Burning for the Baron

by Alyson Chase

  The Scotsman jutted his chin towards Max’s crotch. “So do you.”

  Confound it, he’d been semi-hard all afternoon, thanks to his disappearing manager. He had hoped his friends wouldn’t take note. Or would be polite enough not to discuss it. He glared at his friend. “Spend a lot of time looking at my Thomas, do you?”

  “Only when the wee bit seems eager to greet me.” Dunkeld yawned.

  “It’s not you it wants to greet.”

  Dunkeld opened that one damn eye again. “Do tell. Has one of the lady-birds at your new investment caught your fancy? That doesn’t seem like you.”

  Max frowned but let that one slip past. “No lady-bird has drawn my interest.”

  His friend crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “The widow, then. That makes more sense.”

  “What the deuce are you talking about? What makes sense?”

  Dunkeld tipped his head. He wore his hair unfashionably long, gathered in a leather thong at the nape of his neck. The tail slipped over his shoulder. “You have higher standards than chasing a doxy. Not that you won’t get your prick wet in a prostitute, but your mistress must be of a higher caliber.”

  “My prick doesn’t discriminate.” Max tightened his jaw. He was growing tired of the conversation.

  “No, but your heart does.” Dunkeld held up his hands as though expecting an attack. “You’re always searching for the better life, one filled with perfect people doing perfect things. You’re a dreamer. A suffering and noble widow you can save is right in your shire.”

  “I am not a dreamer.” And why that word sounded like an insult, he didn’t know. “I see life how it is. Every dirty, fucking bit of it.”

  “Yes.” Was that pity in his friend’s eyes? “And you always try to burn it clean.”

  Fingering the flint in his coat pocket, Max gritted his teeth. The problem with friends was that they knew him too bloody well. Understood his fascination with fire had deep roots. That he craved the fresh start that flames always brought.

  It was his own fault. He’d set himself up as the torch in their group, using fire to smoke out the cutthroats the Crown sent them after. If he took a little more joy in the act than necessary, was that any of his friends’ business?

  The arrival of another hackney saved Max from finding a response. “Pinkerton’s finally got his arse here. Let’s go.” He pushed out of the carriage and crossed the street, not needing to see if his friend followed. Dunkeld would. Max shot a look down the road but didn’t see Rothchild. Unlike the Scotsman, the earl was prodigious at going unnoticed.

  The door to the coffee house swung open before him, and two men stepped out. Max caught the door before it closed. Pushing into Garraway’s, he made a mental picture of the room with one glance. Pinkerton sat alone at a small table in the corner, looking down and blushing furiously when he saw Max enter.

  Montague and Summerset lounged at a table by the window, two servings of meat pies half-eaten before them. They didn’t spare him a glance.

  A serving girl bustled past. She jerked her head towards the center of the shop. “Get yourselves a free table. I’ll be by in a jiff to take your order.”

  Max nodded, the brim of his hat slipping over his eyes, and he swept the bloody thing off in disgust. He could never find one big enough for his head; instead, the blasted things perched daintily on his curls rather than settling sturdily over his crown. Tapping the brim against his thigh, he weaved through the crowded coffee house, Dunkeld at his heels. He tossed the sodding hat onto an empty table and dropped into a wood chair.

  Dunkeld settled himself more gently and rested his elbow on the table which tilted under his weight. He sat up, and the table rocked back into place. “Feck me, this won’t do.” He bent over, looking at the legs, trying to determine which one was uneven.

  “Leave it be.” Max lounged back in his chair. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “How can I leave it be? It will distract me the whole time.” He waved over the serving girl. “Miss, do you have a paper?”

  “Some coffee and a couple of those meat pies would be appreciated, too,” Max said. His stomach rumbled agreement. That luncheon had been too liberal with the cakes and not enough with the meat dishes. But the workers at The Black Rose had seemed to appreciate it.

  The serving girl pushed a lank strand of hair off her cheek with the back of her hand and nodded. She took off with admirable speed.

  “Now, about this widow.” Dunkeld propped an ankle on one knee. “What do we know about her?”

