Authors: Charis Michaels
Trevor had fallen out of the habit of wearing his knife since he’d left Greece, but he’d strapped it to his belt today, in case the meet with Straka got out of hand. How convenient for this alternate purpose.
“You do not want this,” he warned them, brandishing the knife with practiced ease.
The fat brother, the one with the cane launched first, swinging the cane high and bringing it down into the space where Trevor would have been.
Whoosh.
Fats staggered with the force of his missed mark. While he danced, Trevor struck, slashing his sausage arm and splitting the sleeve. The Limpett cried out, and Trevor spun and kicked. One, well-placed boot knocked the fat one’s feet from beneath him. He came down with a thud. His cane rolled against the wall.
The other brothers skittered back. Trevor widened his stance, knife out.
“Who’s next?” He drawled. “You want to brawl in the hallway like common criminals? I’ve done far worse for far less reason. Come on, then.” He made a beckoning motion with his hand.
Eli was already backing away, clasping Idelle by the arm and urging her down the stairs. The small brother slunk along the wall behind them. The downed fat brother scrambled to his hands and knees. Only the bald one and the Maypole remained, heckling the others for cowardice, continuing to come.
Trevor did not make them wait. He lashed out, taking the bald one by the neck and driving him against the banister of the stairwell, leaning him over open air.
The tall one leaped to assist, pouncing on his back, but Trevor reared back and drove the knife down, lodging it into Maypole’s skeletal thigh. Maypole jerked, too stunned to scream. Trevor wrenched the knife free—now the man screamed—and whipped around to hold it to the throat of the brother against the banister.
He growled in the brother’s ear. “
Now
, you will go. You’ll take the old woman and your brothers, collect your things, and board a ship conveying you anywhere but here. If ever you return, you will not live to tell the tale. Do you understand?”
The bald one sputtered. “You cannot mean—”
Trevor bit the knife between his teeth, looped one arm behind the other man’s knees, and held him upside down from the banister.
A door open on the floor beneath them, and a young couple came to the stair railing and looked up.
Trevor ignored them. “
Do you
understand?” he repeated, louder, moving the knife from mouth to hand.
The couple below them hurried back inside.
Another brother detached from the clutch on the stairs and began to edge along the wall.
Trevor hurled the knife, planting it in the plaster, inches from the American’s shoulder. He scuttled back.
“Touch that knife,” Trevor said, “and three more come flying, right behind it.” It was a lie, but the American went still.
He turned back to the dangler, bracing with both arms to give him a threatening shake. Suddenly, he heard footsteps from floors below. They echoed up the stairwell in a frantic clatter. There were shouts. Someone called his name.
Trevor looked down. It was Joseph. He mounted the stairs in the lobby and raced upward at a breakneck pace, taking the steps two at a time. Behind him were two men, also running. The angle was bad, and Trevor couldn’t see their faces.
Something was wrong.
The plan had been for Joseph to detain Straka in Hampstead until Trevor could arrive. The exchange was set to take place there in Hampstead. Not in Knightsbridge. Not in proximity to Piety.
The Limpett brother beneath him squirmed and gave a yelp. Trevor jerked him from the banister and hauled him up, nose-to-nose.
“Go.”
His voice held a grave threat. “Am I clear?” The Limpett sputtered and sobbed, and Trevor tossed him to the floor.
He checked again for Joseph. The boy looked up in the same moment and shouted, “Oy, Trev! Yer lordship! He’s here!”
Trevor’s heart stopped.
“Here?”
Down the hall, an old woman opened her door and peeked out. The stricken look on Trevor’s face must have been enough to frighten her back inside. She retreated and slammed the door behind her.
Joseph scrambled up another flight. “He didn’t even consider going to Hampstead, Trev!”
Trevor swore viciously. He looked at Piety’s door. He swore again.
Joseph called up again, “When Iros told him you came here, he struck out for Knightsbridge, too. I barely beat him here to give you two minutes’ warning.”
Trevor heard more scuffling—
new
scuffling—and sawing breath. He looked over the rail. Another set of boots plodded up the stairs. Slower. Heavier. A fat, hairy hand could be seen squeezing the railing.
