The Secrets of a Scoundrel

by Gaelen Foley

  She fumed at the command. She had no intention of doing that, obviously. But with an angry glance, she saw that the three men were coming.

  It terrified her to contemplate what they wanted. Could it be that John had already found an interested party who wanted to buy her father’s journal before it even reached the auction?

  Her throat constricted with dread, she clucked to the horse and headed for the intersection ahead. She’d have to ride around the blasted block to continue her chase.

  But when she saw the three strangers fling around the corner, dodging into the shadowed passageway, she saw fit to yell out a warning to Nick.

  “They’re coming!”

  I know, Nick thought crisply, irked. He pounded on, racing at top speed down the bricked passageway. I’m going to wring her neck if I ever figure out what’s actually going on. He could not believe she had lied to him.

  Then he scoffed at himself for being surprised.

  So John Carr had stolen something from her: the object he had not wanted to hand over back at the hotel. Nick intended to find out what it was.

  God knew he needed some shred of truth, as he was suddenly questioning everything she had ever said to him.

  There wasn’t much time for getting answers when he finally inched forward enough to grab the young fop by his coat near the far end of the passageway.

  Chest heaving, Nick hurled him into the wall.

  “What did you take from her? Give it to me.”

  “Get off me!” Carr kept thrashing, but Nick clasped his lapel and shoved him back, then pinned him there with his forearm planted across the lad’s throat.

  “I don’t want to hurt you. Whatever it is, hand it over. Now.”

  Carr stopped struggling abruptly and laughed at him, taken aback. “What, you don’t even know what it is? You mean she didn’t tell you? How typical! Oh, you should stay away from her, my friend. She’ll only make your life a misery.”

  Nick scowled while John Carr laughed, ignoring the three men who’d be upon them in another moment.

  “I take it you’re her latest gentleman friend?” the lad bit out, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Don’t worry, she’ll be done with you soon, too.”

  Nick punched him in the face with a glower. “No time to chat, sorry.” Having sufficiently stunned his quarry, it was a simple matter to reach into Carr’s coat and find the item hidden in his waistcoat.

  His fingers clasped a small, leather-­bound book.

  As he pulled it out, and found it tied closed with a leather cord, Carr rallied to try to wrest it back out of his grasp.

  “What is this?” Nick demanded. He could hear the pounding footfalls in the darkness, only seconds away from them now.

  “It’s mine, is what it is!”

  As they fought over the book, Nick suddenly saw the white Maltese cross, insignia of the Order, engraved on the bottom center of the book’s back cover.

  It shocked him.

  This time, he grasped Carr by the throat as he slammed him back against the wall, and his habitual motion was so quick that the knife appeared in Nick’s hand almost by magic. “Why were you meeting with Truveau?” he asked, bringing the blade up to the corner of the lad’s too-­perfect face. “Are you a Promethean?”

  “What? Me? No!” Understanding flooded his eyes at last. “You’re with the Order?” he whispered.

  “What do you think?” Nick snarled in reply.

  Carr looked at him, wide-­eyed and stock-­still, as though he realized for the first time in that moment the colossal scale of his mistake.

  That would explain why, when Nick turned to deal with their pursuers, Carr took his chance and fled, abandoning the book.

  Nick knew he had only seconds to choose his ground.

  He instantly shoved the book into his waistcoat and ran out the far end of the passageway, placing himself in position with his back to the wall beside the opening.

  Muscles tensed, weapons ready, he waited for them to emerge.

  Chapter 16

  When the three black-­clad men—­whoever the hell they were—­came barreling through the dark, narrow passageway in single file, the first one who burst out of the opening got a back-­knuckle blow to the face that possibly broke his nose on impact, judging by the crunch.

  A bloodcurdling scream came out of him as he dropped like a stone, apparently not realizing he was lucky he hadn’t been met with a bullet instead.

  Immediately, Nick pivoted into the alley, lifting his pistol to halt the others in their tracks, but the second man calculated his options just as quickly; then he did the only thing he could do to avoid being shot point-­blank. He put his head down and charged straight at Nick with a war cry.

  Brave, Nick thought begrudgingly, but he pulled the trigger anyway as the man tackled him out into the alley beyond the passageway. His shot flew high, ricocheting off the brick side of the building.

  Pain blazed through his back as the man slammed him to the ground, diving on top of him with a woof.

  The wind knocked out of him, Nick saw the third man run out of the passageway, but number three barely spared the rest of them a glance. All business, he immediately fixed his sights on the fleeing John Carr.

  The blond sneak was bolting up the alley, trying to escape. At once, the third henchman took a stance to shoot Carr in the back.

  Time always seemed to slow in these sorts of situations, and as he brawled on the ground against the second fellow, Nick’s mind had already been collecting details about these unknown enemies.

  From the automatic way they worked as a team to the excellent form the gunman looming nearby took as he aimed his pistol at John Carr—­to say nothing of the impressive left hook that suddenly rammed Nick in the side of the head, courtesy of henchman number two—­it was obvious they were very well trained, possibly men of his own profession.

