“He’s right.” Galen took a sip from his lemon water. “But then, Thorne’s always right.”
“Gentlemen,” Michael said, turning back to face his friends. “There is no chance of the scales not balancing. But I need you to trust me. I need you to back off while I assess the situation and determine the best course of action. Penny novel or not, we’re finally in a position to hold the reins and steer the plot in our direction.”
Ashe’s ice blue eyes narrowed. “It’s not a question of trust, Rutherford. But I don’t want to hang back and see this snake slink off again!”
“I won’t let him escape,” Michael said, his voice like hot stones falling on a drum. “And when the time comes, I’ll be the one to end him and I’ll act alone.”
Silence descended again and Michael went on.
“You have your lives now and families to protect.” He straightened his shoulders, imposing his full height and daring them to argue that he wasn’t the man for the job. “Besides, I’m already engaged in this. I say we limit our exposure to one man. There’s no need for the rest of you to step in. I have this well in hand. If I need help, I’ll ask but not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Wait!” Ashe wasn’t backing down. “You cannot suddenly think to pretend that we are not in this together already.”
“No. We are in it together. But these next few miles will probably end in bloodshed and I’m the one who has the Jackal in my sights.” Michael took a deep slow breath and then let it out carefully. “I’m the only one here who knows what it is to kill a man.”
“As a soldier, yes, but…” Rowan came around to sit on the edge of his desk. “Surely this is different.”
Michael shook his head. “The only difference will be that this time I might enjoy pulling the trigger.”
They held their collective breath and Ashe sat down slowly.
“Damn,” Darius whispered. “You always did know how to get in the last word.”
“I have him in my sights. And I never miss.” Michael went on. “Never.”
“Then that settles it.” Galen set his drink down. “We leave it to Rutherford to come up with a plan on how best to take care of the Jackal. Darius goes off on his honeymoon tomorrow as planned and we hold here. We stand with Michael and offer whatever help he requires and for now, we keep out of the way.”
Every man nodded his assent except Ashe, his eyes still locked onto Michael’s unflinching gaze. “Swear to me that no matter what happens, Michael, you’ll do whatever it takes and my Caroline will be safe.”
“I swear it, Ashe.”
Ashe nodded. “Then I’m content to stand by. For now.”
Michael sighed. It was all he could have hoped for, considering that Ashe more than any of them, had experienced the worst of the Jackal’s schemes. His beloved Caroline had nearly died and suffered a brutal miscarriage after ingesting poison meant for Ashe. Even now, her health was fragile and she was confined to bed during this new pregnancy. They all knew that Ashe lived every day in mortal terror of losing his incomparable American in childbirth. It made him more volatile and none could argue that Ashe wouldn’t be better off a hundred miles from London and whatever was about to unfold.
But no one was going to move Ashe an inch in his current state of mind.
So the compromise was victory from Michael’s vantage point.
Hell, if I can keep all of them at a safe distance then no matter what happens, I’ll have kept all my promises to the Jaded.
Because this wasn’t the first vow he’d made to his friends.
In the dark of a dungeon in Bengal, Michael Rutherford had sworn to protect his friends and make whatever sacrifice was asked to get them home and restored to their lives.
The group visibly relaxed, returning to their favorite spots in Michael’s apartment, refilling their glasses and settling in to talk about the turns of fate and try to make sense of ancient prophecies or the more enticing mysteries of how best to please a new wife. Each of them was convinced that they had landed the most beautiful woman in the world and had converted, like most affirmed bachelors, into fanatical husbands.
Michael knew better than to enter the lighter turns of the conversation. He retreated to the window seat and let out a quiet sigh. He was the last bachelor standing and with the dark days ahead, he had no intention of altering that fact. But for now, he also had no intention of mentioning to his friends the wrinkle in the cloth that was Grace Porter.
She’s irrelevant.
Michael’s brow furrowed as the thought failed to carry any conviction, especially weighed against a restless afternoon where she’d invaded every moment he’d had—even as he’d fought to focus on the Jackal alone.
Does she know her brother is a foul excuse for a human being? Could any one with a look that clear be untouched by the horror of it? If she is in it, then she’s just one more element to watch. And if she isn’t…
If I move carefully, could I accomplish my goals without bruising her spirit?
Michael closed his eyes, shutting out the rise and fall of conversation behind him. He’d accepted a commission of murder to protect men he held as dear as brothers, and lied to those same men about how much he would enjoy the task.
No pleasure in it. But if she is an innocent in all of this—if I can’t manage it gracefully, I’ll swing from the gallows for it and forever be known as a demon—especially to her. But if I take my time and can hold Ashe back long enough to let me find my way through, perhaps I can save her…
If not myself.
CHAPTER FOUR
In the days that followed, Michael immediately hired a Bow Street runner to track Porter’s movements and began to gather intelligence like a general planning a battle. If there was ground to be lost, Michael wanted it to be to Sterling’s disadvantage so he wasted no time. Normally, he’d have done all of it himself but since he’d been to Sterling’s house, he had no faith that Grace would keep his visit a secret. She was the Jackal’s sister and her loyalties would probably lie with him. If she betrayed that he’d called, his height was bound to be mentioned. No one ever failed to mention how tall he was, even to him—as if Michael Rutherford were miraculously unaware of his condition.