  “We know how she became a widow. And whose fault her current matrimonial state is.”

  The door banged open and three boisterous young swells burst through. One had his friend in a headlock, laughing his arse off.

  Pinkerton flinched at the noise. The American was nervous, and Max could only hope he was always nervous when he met with Zed’s man. Otherwise, things could turn to shit very quickly.

  “You forget who was with you,” Dunkeld said quietly. “You had no way to know the wind would shift. You’ve set the same fire a hundred times, and it’s never burned out of control. You can’t keep putting yourself through the mill over it.”

  Max’s eyes burned, but he looked at his friend evenly. “I started a fire that killed a man. That made my manager a widow. I hardly think a little self-condemnation is amiss.”

  And he still questioned that wind. It had been the only possible explanation for why the fire had spread to the building next door. To the clock shop. But he hadn’t noticed any breeze that night. And he’d checked. He always did.

  The Crown had considered that night a success. The evidence against a government official had been destroyed, and the man responsible for gathering it scared into submission. Liverpool had nary blinked an eye at the death of a Cit. Only Colleen had cared that her husband had died. Colleen, and Max.

  The serving girl returned with two mugs of steaming coffee and a copy of The Times folded under her arm. She placed the coffees down, making the table rock, and handed Dunkeld the paper.

  “Many thanks, lass.” He folded the paper once more and shoved it under one of the legs. When he pressed on the tabletop again, it held steady. A small smile broke across his face, one that flattened when he turned back to Max.

  “We’ve all made mistakes in our line of work.” Dunkeld palmed his mug. “None of us have clean hands. You just have to think that the good you do makes up for the harm.” His gaze turned steely. “We do more good than harm.”

  They told themselves that. It was the only way to sleep at night. But did Max believe it anymore? He didn’t know. And he no longer wanted to wrestle with his conscience over everything he did. His retirement was the best idea he’d had in a long time. A simple life lay in front of him. One where fire was only used to bring warmth and pleasure, but never destruction.

  Movement from the table next to their friends caught Max’s eye. A man with more grey in his hair than brown lay down his paper and stood. He picked up his mug, sauntered across the room to Pinkerton’s table, and took a seat.

  The American gave the newcomer a shaky smile. Pinkerton must have made some jest that only he found amusing. He broke out into loud guffaws but the newcomer remained stone-faced.

  “Your man isn’t going to make it,” Dunkeld said. “He doesn’t have the stomach for the double deal.”

  He had stomach enough to threaten to cut a woman’s throat. But, yes, looking at the man, Max doubted he would have had been able to carry through on the act. Max knew from past experience just how gruesome a slit throat could be. He swallowed. The world would be a better place if all men were as squeamish as Pinkerton.

  “You don’t suppose Montague or Summerset are close enough to hear their conversation?” Dunkeld asked.

  “In this crowd?” Max shook his head. “I think Pinkerton is having a hard time hearing what the man is saying.”

  “I guess all we can hope for is that he will lead us to Zed. Or at
least one step closer.” Dunkeld sipped his brew and looked around for the serving girl. “Where are our pies? We could be here awhile.”

  “Or not.” Bringing his leg down, Max sat on the edge of his seat. The older man had grabbed Pinkerton’s forearm, shaking it around like a ragdoll. Something had made him unhappy. The man’s gaze slid around the room, sharp as a blade. Max made himself busy with his coffee.

  With a disgusted look at Pinkerton, the man drew to his feet and stormed from the coffee house.

  Max threw some coin on the table. “Looks like we’re up.” With a nod to Montague and Summerset, he and Dunkeld headed for the front door while their friends made for the back. Dunkeld made a quick detour and hit the exit with two pies in his hand.

  “What?” the Scotsman said at Max’s eye roll. “Following someone isn’t any easier on an empty stomach.” Passing a meat pastry to Max, Dunkeld strode out onto the street towards their carriage.

  Zed’s man was climbing into a hackney.

