The doorman’s eyes flickered edgily. He handed the money back to Patrick. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry.” He folded his arms across his thick chest. A peal of laughter rose up from one of the gambling tables.
Patrick clenched his jaw. “You can’t help me? Or you won’t?”
“I ain’t stupid enough to help you.”
Patrick exchanged glances with Edmund. “How much money?” he asked the doorman. “How much will it take to make you speak?”
“Didn’t you hear me?” he hissed. “I don’t know nothing. I can’t help you.” He turned away. “Get the hell out of here.”
Edmund lurched forward suddenly, ramming his fists against the doorman’s chest. “Listen, you sly bastard,” he hissed. “My friend needs answers. And you’re going to bloody well provide them.”
“Get your damn hands off me.” The doorman swung a wild fist, catching Edmund beneath the eye. He fell backwards, clattering into the wall with a grunt. Patrick grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. Shoved Edmund up the stairs and out of the club.
As he turned to leave, the doorman wrenched a hand around the top of his arm.
“The Ghost,” he said. “I only ever heard of him by name. He’s never shown his face here. You’re looking in the wrong place.”
“Where should I be looking?” Patrick asked breathlessly.
The doorman shook his head, his steely silence returning. Patrick gave him a short nod, then hurried upstairs after Edmund.
He found his friend leaning against the wall of the gin shop, trying to catch his breath.
“Bloody hell, Featherstone,” said Patrick. “Where did that come from?”
Edmund spat out a line of spittle. “I ought to have punched him back.”
Patrick clamped a hand over Edmund’s shoulder, helping him stand. “No. No, you most definitely should not have punched him back.”
The two men began to walk back toward the street. Patrick stopped. A dark, unmarked carriage was sitting outside the gin shop in front of the Red Queen. Three men had formed a chain and were passing ankers from the coach to a door on the other side of the gambling den.
Patrick eyed Edmund. “Smugglers?”
Edmund pressed his back against the wall. “Looks that way.”
Patrick poked his head out from behind the gin shop, straining to get a better look. The back of the carriage was loaded with neatly-stacked barrels. Passersby skirted the coach, giving it little more than a fleeting glance.
Patrick watched until the last of the ankers had been carried inside the Red Queen. He began to creep toward the carriage.
“What are you doing?” Edmund hissed.
“Go home,” Patrick whispered. “Get yourself cleaned up. Get a little rest.”
“Don’t be mad. How many times do I have to tell you? Whatever you’re up to, I’m coming with you.”
Patrick shook his head firmly. “Not this time, Featherstone. This is a job for one.” And before Edmund could argue, he raced forward and leapt into the back of the carriage. He buried himself in the shadows and held his breath.
Chapter 34
The coach began to move, lurching from side to side as it gathered speed. Huddled on the dusty floor, Patrick pressed a hand to the wall to keep his balance. Jolts shot up his spine as the cart rattled over the cobbles.
He could hear the three men murmuring to each other in the box seat. Couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Finally the carriage began to slow. Not wanting to be discovered, Patrick threw open the doors and leapt from the back of the coach before it stopped moving. He landed heavily on his knees, pain shooting through his legs. He scrambled to his feet.
The air felt damp, and he could smell the pungent breath of the river. He could just make out the dark shape of ships’ masts reaching into the night sky.
I’m at the docks. East India, perhaps.
He couldn’t be certain.
This made sense, of course. If The Ghost had his syndicate delivering smuggled goods, they would likely have arrived by sea.
Patrick glanced back at the carriage. It had come to a stop outside an old warehouse. The men who had driven it were climbing from the box seat and making their way inside. Keeping to the shadows, Patrick followed.
He waited until the men were inside, then peered through a crack in the worn wooden door. A fourth man was waiting inside the warehouse. He looked older than the others, close to fifty perhaps, with long gray hair in a tail at his neck and a waistcoat straining across his middle.
Patrick’s heart began to thud.
The Ghost?
“Do you have the payment?” the older man asked the others. One of the men dug into his pocket and handed over a pouch. “The Ghost is impatient for this,” he told them. “Said you ought to have made this delivery two nights ago.”
“Soldiers have been sniffing around the place,” said one of the men. “The Ghost want his whole operation uncovered?”
The older man hummed noncommittally. “I’ll be sure this finds its way to him.” He pocketed the money.
Patrick let out his breath. So, the old man was not The Ghost. But these smugglers were a part of his syndicate. So was George Thorne.
This Ghost was involved in far more than just threatening Patrick for money.
What have I gotten myself involved in? And what have I done to this underworld boss to make him want to destroy my life?