Joseph was nearly to the top. “They are here. Behind me. Iros. Demetrios. Straka himself.”
The boy careened around the final flight of stairs, running as if his life was at stake. He swore when he saw the Limpetts. “What are they doing here?”
Trevor waved the question away.
Joseph was bent over at the waist, panting. “I need a faster horse.” He was proficient in Greek, but he spoke in rapid English. The Greeks would struggle to understand. “Straka came here because he thinks the viscount gave you the mo—”
Trevor cut him off with a loud cough. He shook his head with a barely perceptible jerk.
Say nothing about the money
.
Joseph fell silent and slumped forward, gasping breath, his hands on his knees. Iros and Demetrios staggered up the last few steps.
Trevor’s mind spun. The exchange
could not
happen here. He would not endanger Piety.
Modify
, he ordered himself. So far, everything that
could
go wrong,
had
gone wrong. But all was not lost. He could lead Straka away. He could tell him that there had been a delay in gathering the money. He would tell him he needed more time.
“Tryphon!”
A winded bellow came from two flights below.
Trevor squinted his eyes shut.
Oh, God.
Up and down the hall, doors opened and neighbors poked their heads out. Trevor gestured wildly for them to retreat, and they complied, thank God, sliding locks noisily in place behind them.
Straka boomed again, “Your boy is loyal, but he is not so smart.”
Joseph blustered, but Trevor grabbed him by the arm. “Rainsleigh must know that the exchange is no longer in Hampstead, Joseph. You’ll have to go to him before he sets out and explain it, just like you’ve told me.”
“But tell them
where
?” whispered Joseph. “Are they to come
here
?”
“No, it’s too close to Piety. I’ll lead him to my uncle’s house. In Henrietta Place. Find Rainsleigh and tell him the plan will unfold there.”
“But Trevor, they—”
“Tell them!”
His tone was emphatic. “Please. Joe.” He gave the boy a shove, sending him back to the stairs.
Joseph fled, careening past Straka as the old man rounded the topmost flight.
Straka appeared
determined
. Determined and furious. It was an unfortunate combination for the exchange they had planned. In this mood, nothing would escape his scrutiny. He might challenge the amount. He might change the deal altogether.
Bollocks
!
Trevor shot a warning look at the Limpetts who still cowered on the landing. He prayed they had the self-preservation to keep quiet and still.
“Straka,” he said. It wasn’t a greeting.
“The money,” said Straka in Greek, heaving up the last few steps. “I have been kept waiting long enough.”
Idelle Limpett chose that moment to interject. “Who are these people, Falcondale? What is this foreign tongue?”
Straka regarded her with a scowl, but he was distracted by Trevor’s knife. It was still stuck in the wall, handle out. He lumbered to it and wrenched it free. “Is this the knife I gave you, Tryphon? You cannot throw it into plaster; it ruins the tip.” He slid the weapon into his own belt.
“Straka,” Trevor said in Greek, suddenly inspired, “would you consider the loan of your muscle? I’ve an errand for which I could use Iros and Demetrios.”
“Eh? What errand? But where has your own boy gone?” He squinted down the stairs after Joseph.
“No, this calls for more than he can manage.” He crossed his arms and pointed one finger. “I am in need of removal of this family of Americans swindlers.”
Straka turned, scrutinizing the Limpetts once more.
“But what are you
saying
, Falcondale?” demanded Idelle. “Stop speaking gibberish!”
Trevor ignored her. “They’ve been
in my way
for quite some time. And now, I believe they have designs on your money. I was only just tossing them out. My enthusiasm made me careless with the knife.”
Straka looked at him, and then back at the Americans. His face lit with delight. “Should Demetrios kill them?”
Trevor forced himself to chuckle. “Tempting, but no. What I want is to secure them on a boat, sailing away. I’ve impressed upon them never to return, but I haven’t the time to make sure they actually set out. You and I have business, obviously, of which they are not a part.”
“You want Iros and Demetrios to tie them inside a boat and set them out to sea?”
