The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

by Stefanie Sloane

  Nicholas smiled with evil intent and put his fists up in preparation for the fight. “Oh, I know it only too well, Braxton. Only too well.”

  The man shook his head in disgust and Nicholas nearly felt sorry for him. Then Braxton landed a stinging blow to his right cheek and Nicholas forgot all about such a ridiculous notion.

  And instead focused every last ounce of shame and remorse, bitterness and regret on his opponent.

  He staggered at first, widening his stance in order to recapture his balance. Braxton’s fist connected a second time, grazing Nicholas’s ribs on the right side.

  “There now, Braxton. You do have a bit of life in you.” Nicholas ducked to avoid a punch to the eye.

  “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you, Bourne,” Braxton replied, grunting when Nicholas hit him square in the stomach.

  He doubled over and Nicholas took the opportunity to catch his breath. “Impossible, Braxton. The moment you turned back I knew I would not be disappointed.”

  “You’re insane,” Braxton muttered, standing upright once again.

  Nicholas raised his fists. “Now you’re beginning to understand.”

  “I am tired and would like to go home to my bed. Let’s finish this, shall we?”

  Nicholas nodded in agreement. “A capital idea, Braxton. Absolutely cap—”

  Braxton launched himself at Nicholas, clearly intending on following through with the plan. The two crashed against a table, sending a deck of playing cards flying. Braxton grabbed Nicholas’s lapels and toppled him over onto the floor, landing squarely on top of him.

  Nicholas writhed in an attempt to free himself, swinging wildly with his fists. Braxton avoided his hits by ducking and leaning back, the shifting of his weight forcing the air from Nicholas’s lungs.

  And then he set to pounding the life out of Nicholas. There was a certain rhythm to it, Nicholas realized, admiring the man’s steady, determined efforts. Surely Braxton had boxed before. His technique was polished. His punches clean and to the point.

  Perhaps Braxton would kill him, after all.

  A small part of Nicholas’s brain realized what he was admitting; he had, in fact, goaded Braxton into fighting him, with his goal being death.

  It sounded a touch too dramatic for Nicholas, but he would not rule it out.

  The pain had gone from excruciating to a somewhat duller throb and burn, leaving Nicholas to wonder if the man had managed to sever every last nerve ending in his face.

  “All right, my lords. Time to end this.”

  Nicholas opened his eyes as best he could and attempted to look over Braxton’s shoulder, the shape of a face hovering there. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Braxton here is the only one with a useless title.”

  Suddenly Braxton’s fists stopped and the man lurched forward, collapsing in a heap atop Nicholas.

  Over his shoulder, Nicholas had a clear view of a footman, wincing as he shook his right hand. Must be the fist he hit Braxton with, Nicholas thought with oddly detached calm.

  “I warned him,” the footman announced, resignation in his tone. “More than likely be dismissed regardless.”

  “I suppose so,” Nicholas answered, then blacked out.

  11

  May 30

  BOAR’S NEST TAVERN

  SEVEN DIALS

  ST. GILES

  “It is truly a blessing that you bore such a beating last evening, sahib. For your injuries make you look like any other ruffian here.”

  Nicholas stared at Singh with his one good eye. They sat at a corner table at the Boar’s Nest, the fifth tavern they’d visited that day. Mary Riley’s address was exactly the break he’d been waiting for. Now it was a matter of finding someone who was not afraid to speak of the gang.

  So far, that was proving to be a difficult task.

  They had started with establishments closest to the prostitute’s former lodgings. No one had been willing to talk, although instantly paling faces, nervous tics, and brief answers had indicated that some of those questioned knew more than they admitted.

  “Yes, Singh, you have mentioned my bruises a dozen times now,” Nicholas answered with impatience.

  They were some twenty streets from their starting point now, with little more information than they’d possessed that morning.

  Singh, however, had managed to acquire a low level of inebriation during their travels.

  “Tell me, how do you find our English ale?” Nicholas inquired, taking a deep drink from his own tankard.

  Singh adopted an air of comical indifference. “I must be honest with you, sahib: it is not to my liking. Our Feni wine is far superior to your ale. But do not think on my suffering. For it is necessary to the search, is it not?”

