Night of the Scoundrel Read online

  “Stoic.”

  “I was going to suggest determined. But then I suppose all assassins should be both stoic and determined.”

  “Judith wasn’t an assassin.”

  “She was that day.”

  The desk creaked as King settled his weight on the corner. “She didn’t have a choice.”

  “No?”

  “Bethulia would have been destroyed, her people slaughtered. She saved those she loved.”

  “So she was a good person. A good person who was forced to do an awful thing to make sure she and those she cared for survived.”

  King opened his mouth and abruptly closed it again. “I know what you’re doing.”

  Adeline’s head tipped back, and she gazed at the painting for a long time in silence. “I envy Judith,” she said eventually.

  “Why?”

  She jabbed her knife in the direction of the painting. “She’s not alone.” She laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. “Her maid is there to help her kill Holofernes.”

  “Her maid only conceals and carries the severed head in her basket.”

  “A task Judith could have easily done,” Adeline replied. “The maid is not just carrying a head, she’s carrying some of Judith’s burden.” She was still gazing at the painting, a note of sadness creeping into her words. “Her maid already knew what it would cost Judith to kill a man, and this was the only way she could lessen that burden. She didn’t want Judith to be alone in her task.”

  King pushed himself off the desk and came to stand near Adeline, wishing he could smooth away the sorrow and weariness that had settled across her features. But to touch her now would be folly because he wouldn’t just offer her a token of comfort. He would take her in his arms and kiss away her sadness and tell her that everything would be all right. And that was absurd because inane platitudes never made anything all right, and they both knew it.

  “I’m tired,” she said. “Tired of fighting alone,” she clarified, looking up at him. “Of not belonging to anywhere or anyone. Of not having that one person who will put severed heads in baskets so that you don’t have to.”

  You could belong to me as I fear I already belong to you. He swallowed the words before he could make a fool out of himself.

  “You need a partner, then,” he said instead, trying to sound objective.

  “Are you volunteering to be that partner?”

  A peculiar ache settled like a vise around his chest. For one terrifying second, he wanted to say yes. He shook his head hard because there was no point in entertaining an idea that would never come to pass. “I must decline,” he said with all the cavalier wit he could muster. “As much as I might enjoy transporting severed heads, I hear the hours are wretched.”

  She tried to smile but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Then perhaps it’s just time for a change.”

  “The château.”

  “It was always my father’s dream that he could one day reclaim it. Make the vineyards productive again.”

  “And is that your dream too?”

  “Maybe. I’d like the chance to find out.”

  “And what does a goddess of retribution know about wine making?” he asked.

  “Almost nothing,” she admitted. “But in Italy and Spain I loved watching the men and women in the vineyards we saw. Entire generations of families that had the ability to coax something from the earth, to grow and care for it and make it into something wonderful…” She trailed off. “I envied that. I feel like maybe Falaise d’Argent is a place where I could find the remnants of my own familial roots and grow them there. Finally find the place I belong.”

  “And what happens to Adrestia?”

  She smiled faintly. “She’ll always be there. Just in case.”

  “You will have your home in France.” King spoke quietly, not remembering making the decision to tell her this. “Along with the man heading to Spain, I sent a man to Lille this morning. He’ll take care of the paperwork and payment for Falaise d’Argent to be yours.”

  Adeline looked up at him, her eyes wide. “But I haven’t found justice for you yet.”

  “You will. We will.”

  “But I—”

  “You’re here right now, and that’s enough.” But she wouldn’t be here forever. She would leave, and he would be alone—

  He rubbed his face with his hands. Jesus, he sounded positively maudlin.

  “The man who was with you in the churchyard. Was he your duke?”

  He stilled. “My duke?”

  “The one you spoke of—the one who was imprisoned with you?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You didn’t guard your emotion with him.”

  King didn’t answer right away. He had known that she would be there watching for the baron. He hadn’t considered how carefully she might have been watching him. “Yes.”

  “Does he know what the baron did?”

  “Enough.” But not all. No one knew it all.

  “Was he there to talk you out of murder?”

  “Yes. He’s a good man. Noble and honorable.”

  “And he really thought you might kill a baron in a churchyard full of witnesses?” she asked. She was making a clear effort to keep her voice light, but it sounded forced.

  “The thought had crossed his mind.”

  “Where was he today?” she asked. “Marstowe?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Adeline uncrossed her foot from her knee, her boot thumping softly to the rug. “I tried the Marstowe house in Hanover Square, but he wasn’t there.”

  “Perhaps he simply refused to answer the door.”

  “I didn’t knock, exactly,” Adeline told him. “The house was deserted, as were the stables in the mews around back. It was clear he does not yet have a staff, probably because servants and horses cost money. A groom further down did tell me that he’s seen Marstowe use Rotham’s carriage from time to time.”

  King frowned faintly.

  “There are reasonable explanations for his failure to meet you this afternoon, of course. Perhaps he was too drunk to remember the conversation last night. Or he was too much of a coward to meet you and is on another packet back to Virginia as we speak.” Very carefully she set her knife on the surface of the desk and stood. Without warning she brushed a stray piece of hair from his temple, her fingers lingering against his skin.