  Dunkeld said a few words to the driver of their carriage and nodded his head at the hackney Zed’s man had entered. Their driver, a man they’d used before for such tasks, nodded and clutched the reins to the horses tightly.

  Dunkeld climbed into the carriage. “I don’t see Rothchild.”

  Max followed. “He’s here. Somewhere.” And with Rothchild, Montague, and Summerset on horseback, their chances of maintaining a line on their quarry were better than his and Dunkeld’s.

  They jolted into motion. Peering out the window, Max tracked the hackney. Their own driver maintained a respectable distance. The conveyance their quarry was in didn’t have a rear window, and it would be difficult for the man to discover he was being followed.

  The hackney coach turned down a side street, pausing by a cart weighed down with ale barrels, to let a street sweep cross before starting forward once more and rolling down the street.

  Max almost missed it. The man was good, he’d give him that. If the nag harnessed to the cart hadn’t done a little side-step, Max would never have looked anywhere but at the coach. He would have missed that the man had jumped out, using the cart to block himself from sight, and tucked himself behind the horse.

  “We’ve been spotted. He’s left the coach, and it looks like he knows someone is following.” Max leaned forwards and clenched his hands. “Let’s wait until we reach the corner and tell our driver to drop us off out of sight. If we double back, maybe we can still follow him without his knowledge.”

  “A wise plan.” Dunkeld pursed his lips. “If only Summerset would have thought of it, too.”

  “What?” Max whipped his head around to look out the opposite window. Their friend galloped towards the ale cart, making it clear that he was aiming for their target. Zed’s man peered over the horse’s back, saw Summerset charging, and took off down a back alley. Max cursed. “Jesus. I swear, sometimes John has more jewels on his boots than he does brains in his head.” Launching himself from the carriage while it yet rolled, Max hit the ground and stumbled. He straightened and took off after their fleeing quarry.

  Summerset maneuvered his mount around the pedestrians on the sidewalk. He reached the entrance to the alley and kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks. His horse took off, a spray of dirt flinging back from its hooves. Max’s long legs closed the distance, and he turned into the alley right behind Summerset.

  The man ahead got smart and began tossing barrels and empty crates in his path as he ran past the debris. Summerset urged his horse over and around, but lost time.

  Max reached his friend and shoved past the rump of his mount. Summerset looked down, eyes wide and glowing.

  Jumping over a barrel, Max yelled back over his shoulder, “This isn’t supposed to be a good time, arsehole. We’re here to catch the man.” Actually, they were there to follow and gather information, but Summerset had blown that out of the water. Max didn’t have time to give his friend snuff. Later. The yelling could come later.

  “Can’t we have both?” Summerset hollered from behind him.

  Max pounded ahead, ignoring him. Turning at the next street, he was joined by Montague on his black stallion.

  “He’s turning the next corner,” Montague said and kicked his heels in his horse’s sides. Man and beast flew down the street. Max pounded after them, regretting not having a horse of his own for this task. Chasing down suspects was getting harder and harder.

  Dunkeld rounded the corner ahead of Max, and Max was glad to see his friend’s face was red and sweaty. “Why can’t this bugger run in a straight line?” Dunkeld asked. “All these twists and turns are starting to make me lose my temper.”

  “Have you seen Rothchild?”

  “He was circling around, trying to get in front of the bastard.” Dunkeld jerked his head towards the next alley. “Onward?”

  Max took a deep breath and forced his legs to move. It shouldn’t be this hard to run down an aging man. But fear had the uncanny ability to make people stronger. Men could run faster and jump higher in moments of great distress. And being chased down by five angry men would distress anyone.

  They converged as one. It would have been beautiful, if it hadn’t been so deadly. Like a pack of wolves running down their prey. Their man darted down the wrong back alley, one without an exit, and Max and his four friends met at the alley’s entrance. They watched as their target jumped at the far wall, his hands stretching for the top edge, but never able to grasp it.

  Summerset, Montague, and Rothchild dismounted and tied their horses’ ribbons together. Grimly, Max strode towards the panicked man, his friends flanking him.