Except Grace Porter.
She said nothing of it and I’m so used to hearing some tired remark, I missed it entirely.
Michael’s hand stilled, hovering above the notes he’d been making in his small leather covered pad as he leaned back against the carriage seat. He’d hired the hackney for the day and ordered the driver to simply wait on the shaded lane indirectly across from Porter’s home. It was a good spot to make his covert observations shielded from view and out of the weather.
Michael looked again at his handwritten notes and considered how very different Grace was from every woman he knew. Grace had calmly addressed him as if giant rude men invaded her sitting room most ordinary days. She reminded him of Lady Winters, the first woman to break into the Jaded’s small circle and the first person he’d ever met who was more stubborn than Galen Hawke, now Lord Winters.
I wasn’t as miserable today in Grace’s drawing room as I was in the Haley’s but this was different. I should have asked more questions when I had the chance. I let the situation derail me and it’s hard to think of what to say while Miss Grace Porter is looking at you.
Michael pushed the thought away, unwilling to let the memory of Grace’s charms distract him from the task at hand. If she’d told Sterling about him, a description would be a natural inclusion in that conversation. It might be the one detail that betrayed him if he spied Michael personally lurking around the docks or outside the East India Trading Company’s buildings.
Instead since his discovery of the Jackal, he’d done what he could to watch the house from a safe distance and added his own observations to his hired man’s. The house itself was small but on the end of a desirable street for anyone up and coming and the adjacent square was once considered extremely fashionable. Michael sketched out wh
at he could remember of the interior and the layout of the narrow house from his brief view, noting as many details as he could.
He’d also confirmed that there was only one live-in servant to speak of. The sour faced woman he’d met was their cook and an indifferent housekeeper. They took another girl on as maid for a day or two a week, but nothing steady. He saw no sign of Grace leaving for calls and no visitors came to the house for tea or afternoon conversations.
It bothered him to think of her without friends.
She’s too young to be so isolated.
The runner had added the news that Sterling hired hackneyed carriages to get to work if the weather was foul, but would walk the first legs of the journey if the day were nicer. Even so, he would hire a cab for the last of his commute so that he always arrived by carriage.
The one story that sealed Michael’s instincts about Mr. Porter’s identity had been a nearly off-hand notation. “Man was laid up for a few weeks since sometime in January. Grocer said it was all quiet and half-orders for a while. Something about pneumonia. Though he’s back to work now apparently.”
Pneumonia? Or a good lungful or two of smoke, more likely.
“I wonder how he explained to his sister about the singed holes in his coat or the stench of the soot,” he asked aloud.
He jolted upright as the very object of his daydreams suddenly come out of the side ally in a plain brown day dress holding a small basket, as if slipping out to do some shopping. She looked even prettier than he remembered. She would be about twenty-four years of age. At thirty-one, she made him feel ancient.
She should be married with a house of her own.
She was overworked, as far as Michael could see. The same grocer who’d gossiped about Sterling’s mysterious illness had also shared his opinions about the “lady of the house” as well as the Porter’s cook. Mrs. Dorsett was not liked in the neighborhood and unpopular with the tradesmen for her sharp tongue and haughty manners. But Miss Porter was the subject of great speculation. She’d been seen scrubbing the front steps and doing the work of a scullery maid, but her gentle manners and ladylike demeanor were much admired on Baker Street. “Never a cross word! Remembered my little one was ill and made a lovely dolly for her with a lace and satin dress,” the grocer had stated. “She still has it, sir! Tattered now but as precious as gold to my sweet girl.”
Michael watched Grace for a few seconds and something about her manner caught his eye. She looked guiltily over her shoulder back at the house before adjusting her bonnet to shield more of her face.
Where are you off to, Miss Porter? And why so worried that someone will see you?
He pushed forward and adjusted his own coat. If she were walking a short way, then the carriage trailing her would be obvious, but if she hired a cab and he was on foot, he could lose her. Michael took a deep breath and decided to split the difference. He waited until she was away and then he climbed out of the carriage, quickly ordering the coachman to follow at a discreet distance.
As she moved through the city it was hard not to speculate on her destination. They passed the grocer’s markets and the streets with the ladies’ shops closest to her home. If she meant to pick up something ordinarily on a woman’s list, Michael was fairly certain there was no need to look so guilty.
Did the quiet and reserved Miss Porter have a lover?
An unexpected wrinkle, but nothing to spoil our plans.
He ignored an odd bubble of irritation at the idea of Grace Porter meeting a man for a clandestine or heated exchange. It was an irrational reaction and Michael pushed it away. After all, what did he care if she had a dozen secret lovers?
Still, Michael wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. Whatever her business, he didn’t want to allow any blind spots to complicate matters. She might be running an errand for the Jackal.
He kept out of her sight, grateful for the natural shield of a lady’s bonnet that interfered with Grace’s peripheral vision. But Michael began to close the distance as the turns she took led them away from the more polished streets and avenues of the city and more toward the poorer end of the city. Jackal’s sister or no, Michael was not going to allow anything to happen to a woman alone.