  He reached out to grasp his tankard and missed, frowning at his fingers as if they’d failed him.

  “Well, no, Singh,” Nicholas replied, pushing the tankard even farther out of the man’s reach. “You’ve done your duty.”

  Singh nodded gravely, and then turned his attention to a fight near the back of the tavern. The man always appeared serene. Calm. Perfectly happy to wait.

  If Nicholas did not hold great affection for Singh, he would have beaten the hell out of him by now. And if they did not find someone with information on the gang soon, his ridiculously tender feelings for the wise Indian might not be enough to save him.

  The barmaid approached, a large tray balanced in her right hand as she wiped away spilled ale and swept food crumbs from neighboring tables with the other. She tossed the soiled rag onto the tray and stopped in front of Nicholas. “Another pint for you and your friend?”

  Singh opened his mouth, ready to agree, and Nicholas cut him off. “That won’t be necessary. But if you have a moment, I would like to ask a question.”

  “I’m a barmaid, sir, and happy to be so. If you’re looking for companionship, best be talking to Madeline over there,” the woman replied, pointing to the corner where the fight had now ended. A garishly dressed woman, her face painted bright enough that they could make out her features even in the poor lighting of the pub, stood next to the winner of the round, wiping blood from his face with a dirty handkerchief.

  Nicholas turned back to the barmaid and smiled. “No, it is not companionship I seek. I’m looking for information concerning a young boy. He goes by the name Mouse. Do you know him?”

  The barmaid’s smile faded. She looked quickly, fearfully, over her shoulder before she reached out and grabbed Nicholas’s tankard, dropping it inelegantly on her tray before snatching up Singh’s as well. “Can’t say that I do, no. And I believe it’s time for you to go.”

  Nicholas reached into his vest pocket and retrieved enough coins to pay for the ale and then some. “Are you quite sure you don’t remember anything about the boy?”

  The barmaid eyed his hand with greedy interest. Nicholas reached out and she took the coins, tucking them into her neckline before stepping back. “Yes. Quite,” she hissed. “Now go. Your money’s enough to pay for the ale and a warning—don’t come back if you know what’s good for you.”

  She spun on her heel and left, her homespun dress flouncing about her booted feet as she moved quickly toward the bar and kitchens beyond.

  “She is lying, sahib,” Singh informed Nicholas. The woman’s rudeness and grim warning apparently had a sobering effect on him. “Much like all the others we’ve spoken with today.”

  “Obviously,” Nicholas muttered, drumming his fingers on the surface of the rough wooden table. “Is it too much to expect that one single person could rise above their selfish greed and fear in the interest of doing what is right?”

  “No, sahib.” Singh slid out from the bench and stood. “It is not. Believing in the inherent good of your fellow man is all that we—”

  Nicholas raised his hand to silence Singh as he too stood. “Not now, Singh.” He was too frustrated to listen to his friend’s wise words.

  Singh acquiesced with a nod and fell into step behind Nicholas
, remaining silent as they walked the width of the tavern and left the Boar’s Nest.

  Nicholas stopped to get his bearings. “I’m afraid abject failure has dampened my appetite for today’s hunt. We will return to the Albany for the evening. A good meal and generous glasses of brandy should help—or at the very least, wipe this frustrating day from our memories. After you.” Nicholas pointed up the street toward the Seven Dials and set off with Singh on his left. He’d not taken more than five strides when a chunk of wood struck him on his right shoulder.

  Nicholas crouched and spun to face the threat. An alley ran between the Boar’s Nest and a brothel next door. A man stood in the shadows, staring at him.

  He welcomed the excuse to vent the day’s frustration. “You chose the wrong man to harass this evening.”

  In a few long strides, he was in the alley.

  “Sahib!” Singh yelled. “Wait!”

  Nicholas ignored Singh, blocked a blow, and sank his fist into the man’s midriff. The man grunted, grappling as he fell against the outer wall of the Boar’s Nest, taking Nicholas down with him.

  “You bloody bastard.” Nicholas punched his opponent in the ribs and grabbed a fistful of his shirt when he sagged. “Why the hell are you provoking strangers? That’s a boy’s trick.”