Chapter 35
“Have you been boxing again?” Catherine asked Edmund at breakfast. An enormous purple bruise was swelling at the top of his cheek. His hair was uncombed and his eyes were underlined in shadow. He looked like he’d stumbled in from the prizefighting ring.
“Boxing,” said Edmund. “Yes, that’s it.” He reached for the coffee pot and poured himself an enormous cup.
“With Lord Ramshay?” Catherine tried to sound off-hand, but at the mention of his name, her words stuck in her throat. In spite of herself, the image of Patrick Connolly charging around the boxing ring made her strangely breathless. She forced the thought away.
Edmund nodded. “With Ramshay, yes. That’s right.”
She gave him a short smile. “I thought you would have learned your lesson after last time.”
Aunt Cornelia sashayed into the room, letting out a gasp at the sight of her son’s face.
“Oh Edmund,” she gushed. “Whatever has—”
“Boxing,” he said shortly. “With Lord Ramshay.”
“I see.” Aunt Cornelia sat and nodded to the footman to serve her tea. “I really do think you ought to stay out of the boxing ring, Edmund.” She sipped her tea. “I’m sorry to say it, but I just don’t think you’re made for the sport. Sport.” She corrected herself with a flap of her hand. “It can hardly be called a sport now, can it? There’s nothing sporting about grown men thrashing each other with their fists, is there?” She looked at Catherine for support.
“No Aunt,” she said obediently. “Nothing sporting about it at all.”
She glanced at her cousin. There had been something different about Edmund of late. Catherine could not quite determine what it was. Something about the energy he seemed to be constantly exuding, or that shine in his eyes that was bordering on wildness. Whatever it was, Edmund seemed more alive.
Catherine wondered if he had taken a lover.
“Is something happening?” she asked him bluntly, once Aunt Cornelia had departed for her dressing room.
Edmund raised his eyebrows. “Whatever do you mean?”
Catherine finished her tea. “You just don’t seem yourself at the moment.”
“Oh. Don’t I?” He topped up his coffee, careful to avoid her eyes.
Yes. He’s definitely taken a lover.
Edmund flashed her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Everything is just fine, Cousin. There’s nothing for you to worry yourself over. Nothing at all.”
* * *
Patrick found himself pacing his parlor again. Smuggling sy
ndicates and the Red Queen. These things had featured in Catherine’s stories when she had told Patrick of her brother’s crimes.
Robert Barnet must know something, he thought.
Barnet had been silent and secretive when they had last visited him. He had the eyes of a man who was keeping things to himself. The eyes, perhaps, of a man who was afraid.
Patrick knew how that felt. He was afraid too—afraid of these men, of falling deeper into the underworld. Afraid of losing Catherine forever.
He needed to speak to Robert again.
* * *
“I know you have information that can help me, Lord Bolmont,” said Patrick, hovering by the door of Robert’s cell. He had charged out of his parlor and made straight for the Lord Mayor’s office, before striding into the jail again.
Ought I mention Catherine’s name? Ought I tell him how much I care for his sister? Tell him I wish to solve this horrid mystery so I might give her a good life?
He decided against it. From what Catherine had told him, Robert seemed to care little about his sister’s well-being. Instead, he just said:
“I need your help. Please.”
Robert drew in a long breath. Today he did not seem quite so edgy. He stood in the center of the cell, instead of huddling at the back like a frightened animal. He looked past Patrick into the empty walkway. “You’ve come alone?”
“I have.”
Robert sighed again. He gave Patrick a small nod.
“The man named The Ghost. Do you know him?”
For a long time, Robert didn’t respond. Finally, he gave another nod. His eyes dropped to his grimy feet.
“Who is he?” Patrick pressed.
More silence.
“If he finds out I’ve been speaking with you, he’ll kill me,” Robert said finally. “He’ll manage it somehow, even in this place.” He knotted his hands together. “The Ghost was the one who got me thrown in here in the first place. Tipped off the authorities. Told them how to find me.”
“He’ll not find out you’ve been speaking with me,” Patrick promised. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Robert gave a cold laugh. “And how exactly do you plan to make sure of that? You’ve not a chance. The Ghost has eyes and ears everywhere.”
Patrick swallowed heavily. “How can I find him?”
Robert shook his head. “Don’t go looking for him, Lord Ramshay. Believe me. It will be the end of you.”
“I need to find him,” Patrick said fervently. “The man is destroying my life and I’ve no idea why. I want him stopped.”
“He can’t be stopped,” said Robert.
“Of course he can.”
“No. He’s too powerful.”
“He’s too powerful because everyone is scared to speak out against him,” said Patrick, his voice beginning to rise. “But he’s just a man, is he not?”
Robert said nothing.