  Ow. Nick was seeing stars but somehow managed to lunge partially free of the milling match; he gained just enough distance to stretch out and kick the gunman’s knee without warning, knocking him off-­balance just as he pulled the trigger.

  The shooter’s aim went wide: What was meant as a headshot glanced off Carr’s right shoulder.

  Snapping out an elegant French curse word, while farther down the alley, Carr stumbled to his knees with a scream, the gunman turned his attention now to Nick.

  Only to find that Nick suddenly had a knife pressed to the throat of his comrade, the one who had tackled him.

  “Put the gun down, or I cut his throat,” Nick informed him, chest heaving. “Go on. Throw it out of arm’s reach.”

  “Let him go,” another voice responded.

  Nick glanced over warily and saw that the fellow whose nose he had bloodied had rejoined the party, and unlike the man who had just shot John Carr, he had not yet expended the bullet in his single-­shot pistol.

  His was now aimed right at Nick.

  “Put it down,” Nick advised.

  “Do it,” his prisoner clipped out, and the way the other two glanced at him and obeyed informed Nick that he had immobilized the leader.

  “Get up,” he ordered his captive. Not taking his eyes off him nor removing the threat of his blade against the man’s jugular, Nick backed toward the wall.

  Once he was in a position where nobody could come up behind him, he instantly felt somewhat better about all this. Likewise, with the leader under control, it was easier to hold the other two at bay.

  He scanned the alley and saw John Carr facedown several yards away. He wasn’t moving. “You better not have killed him.”

  “Pah. He’s only fainted,” the leader answered. “If he didn’t want to get shot, he shouldn’t have run.”

  Nick scowled at this reply and gave the man a rude shake, as if they could dislodge his arrogance. “You work for Truveau?” he deman
ded.

  “Not anymore, actually,” he replied in a guarded tone. “Cheeky of you to try to impersonate the count, though. What is your interest in our book?”

  Nick shrugged, slipping easily into his role as one of the criminal class, merely in town to enroll in the Bacchus Bazaar. “I heard talk that that young amateur had something highly valuable for sale. I was curious. Wanted to see what it was, that’s all. But then he bolted off when he saw you. I don’t like it when ­people run away from me in the middle of a conversation.”

  “Does that happen often?” the leader drawled.

  Nick smirked. “All the time. Why did you call it your book?”

  “Well, you are full of questions.” The leader looked askance at him. “Who are you, anyway?”

  The question eased Nick’s mind a bit. At least they did not seem to recognize him as someone from the Order.

  “I’m here for the same reason you are, I suspect. For the Bacchus Bazaar.”

  “Really,” he said skeptically. “And what are you bringing?”

  “I’m a weapons dealer.”

  This answer seemed to mollify his captive. “You haven’t registered yet,” he remarked.

  “No. How do you know that?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “What about you?” Nick countered. “What are you lot bringing?”

  They exchanged sly glances and low, unpleasant laughs.

  “Oh, a number of items,” the leader drawled.

  “Whatever we can scavenge,” another said under his breath.

  Nick furrowed his brow and studied the leader. “I could swear I know you. What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours?” his captive countered.

  Nick glanced around cautiously at them. “If we’re done trying to kill each other, I’ll tell you.”

  “Agreed,” the man replied.

  Nick disarmed the leader, removing his dagger from its sheath on his hip and his shoulder pistol from its holster under his coat.

  As he threw both weapons several yards away down the alley, he noticed that John Carr was no longer in sight.

  Not dead, then. A blood trail on the ground led out of the alley and around the corner.

  Nick slowly let go of his new friend, quite prepared to stab him in the heart if the man made one wrong move.

  Hands up in a casual surrender to show he had no such intentions, the Frenchman stepped away from him and cautiously turned around. “Your name, then, monsieur?”

  “Jonathan Black,” Nick replied. One of his many aliases.

  The leader narrowed his eyes. “I know that name. You work for Angelique.”

  “That’s right, off and on. I help her out now and then when I’m needed. I’ve trained mercenaries for her. Managed some of her weapons shipments. That sort of thing.”

  “Right . . .” The Frenchman nodded slowly. “Well, Mr. Black, our former employers were on friendly terms—­though they did not exactly move in the same circles.”

  Nick looked at him in question.

  “I was a bodyguard for old Truveau. He’s dead. They all are.” He shrugged, not exactly grieved by this reality. “I’ve got my own enterprises now. But it’s surprising how much weight his name still carries.”

  Nick nodded, feigning admiration. “We all have to land on our feet one way or the other, don’t we?”

  “Indeed. Name’s Simon Limarque.” He nodded at his henchmen. “This is Cagnard, that’s Brou.”

  “Sorry about the nose,” Nick said.

  Brou just scowled at him.

  Nick shrugged, but privately gave thanks that the men’s loyalties were not still bound to the Prometheans if what the leader said was true. It seemed credible.

  No bodyguard who took his job seriously would look so apathetic upon reporting that the ­people he’d protected were all dead, while he himself had survived.

  Nick concluded in relief that at least Limarque and his men were obviously not committed Promethean believers.