  “I needed to get your attention.” The man threw his weight to the right, forcing both of them to roll. “To ask about Mouse.”

  Before Nicholas could react to the unexpected words, something connected with his skull, and stars flashed and spun before his eyes. He let go of his assailant and rolled onto his back.

  “Did you not hear the man?” Singh said from above him.

  Nicholas gingerly touched the back of his head, expecting to find the slippery wetness of blood. “Of course I did. How could I not, with him literally in my face while uttering the words? The blow to my head wasn’t necessary.” He was surprised to find his hand dry.

  Singh offered his hand to Nicholas. “I could not let you kill the man, sahib,” he explained.

  “So instead you thought to kill me. What did you hit me with?” Nicholas grasped Singh’s hand and let the man pull him to his feet.

  Singh dusted off the back of Nicholas’s coat. “The Bear Paw—it would not have killed you, sahib. It is meant to disarm, not destroy.”

  “Well, that is a comfort,” Nicholas growled, his irritation ebbing.

  Singh turned away and slowly approached the other man, who appeared dazed. “May I apologize for sahib? It has been a very trying day, you see.”

  The stranger waved off Singh’s help, rolling onto his hands and knees before staggering upright. “I tried to not draw attention, you fool. Now we’ll be lucky if half the cutthroats in St. Giles don’t know of our meeting.”

  Nicholas raked his fingers through his hair and shrugged his coat into place. “Mr. Singh is correct. It has been a difficult day. What is it you want of us, Mr.…?” He paused, waiting for the name.

  “Boyle. You can call me Boyle,” the burly man replied, brushing at the smears of dirt on his vest and shirtsleeves. “Owner of the Boar’s Nest.”

  “Boyle.” Nicholas nodded an abrupt acknowledgment and waved his hand at Singh. “This is—”

  “Don’t go telling me your names,” Boyle interrupted, wincing as he gingerly rubbed his ribs where Nicholas’s fist had caught him. “You’ll likely lie, no doubt. And I’ve no need for the truth, anyway. Other than when it comes to Mouse.”

  Yells and raucous laughter erupted from the street as a group of men left the Boar’s Nest, a randy rendition of a bawdy song filling the air in the gathering dark.

  Nicholas gestured for Singh and Mr. Boyle to follow him deeper down the alley. They ducked into the dense shadows of a shed near the southern corner of the pub.

  Nicholas waited until the revelers’ whoops and drunken singing grew fainter. “What do you know about the boy?”

  “Can you promise me he’s safe?” Boyle asked pointedly.

  “Would you believe me if I told you he was?” Nicholas countered.

  Boyle shrugged with pragmatism. “You’re not one of them, that’s for sure. I’d be dead by now if you were.”

  “One of them?” Nicholas said swiftly.

  Boyle stiffened and offered no information. “I just want to know if Mouse is safe.”

  “And how can I be sure that you are worth trusting?” Nicholas asked, curious as to what else Boyle might accidentally let drop.

  “That’s the thing—you can’t.”

  Nicholas couldn’t deny the blunt truth of the man’s statement. “Well, when you put it that way …” he remarked dryly, leaning a shoulder against the brick wall of the Boar’s Nest. “In answer to your question, yes, the boy is safe. For now.”

  Relief flooded the pub owner’s ruddy face. “Thanks be to God for that.”

  “You do know him, then?” Nicholas asked.

  Mr. Boyle nodded. “Aye, I know him. Mouse’s mother worked the district. She’d leave him here at the pub while she entertained clients—which was often, as you can imagine. The lad helped around the pub and in return I looked out for him. A bright boy, our Mouse. I did my best to keep him out of the gang’s path. They got their claws into him, anyway.”

  Nicholas could hear the regret in Boyle’s voice. And a touch of sorrow. “An impossible task, Mr. Boyle, from what I understand of the St. Giles gangs. And the boy’s mother?”

  “Caroline disappeared some time back,” Mr. Boyle replied, shaking his head. “She wasn’t ever much of a mother to Mouse. Still, the boy missed her something fierce.”