“Also tempting,” said Trevor. “If my mind worked as yours does, I would never find myself in need of borrowed brawn. But, again, no. Can your men simply escort them to their lodging, expedite their packing, and see them to the port called Tilbury? Just south of London Bridge? There will be any number of ships there on which they may arrange passage. Here,” he said, reaching into his purse. He removed a handful of coin. “For the hackneys or a carriage. Whatever is the most expedient.”
Straka took the money and dropped it in his own pocket and then nodded to Iros and Demetrios. Without hesitation, the two beefy Greeks began herding the Limpetts down the stairs.
Trevor watched them go. “These gentleman,” he called in English, “will see that you are packed and boarded on an outbound ship. I would not challenge them, if I were you.”
There was the usual bluster and scuffle, but Iros did not hesitate to shove the Limpett nearest him down the next step. The brother landed on all fours with a yelp.
Idelle gasped. “I will not be subjected to abuse by a foreign thug. Do you hear me? What sorts of man consorts with people such as this?”
“I could say the same of my affiliation with you, madam.”
She shouted back, “I knew you were no earl.”
“Your knowledge of me is about to broaden colorfully. These men would just as soon slit your throats as bother with you, so I’d do as they say, if I were you.”
To punctuate his statement, Iros drew his revolver, cocked it, and shoved the barrel between the shoulder blades of Eli Limpett.
After that, opposition ceased. They went without objection, nearly running to stay ahead.
Straka chuckled and then turned a more serious eye. “My money, Tryphon.”
Trevor hedged. “I have it, but we cannot do business here. This is a building of private residences, none which I own. I’m a visitor, and we’re likely to be escorted from the premises. I’ve just endured a noisy conflict with the Americans. I should like to remove our business elsewhere. To my house. In Mayfair.”
“The money is here, Tryphon. I take it here.”
“No,”
said Trevor again, an exaggeration of patience. “We make the exchange anywhere
but
here. I need only collect my things, and we can find other—”
“You
will
pay me, now, Tryphon. I’ve remained in your damp, frigid country long enough. The money.
Now
.”
Trevor sighed. “And what if I told you the money is not here?”
“Then you would
lie
. And I would tear this building apart to find it.” He looked up and down the hall. “Which door is it?” He lumbered past. “You have remained here for days. My spies have grown bored, watching this building. When you left the viscount this morning, you came
here
. Come, Tryphon. Please tell me I taught you better than this.”
“Straka,” Trevor said warningly, “I will not give you one gold coin in the proximity of my wife.”
“So you say. Well, perhaps I will take it myself.” He squinted at the door behind Trevor. He reached out.
Trevor lashed out, aiming for the old man’s thick arm but catching only the billowy sleeve of his kaftan. Straka laughed and shrugged it off. He reached again for the doorknob. Trevor dropped the fabric and lunged, taking hold of his beefy shoulder instead. He was just about to haul him back, to threaten him, to increase the money, to beg him, when they heard a female voice.
“Falcondale?”
Trevor froze.
“Falcondale?”
Piety.
Oh, God, no
.
Trevor looked up. The door to her apartment was cracked, ever so slightly, and her head poked out.
“Trevor?” she called again, searching his face. Her eyes were wide and frightened. She wore a pale-pink dressing gown. The long, heavy coil of her braid swung beside her chin like a rope.
Oh, God.
Straka smiled as his greedy eyes moved up and down Piety’s body. Recognition dawned. He opened his mouth to laugh—or speak or bloody sing—but Trevor would not allow him to take another step in the direction of his wife. He jabbed, sending the old man sprawling with a fist to his windpipe. It was a maneuver he learned from Janos, himself. Worked every time.
“P
iety, get back,” Trevor shouted. “Close the door and lock it behind you!”
Before him, the old man reeled and then, miraculously, regained his balance and charged with a bellow of rage.
Trevor sidestepped, evading him, but only barely. Trevor darted nearer to the door, trying to force Piety inside. Behind him, the old man drew a knife.
“Trevor!” Piety screamed. It was the last thing she managed to say before he pushed her inside, grabbed the doorknob, and slammed the door shut.
“Lock it!” She heard him shout from the hall. She blinked at the closed door.