  “How did he kill Evan?” she asked.

  He had known the question would come eventually, had prepared answers in his head that would satisfy her without giving away too much. Yet right now, he couldn’t seem to think of those answers. Not with her silver eyes watching him, her touch unapologetic.

  “He hit him,” King heard himself say. “A blow to the head that killed him instantly.” King made a fist with his injured hand, and the resulting sting of the wound across his palm was a welcome pain.

  “Tell me why.” Adeline’s tone was businesslike, devoid of pity, and King was grateful for that small mercy.

  “Why?” he stalled.

  “Tell me why he killed Evan.”

  “To gain access to the title.” That was one of his prepared answers. An answer that kept the true horror of that day at a safe distance.

  Adeline’s hand dropped and her eyes glittered. “Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Lie to me.”

  King sucked in a breath. It was terrifying how easily she seemed to be able to read him. It was equally terrifying just how much of the truth he wanted to tell her.

  King swallowed. He would need to give her some of the truth. “Marstowe—” He stopped. God, after everything that he had seen, everything that he had survived, speaking of a single, violent moment in a life full of violence should not have been this difficult. He was letting weakness creep in again.

  King cleared his throat. “Marstowe had a fondness for young boys. I suspect he still does.”

  Adeline was silent.

  “Evan
resisted his advances. And paid for that with his life.” He braced himself for her response.

  “That’s better. Thank you for the truth.” Again there was no pity, just a steady acceptance of what he had told her.

  It took a moment for the realization to sink in that Adeline Archambault was only the third person to whom he had ever told that truth.

  And she was the first person to believe him.

  “Why didn’t you just tell me this at the beginning?” she asked.

  “Because I was there and I couldn’t stop it.” Not the whole truth, but close enough. “And I hate myself for not saving him.” That was real.

  “You were a child.”

  “That may have been an excuse then, but I am no longer a child. What he did to Evan he’ll have done to someone else. He’ll do it again now that he’s back. And I won’t allow that to happen,” he said roughly. He felt unaccountably shaky, as though he had just run a footrace to the point of exhaustion but a hundred stone had slipped from his shoulders along the way.

  Adeline picked up her knife and slid it back into the sheath at her waist. “I think we should have someone watch his house,” she said slowly. “To do a better job of keeping track of his movements. If he…if he tries to abuse another child, we will be able to stop him before it happens. You and I can’t do it by ourselves. Do you have men who might be able to observe in a rotation so that they are not so conspicuous?”

  King mentally berated himself for not doing this last night. Like everything else, he’d blame the oversight on the loss of his wits in the face of meeting a dead man. “Yes. I can have Smithers organize that.”

  “What will you tell him?”

  “Nothing. My men are not friends entitled to explanations. They are paid to obey orders and not ask questions.” King reached for the tasseled bellpull and gave it a yank. He’d tell Elliot to fetch Smithers immediately. The man would be in a hurry to redeem himself.

  A minute later, a sharp knock sounded on the study door before it opened. Smithers appeared in the doorway, key in his hand, his narrow gaze skidding away from Adeline. “Yessir?”

  King frowned slightly. It was Elliot’s responsibility to answer summonses, though Smithers’s presence saved some time.

  “I need you to watch a residence,” King said briskly. “From now until midnight. And I’ll need to arrange a scheduled rotation of men to continue after your shift. I want him watched every minute of every day.”

  “Of course.” Smithers nodded curtly. “Anything in particular we should be looking for?”

  “I need to know when the owner of that residence goes out, where he goes, and what he does. Do not let him out of your sight. You or any of the men are fully encouraged to intervene in the event that he puts another’s life or well-being in danger.”

  “Intervene?” Smithers asked. “To what degree?”

  “To whatever degree is necessary to make him stop.”

  “Understood.”

  King knew that Smithers did.

  “Who is it that you’d like us to follow?” Smithers inquired. “And where is the residence?”

  “Baron Marstowe,” King replied. “His address is in Hanover Square.”

  Smithers frowned, his sharp features becoming even more pinched. “I don’t understand, sir,” he said.

  “What is it you don’t understand?” King demanded. Smithers was usually one of his more incisive—

  “Marstowe was here this afternoon. Perhaps an hour ago?”

  King heard Adeline’s sharp intake of breath.

  “What did he want?” she demanded.

  Smithers glanced uneasily between King and Adeline, and the hairs on the back of King’s neck stood up.

  “What did he want, Smithers?” King repeated.

  “He said he was working with you to recover some money. He confirmed that you had met at the St James’s churchyard, but that you were in need of further assistance and had asked the baron to fetch Elliot.” His hands were clenching and unclenching. “Was that not the case?”

  “No,” King managed to say. “It is not the case at all.” He dragged in a laboring breath, feeling as though he were underwater. “Did Elliot go with him?”

  “Yes.”

  King couldn’t even answer. Jesus Christ. This was his fault. He didn’t know if Marstowe had come for the boy because he believed King had something to do with his missing fortune or if the baron knew who he truly was, or if he simply wanted Elliot for his own twisted purposes. Regardless, King had overplayed his hand. He should have kept his distance and let Adeline handle the baron.