“Lord Bolmont?”
“Yes,” Robert said finally, flatly. “He is just a man. But he’s one with no morals. No sense of decency. He’s a man who will do anything to get what he wants. Nothing is too low for him.” He pinned Patrick with anxious eyes. “And that is what makes him so powerful.”
Patrick began to pace. “Do you know how to find him?” he asked after a moment.
“He can’t be found.” Robert snorted. “The Ghost. The clue is in the name, Ramshay.”
Patrick shook his head. “You’re lying. You know how to get to him.”
Robert stared at the dirt-covered floor.
“Please, Bolmont,” Patrick pressed. “I’m desperate.”
Robert sighed. “But he likes to oversee the transactions when the deliveries of contraband come in.” His voice was low.
“The warehouse at East India docks,” said Patrick.
Robert nodded. “Yes. But you’ll only find him there when the ships arrive.”
“And how can I find out when that will be?”
Robert snorted. “You can’t. The goods are smuggled. No merchantman is going to list them on his cargo manifest.” He looked at Patrick witheringly. “You want to find The Ghost, you’ll just have to take yourself down to East India and pray you’re there at the right time.”
Patrick nodded. “All right. Yes. East India docks.” He held out a hand to Robert. “Thank you, Lord Bolmont. Truly.”
Robert accepted the handshake reluctantly. “Good luck to you, Ramshay,” he said darkly. “You’ll need it.”
Chapter 36
Patrick rang for his housekeeper. “I need you to bring me some things, Mrs. Morgan.”
“Of course, My Lord. What do you need?” The housekeeper glanced at the duffel bag Patrick had tossed onto his desk chair.
“A loaf of bread. And some cheese.” He rubbed his brow in thought. “Any other food that will travel.”
“Food, sir?”
“Yes.” He turned away, not wanting Mrs. Morgan to ask questions. He busied himself stuffing a worn gray scarf into the duffel bag. He had no thought of how long he would have to hide out at the docks, waiting for a delivery of The Ghost’s contraband. But he was not coming home until he had answers.
Mrs. Morgan gave a short nod and hurried downstairs. She returned several minutes later with a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth, along with a block of cheese and jar of potted meat. She handed them to Patrick and looked up at him with anxious eyes.
“Does this have something to do with those men?” she asked fearfully. “The ones who came to the house?”
Patrick didn’t speak at once. He shoved the food into the bag and buckled the straps. “None of us are safe here, Mrs. Morgan,” he said finally. “I intend to make sure that changes.”
The housekeeper’s hand shot out impulsively and snatched his wrist. Patrick glanced down in surprise and she pulled her hand away hurriedly. “I’m sorry, My Lord,” she mumbled. “But whatever you’re planning, you mustn’t do it. These men are terribly dangerous.”
Patrick eyed the woman carefully. Her eyes were glistening.
Does she know more than she is letting on?
“I know they’re dangerous,” he said. “That’s why I have to stop them.”
Mrs. Morgan’s voice wavered. “Please be careful, sir. I couldn’t bear to see anything happen to you.”
At the woman’s kindness, Patrick tried for a reassuring smile. “I’ll be careful, Mrs. Morgan. But this is something I need to do. I’ve no choice in the matter. These men need to be stopped.” He met her eyes pointedly. “You know that as well as I do.”
Mrs. Morgan pursed her lips together and lowered her eyes. She said nothing.
Patrick grabbed his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder, disappearing down the stairs before his housekeeper had a chance to respond.
* * *
It was dusk when he reached the docks. Workers were milling about the place, calling to each other and locking warehouse doors as their workday came to an end. Two ships sat at anchor at the edge of the river, their skeletal masts silhouetted in the orange light.
Patrick made his way toward the water, trying to get a better look at the ships. Were they the same vessels he had seen the last time he had been here? He couldn’t be sure.
He glanced around.
I need a place to hide.
Somewhere with a view of the river. Somewhere with a view of the warehouse the smugglers had entered the night before.
He eyed the row of storehouses. Each looked strikingly similar, with wide, barn-like doors and chipped white paint. He tried to remember where the carriage had stopped.
The second warehouse from the corner, he decided. Yes, that was it. That was the one to watch.
Drawing in his breath, he made his way toward it, his eyes darting in search of a hideout.
The narrow space between the warehouses would do. From there he could watch the river for approaching vessels. Could listen for anyone entering the warehouse.
But before he could turn down the narrow alley, he felt the air
move around him. He felt a sharp pain at the back of his head. And then there was black.
Chapter 37
“I’ll be gone only a week,” said Aunt Cornelia. “I’m so looking forward to the visit. I’ve not seen my sister in almost a year.”
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 20
