the documents on the desk, but frankly, he had to get out of here. The men on duty would take care of things in case the Watch—or anyone else—came early. He didn’t need to be here. In fact, he would double the retinue, just to make sure nothing happ—
—to make sure sh
e was gone.
“Have a productive day, Mr. Merrick!”
He hadn’t had a productive day since she’d walked through his door.
Chapter 8
Andreas entered the hell a week later. He had chased Cornelius around northern England for a week, always missing the slippery bastard by a few hours. He should have taken lackeys with him to coordinate a trap, but taking others with him meant relying on other people for long periods of time.
He already had someone to rely on. That someone was just taking forever on his goddamn honeymoon.
But at least there was no Phoebe Pace to worry about. He had received a doubly verified report that indeed the Pace family had moved and were safely installed elsewhere. He had almost asked after their new location but denied the impulse.
What Phoebe Pace was, was gone.
No more biscuits or trouble or strange pits of thought. Thank God.
He had assigned a set of five men to stay near the Paces, wherever they were. He’d leave the knowledge of where they were to others and just rely on the reports.
People gawked as he walked through the kitchens. He’d been expected back two days from now, not tonight, and he knew he looked like absolute hell. He sneered, and the only boy who had opened his mouth to say something closed it with a snap, backing away.
Useless. He continued up the stairs to the private rooms on the top floor where he and Roman maintained chambers on opposite sides of the hall. No, just his rooms now. The other hall door on the floor was never opened anymore.
He stepped from the landing and walked down the hall. He was going to lock his door and sleep for a week. And anyone who disturbed—
Bark.
He slowed his steps. What the hell—
Yap, yap.