  “A victim of the same gang that’s after Mouse?” Nicholas asked. He knew prostitutes were fair game for gangs, as well as any number of other nefarious individuals.

  Boyle scratched his bald head. “Hard to say, really. No one wants to be found on the wrong side of those men, that much I know.”

  “ ‘Those men’?” Nicholas said, his gaze sharpening. “Who are they—what’s the name of the gang?”

  “What’s it to you?” Boyle countered, stepping back to put distance between himself and Nicholas. “It’s best you don’t know. And don’t be bringing Mouse back here. They’ll hunt him down and kill him. So there’s no need for you to be worrying about such things.”

  “I want the name of the gang.” Nicholas’s voice held steel. “And I’ll do whatever is necessary to get it.”

  Boyle pointed his index finger level with Nicholas’s heart. “Is that it, then? You’d sacrifice the boy, knowing he’d be dead within the week?”

  “Nothing could be further from my mind,” Nicholas replied. “I have every intention of keeping Mouse safe.”

  “Sahib speaks the truth, Mr. Boyle,” Singh chimed in. “Young Mouse will never see the inside of your rookery again.”

  “Then why are you here?” Boyle jabbed his finger at Nicholas once more before lowering his arm. “No sensible man goes snooping about St. Giles unless he’s got something to gain.”

  “Well,” Nicholas sighed with feigned regret, “human nature being what it is, you are absolutely correct, Mr. Boyle. You see, I believe the gang who tried to capture Mouse is responsible for a string of murders committed some time ago. Women died with their throats slit from ear to ear, and the killer was never found.”

  “A common occurrence here, sir.”

  “One of those women was my concern. If you were me, Boyle, what would you do?”

  The tavern owner crossed his arms over his chest, his raspy voice begrudgingly acknowledging Nicholas’s right to revenge. “I’d be doing just what you are—looking for the name of the man who’d done the killing. Even if it meant I might get myself killed in the process.”

  “Then you know I won’t stop searching and asking questions,” Nicholas replied.

  “I’d be endangering myself if I talked,” Boyle said pointedly. “If they found out it was me what told you …” He paused, looking down and shaking his head. “St. Giles gangs aren’t known for their f
orgivin’ nature. I’d be a marked man.”

  Nicholas could have lied to make himself look more sympathetic. He could have pretended that he knew little of how gangs operated or denied the chances of Boyle’s betrayal would likely get back to the gang.

  He lied every day. To himself. To others. Even those he cared most for—especially those he cared most for.

  For some unknown reason, he did not want to lie to Boyle.

  “I know what I’m asking of you,” Nicholas answered soberly, “but I need the information. I’m willing to fight for it. If that makes me a bad man, so be it.”

  “It does not make you a bad man. It makes you an honest one.”

  Nicholas couldn’t remember a time when he had been called an honest man. It made what he was asking of Boyle even worse. “The name, Boyle.”

  “You’ll keep Mouse safe?” Boyle pressed. “Provide for him and make sure he don’t ever end up back in the rookeries?”

  “I will.”

  Boyle’s big frame shifted from foot to foot, the weight of the decision clearly hard to bear. He unfolded his stout arms and scrubbed at his face with both hands, looking up at the shed roof as though seeking divine guidance.

  He muttered a curse under his breath, and then looked back at Nicholas. “The gang you’re looking for is called the Kingsmen. They’re the ones that owned Mouse.”

  May 31

  BOW STREET OFFICES

  “If I may, you seem distracted today, Lady Sophia. Is there anything I might do to help?”

  Sophia looked up from her notes, the sheets of paper spread out on the table in front of her. Mr. Thomas Bean, the man in charge of the Bow Street Runners, sat at his desk across the sparsely furnished room, eyeing her with concern. Lettie’s words of warning had kept her up for much of the night thinking. There were many reasons to involve Bow Street in her mother’s case, and only one not to: Nicholas. She felt sure he would be very angry with her if she was to tell Mr. Bean about the Bishop.

  Beneath the covering of her green muslin gown and the fine cotton of her corset and chemise, Sophia felt her heart beat faster as she considered Mr. Bean’s question. She could hardly make decisions based on Nicholas’s moods.