He watched with some trepidation as the pedestrian trade looked rougher and rougher as she went. Her pace was determined and unflagging so he disregarded the notion that she might be lost.
He’d have slowed to add to the buffer between them when the sidewalk narrowed but he didn’t like the way one of the street urchins began to mirror her steps. He adjusted the buttons of his own coat and changed his course to parallel the young boy. Her basket had the thief’s complete attention so it was fairly easy to form a plan. He would trip the boy and then duck into the next alley to ensure that if she turned around there’d be nothing to alarm her. But when he saw the flash of a sharp blade in the boy’s hand, his instincts were alerted to the danger and Michael reacted only as a protector.
He grabbed the boy’s wrist and lifted him with a twist that demanded that he either drop the knife or forfeit the bones in his arm.
The boy kicked out with his thin little legs, his dirty face highlighted by wide eyes as he experienced unplanned flight. The knife fell away and Michael noted that it was an expensive weapon, engraved in silver with a shaped ivory handle—probably a prize from a gentleman’s boot.
“Heave off,” he whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you, you little snipe.”
The boy was disarmed and diverted, and Michael was about to just let him go but instead of surrendering the child transformed into a hellcat of teeth and claws.
“Oy!” the boy screamed. “Get off it!”
It would have been laughable except the boy’s boot squarely connected with Michael’s testicles and everything imploded in a white shattering pain that felt as if someone had hammered iron spikes into his hip bones and up into his spinal cord. His hands went numb and he released his charge who did him no favors by crashing into Grace as she was starting to turn around at all the commotion.
Cunning little animal!
Mortified to be seen, he was powerless to do little more than watch as her basket was upended and sheets of paper flew up around her to be blown into the street. Grace screamed and then did the most surprising thing of all and something he would never have anticipated.
She blindly dove after the chaotic flurry of parchment into the street, and for Michael everything slowed. He last thing he remembered was the sound of an approaching carriage as he lunged to grab her coat and yank her backward.
Only to lose his footing and then the world was all horse’s hooves and carriage wheels.
And darkness. And one last thought…
There you have it. Getting hit by a carriage doesn’t even come close to taking a shot between the legs.
Lesson learned.
CHAPTER FIVE
Grace squeaked as someone grabbed her firmly from behind by her collar and yanked her off her feet. But as her backside connected with the dirty sidewalk, her squeak became a scream as her rescuer slipped and took her place and the phaeton’s back wheel struck him down. She heard the sound of the driver’s whip driving the horses on and in numb horror realized that the carriage’s handler had no intention of stopping to see who he’d murdered.
She lurched forward again, to wave off the next carriage and prevent her good Samaritan from being struck again. She knelt next to him and gasped in surprise.
It’s Mr. Rutherford! My god! There’s a way to surprise Sterling with a reunion! I’ve caused his friend to be injured and…I’ll be caught out for sure!
Another bystander stepped down to help her pull her savior from the muddy street and onto the sidewalk, but got nowhere for her hero was a bit heavier than the average bloke. “Please!” she pleaded to another group of gentlemen passing along. “Please help me to move him!”
They complied, a bit reluctantly, but Grace ignored their lack of manners, openly grateful for their charity. It took thre
e men to lift him and she guiltily scrambled behind them to pick up what pages she could while they achieved the pitiful sanctuary of the cobbled stone walkway and dropped their unconscious burden.
“He’s probably done for, if you ask me, miss.” One of the men said as he placed a white silk handkerchief under his nose. “Unless you know him, I’d say brush off your skirts and clear off!”
Grace stood, glaring at the man. “Feel free to apply that wisdom to yourself, sir! Brush off your skirts and be on your way!” She shoved the muddy pages into her basket and knelt anxiously at Michael’s side, paying no further attention to the insulted men who withdrew with growls about insolent women and suicidal fools. “Mr. Rutherford,” she said softly. There was a small trickle of blood from a cut at his hairline and at the sight of it, terror crystallized inside her chest.
Oh, god. He did this saving me and I was—I was blindly chasing after a chapter about a band of cursed pirates and undead mermen!
“Mr. Rutherford,” she tried again, tentatively patting his cheek to try to rouse him. “Sir?”
“Shall I send for help, miss?” a woman stopped to ask. “Is he dead?”
“No! I mean, I don’t…” She sat up a bit straighter and prayed he wasn’t. “I need a cab.”
“I’ll hail one for you,” the woman offered and left Grace to attend to her charge.
“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll get you to a hospital and all will be well,” she told him softly. Mr. Rutherford opened his eyes at that exact moment and made her yelp in surprise yet again. “Mr. Rutherford!”
“No hospitals,” he said calmly. “I am perfectly fine.”
Grace pressed a hand against her forehead, relief making her dizzy for a moment. “No offense, Mr. Rutherford, but men who’ve been struck by carriages do not get to argue that they are in perfect health. At least, not while they are lying on their backs outside of a tobacco shop.”
He lifted his head, a groan slipping past his teeth and proving her point. “Then I’ll sit up.”
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