  Or he should have simply killed Marstowe at the very beginning.

  “Sir, Elliot may be small, but he can take care of himself.”

  Smithers wasn’t wrong. Elliot was indeed small, and he could take care of himself provided he saw the danger coming. But he wouldn’t be looking for it. Not from Marstowe.

  Because King had admitted Marstowe to his auction, and by doing so sent a message to Elliot that the man need not be suspected of anything but being another greedy, predictable peer. The boy’s guard would be down, especially if he believed that he was on his way to assist King.

  Smithers was twisting his key in his hands. “I can send—”

  “No.” King would fix this. He would finish this. Once and for all. “Did the baron speak to you?”

  “No, sir. He was in the Duke of Rotham’s carriage and never came into the house. Spoke directly to Raul and Levrett at the gate.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Only that you had reached an agreement of twenty-five percent and that Elliot would help serve to recover his portion of that.”

  King put a hand out on the desk to steady himself. As on the first time he had come face-to-face with John Westerleigh in his study, dark spots danced before his eyes. He would take Marstowe apart piece by piece.

  “Where are they?” It was Adeline who was asking urgently. “Do you know where they would have gone? Where he would have taken him?”

  King’s vision abruptly cleared, an icy calm crystallizing in his veins. “Somewhere where there are no servants or staff to witness his depravity. Where he will have all the time in the world to indulge himself without disturbance.” He spun, heading for his stable. “He’ll have taken him home.”

  Chapter 12

  The ride from Helmsdale to Hanover Square was a desperate one, the thunder of the horses’ hooves and the screaming wind in Adeline’s ears blocking out the small voice in her head that was mocking her for her failures. Failure to be at the baron’s house at dawn, prepared to follow the man wherever he went. Failure to remain at the baron’s house after he did not show at the churchyard. She had failed in the single job she had been tasked with, and now a boy who had done nothing save possess an angelic face and a sense of loyalty was very much in danger.

  Evening had settled firmly upon the city, only moonlight and the pools of lantern light on the street corners offering respite from the darkness. Traffic became lighter as they wended their way toward the elegant squares of London, the wealthy not yet emerged for the evening’s entertainments and their servants having long ago completed their outdoor tasks in the daylight.

  Adeline’s cheeks were frozen, tears from the wind were crystallized in her lashes, and her fingers were aching with cold. King hadn’t said a word since he had bolted from his study, his expression dark and his eyes as glacial and remote as she had ever seen them. He led them unerringly toward Hanover Square, reining his horse to a stop in front of Marstowe’s home.

  The town house was the first one in a long row of pretty, terraced residences that formed a neat square around a central garden, but unlike its neighbors, no lights glowed from within, its windows dark and empty.

  King dismounted and took the stairs two at a time to the front door. For the second time that day, Adeline swiftly picked the lock and pushed the door open. They entered the cavernous interior, lit weakly by the gaslights from the pav
ement outside. King stalked through the entranceway and into the center of the hall, and a moment later, a candelabra flared to life. Holding it before him, he strode through the space, checking each darkened room, his steps as sure and unerring as if he had been here a thousand times before.

  “Upstairs,” he grated, but Adeline was already on her way up.

  Two flights of stairs, three floors of rooms, and all of them filled with nothing but the ghostly shapes of furniture sheeted against the dust. King and Adeline returned to the ground-floor hall.

  “The mews,” Adeline said.

  They hurried out the back of the townhome, into a fallow kitchen garden still covered with snow. Across the expanse of garden, the row of stables and living quarters above that belonged to the neighboring townhomes were as well lit as the houses themselves, both the animals and their keepers at their evening meals. The stable on the end that belonged to the baron was not blazing with light, though wavering candlelight glowed in a window.

  Adeline started forward, only to be caught by a hand on her arm.

  “You should go,” King said to Adeline. “You don’t have to be here.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are not an assassin. You don’t need to be a part of this.”

  “I am already a part of this.”

  King stared at her.

  “I’m not leaving you,” she said, repeating the words he had once said to her outside a gaming hell. Without considering what she was doing, she kissed him hard. “Besides,” she whispered, pulling back, “someone has to hold the basket with the severed head.”

  King caught her face with his, crushing his lips to hers with the same urgency she had felt, and then turned, hurrying over the snow-covered ground.

  A crash sounded from within the stable, and a string of muffled curses rose before it was abruptly cut off. Adeline and King were running now, yanking open the stable door and pounding down a dusty, stall-lined alleyway that hadn’t seen horses in years. At the far end of the stable, where the space opened up into a room that would have at one time housed harnesses and saddles, Marstowe had Elliot by the collar of his jacket, the boy struggling in his grasp.

  The baron struck him on the side of the head with his fist and Elliot staggered, going to his knees. He shook his head, and his small hand reached into the top of his boot, withdrawing something. He stumbled back to his feet, and in the weak light Adeline saw a blade flash forward. The baron screamed and released Elliot, lurching back against the wall, clutching his upper leg. Blood was blooming on the inside of his thigh at an alarming rate.