  The man jumped again, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the rough-hewn wood. When he slid to the ground, he left finger trails of blood streaking down the wall.

  “Give it up.” Max stopped ten feet away from him. “It’s over.”

  The man’s shoulders heaved. Slowly, he turned to face them. “What do you want?”

  “You know what we want.” Rothchild stepped beside Max. “Zed.”

  “You ask the impossible.” The suspect shook his salt-and-pepper head. Pulling a knife from an inside pocket, he pointed the blade at their group. “You will never stop Zed. Zed is eternal.”

  Max darted a look at his friends, his stomach growing tense. “Zed is flesh and bone, just like all men.” Stepping closer, he raised his hands, trying to look as unthreatening as possible.

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He brandished the knife, his hand shaking. “Zed is indestructible.”

  “Put the weapon down and let’s talk.” Max took another step forward. “The game is over for you, but we can come to some arrangement. We’ll make a deal.”

  “A deal! A deal with the devils who dare offend Zed.” An unholy light gleamed in the man’s eyes before his gaze went dreamy. “Zed seeks revenge. And what Zed seeks, Zed finds.”

  Max wasn’t sure what the man saw, but he didn’t think it was himself or his friends. A chill whispered down his spine. Something about the man’s behavior struck a chord, reminding Max of something. The scents of sandalwood and saffron …. Hot and humid nights …

  “There is no deal for me. I will never betray Zed.” The man pressed his back to the wall.

  “He’ll never know.” Max inched even closer. If he leaned forwards, he would just be able to touch the man’s hand. Or impale himself on the knife.

  “Zed knows everything. Zed is everything. Betrayal is not an option.”

  Max’s heart slowed to a sluggish pace. This man wasn’t just loyal; he was a fanatic, mad in his devotion. He would be a hard man to turn against his master.

  But he and his friends could be persuasive. Painfully so, if called upon. Max prayed it wouldn’t come to that. He didn’t think pressing a couple meridian points was going to cut it this time.

  “Come now, man.” Montague shifted to Max’s left, creating a semi-circle around their foe. “It’s over. Put down the knife and come quietly.”

  The man’
s eyes shifted, and a pit opened in Max’s stomach. He tensed his legs. Something was about to happen. He could always see it in their eyes.

  “Betrayal isn’t an option.” The man dropped his shoulders, his body relaxing, his face becoming as tranquil as the surface of a pond on a windless day. He looked up at the sky. “But I’m weak. I would break. I can’t let that happen.”

  Before Max inhaled his next breath, the man raised his knife and cut a red line across his throat.

  The blood was bright, stark against the man’s pale flesh. The thin line grew, bursting wide, large spurts of blood turning his neckcloth red.

  “Jesus!” Montague leapt forwards, grabbed him as he staggered. The dying man blinked, opened his mouth and collapsed into the duke’s arms. By the time Montague lowered him to the ground, he was dead.

  “What the sweet fucking arse was that?!” Summerset yelled.

  Blood streamed from the gaping wound, soaking into the ground and wending in their direction. Summerset jumped back and raked a hand through his hair. “I mean, what the fucking hell?”

  Montague pulled out a handkerchief and wiped blood from his hands. “The man was more terrified of Zed than he was of death.”

  “I think it’s worse than that.” Max eyed the body that used to house a soul. A man with hopes and dreams and fears and faults. Soon it would be nothing more than rotting flesh. “I don’t think he slit his throat because of fear. I think he did it for love.”

  “Love?” Dunkeld shrugged off his coat and covered the man’s upper body. “You think he was a molly?”

  “Not that kind of love.” A drop of rain plopped on the dirt in front of Max. Then another. Perfect. Just fucking perfect. He’d never been a fan of the rain. “I’ve only seen the same mad fervor twice before, when I was in Hindustan. Both times I was facing a phanseegur. A thug who would do anything for his goddess, Kali.”

  Dropping into a squat, Max made quick work of checking the man’s pockets. Found nothing. “He was willing to do absolutely anything for his master. For Zed. And that presents us with a huge problem.”