  It was so much easier dealing with someone who was simply out for himself.

  Then, as he lowered his weapon, it suddenly dawned on Nick how Limarque must be running his scheme. “Oh, I see . . . You’ve got someone on the inside who lets you see the list as ­people register for the Bazaar. Then you pick and choose what you want to try and steal.”

  Limarque flashed a smile. “Something like that.”

  “Clever.”

  They were scavengers, thieves.

  A bloody pack of jackals.

  “So many treasures gathered in one city,” Limarque reasoned with a smirk. “Well, you have to admit it’s tempting. Where is the harm in robbing from criminals, after all?”

  “I see your point. But, then again, not all of them are men you necessarily want to cross,” Nick replied with a warning stare.

  “No,” the Frenchman conceded. “I’m not stupid. When I meet an equal, I keep my distance.”

  “Good.” An equal? I kicked your arse. He decided not to dwell on that point, though. Another thought occurred to him, now that they seemed willing to talk. “I don’t suppose you chaps happen to know who Rotgut is, do you?”

  “Of course we do,” Limarque said serenely. “We know everyone and everything. Why?”

  “I need to get in touch with him. He’s apparently found some cooperative Customs official at the port of Bristol who’s willing to help men like us get our shipments out without overly close inspection. I’d be willing to pay handsomely for an introduction to whoever the devil it is I need to bribe.”

  “If we see him, we’ll let him know you were asking for a meeting.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Well, then, I’ll bid you gents good day.” He took leave of them with a curt nod, but as he backed toward the opening of the alley, Cagnard blocked his way. Nick stared icily at him. “What do you want?”

  Limarque smiled coldly. “Before we part ways, monsieur, I’d like my book back. With all due respect to you and Madame Angelique, that book belongs to me. We both know the boy gave it to you.”

  Nick glanced around to stall for time, weighing his options. He had no intention of handing it over, but they didn’t know that.

  Besides, he still needed information. He did not bother denying that he had it, since they already knew.

  “You’re putting it on the auction?” he inquired.

  “Of course.”

  “What good is it? The boy said it’s all in code.”

  “Someone out there will care enough to decipher it.”

  “Why? What makes it so important?”

  “Let’s just say it’ll fetch a fine price at auction from those looking to settle old scores.”

  “Hmm,” Nick replied noncommittally.

  “Very well, then. Come now, Black.” Limarque put out his hand. “Give it here, and we shall part as friends—­or at least, not as enemies. Trust me, you don’t want me for an enemy.”

  Nick smiled darkly.

  And with that, the fight exploded.

  When Gin came riding around the corner, at once she spotted John Carr staggering down the street a short distance ahead. Racing toward him, she saw his perfect face was ashen, his right shoulder covered in blood.

  Good God, had Nick done that to him? she wondered with barely a modicum of sympathy.

  She slowed the horse as she approached him. “Give me the book!” she ordered, holding out her hand once more.

  “I don’t have it, all right?” he wrenched out. “He took it from me!”

  “The men in black?”

  “No, the other one. They shot me!” he wailed.

  “Which way?” she demanded.

  Still clutching his wounded shoulder with his left hand, he turned and gestured weakly with his right. “Back there. In the alley. My lady, don’t! It’s
too dangerous!” he protested, as she started riding away.

  She scoffed under her breath, urging the horse on. The dandyish owner of her borrowed horse had left his shiny dress sword in its leather scabbard attached to the saddle.

  She drew the weapon and charged.

  Within a few strides, her horse’s hooves clattering over the cobblestones, Gin turned the beast around the corner. Slowing the bay’s gait just for a heartbeat, she scanned the scene before.

  There in the back alley, she saw Nick hemmed in by all three attackers, doing their best to cut her lover to ribbons. They were not yet successful, but they seemed very determined.

  Nick, for his part, despite being outnumbered, seemed to have the battle well in hand. Her heart swelled with pride at his ferocity. He was holding his own, smoothly whirling to deflect blows from all directions and doling out pain to each of them in unpredictable patterns.

  Still, Gin thought to give him the sort of decisive advantage that could help to bring this deadly confrontation to a swifter close.

  Plunging into the fray without hesitation, she drove the horse straight into the fight, using its big body to separate one of the men from Nick.

  Her arrival seemed to astonish all of them.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Nick muttered, while his enemies, with a chorus of “mon dieu’s,” fell back to avoid being trampled under her angry horse’s hooves.

  “Get out of here,” Nick said.

  “You have the book? Give it to me,” she answered, holding off the bloody-­nosed man with the point of her borrowed rapier. “I’ll get it to safety. You finish them off.”

  “I’m going to wring your neck,” he informed her, but when the large, square-­headed fellow took a swing at him, the threat was forgotten.

  Nick proceeded to fight with him while the rather handsome one suddenly reached up and started trying to drag her off the horse. “Well, who is this, then?”

  Tall and lean, he had olive skin and cold, dead eyes. “So happy you could join our little party, ma chérie. Why don’t you get down from there and tell me why you’re after my book, too.”