Lord Ruin (32 page)

“Followed us.”

Cold fear rippled through him. “The man in the gig. Did he see you get into the carriage?”

“He must have. I’m sure he did.”

Ruan sat in perfect silence with his wife, watching dawn turn to morning. The sky softened from gray to silver. Birds began to sing, first just one or two, then more, then a riot of them. Another day begun. And he was utterly without hope.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “you must go to Cornwall.”

Ruan crumpled a letter from some ninny who claimed to have invented a method for turning brass to gold. He tossed it to the floor.

“Bad news?” Hickenson asked from the desk where he’d been taking Ruan’s dictation.

“If I had a shilling for everyone who hopes I am a fool, I’d own the bloody world.”

“I imagine so. Shall we continue?”

“Finish that last, and we’ve done for the day,” Ruan said even though there remained a dozen letters yet requiring a reply.

Hickenson bowed his head. “Your grace.”

Ruan left Whitehall for home and found the silence there unsettling. The void of Anne’s absence lay heavier yet on his rooms. With Dobkin absorbed in selecting a fresh cravat, Ruan pulled out his watch, feigning concern with the hour, then threw himself onto a chair and stared at the toes of his boots. Ten past five. Hours now since Anne left. By his reckoning she must be some thirty or forty miles distant from London. He had no desire to go anywhere tonight, though he was expected at half a dozen places. The gaping emptiness of Cywrthorn, of, indeed, the whole of London, without Anne was a small enough price for her safety.

“Your grace?”

He turned his head and saw Merchant at the door. “Yes?”

“An urchin, sir.”

“An urchin?”

“A grubby child who claims my Lord Bracebridge sent him.”

“Is he still here or have you chased him oft?”

“No, your grace. He delivered a message and vanished.”

“Which would be?”

“That my lord the earl of Bracebridge requires you to meet him posthaste at the Three Swans.”

He shot to his feet, thrilled at the prospect of having something useful to do. “Dobkin!” he shouted. “My coat.” He didn’t wait for Dobkin’s help when the valet appeared. He just grabbed his coat, thrust an arm through the sleeve and was on his way.

A stocky fellow dressed in a ragged black cloak and hat waited outside the hell. He thought he recognized him as one of Devon’s men. From his rough dress and scarred face, a companion from the days when Devon had made his living by the expedient of force and wit. “Where’s Bracebridge?”

The man performed an awkward bow, sweeping his hat off his head and scraping it inches from the filthy street. “This cove you’re after, he had another cove with him who dashed not the quarter hour before you was aware, your grace. A gentleman. Like yourself. A banging dimber, he was. His lordship followed him. You and me can take care of this one, no worries there, he says.”

“I say we end this business now and go after him.”

“No, no!” The man threw up a palm. “He’ll be fly then, and slip out the back for sure. You’re not the man to likely blend to the crowd here. There’s a fence there, easy enough to climb if a man’s in a desperate alarm.”

“I’ll cover the rear then. You go inside.”

“Afraid he’s seen my face, sir. Besides, his lordship wants us to bide our time and follow when he leaves. See where he goes to ground.”

Devon was probably right about that. “Likely take us straight to the fellow he’s working with.”

“Aye, your grace. That’s as may be.”

Ruan settled down to wait, along with his unnamed companion slinking into a dark corner. Three quarters of an hour passed. Tavern downstairs, gaming upstairs, whores up another floor. A steady stream of gentlemen and riff-raff patronized the tavern. They came in cold and left drunk. The gamblers stayed longer, but those who left were just as drunk as the others. “Here’s something,” said his companion when the door opened to let out another staggering customer. “There he is, by God.”

The man who came out had his hat pulled low and a grayish muffler wrapped several times around his throat. Bundled up against the cold, Ruan couldn’t be sure who it was. Perhaps Thrale. Perhaps not. “Let’s go.”

“Right behind you, your grace. Hup! Hup! Watch your step. He’s slipping away.”

He knew he’d been duped when he looked back after turning several corners onto increasingly dank streets. Expecting to see Devon’s man, instead, he saw nothing but swirling fog.

“Damn it to hell.” Ahead, the street was only briefly empty. From the noisome mist, a dark shape emerged, coming toward him. The shadow firmed then divided into two shapes. Two men bent on murder, Ruan guessed. He spread his fingers, tensing then releasing them. He drew in a breath and was ready.

The skirmish didn’t last long, for, thinking themselves undetected and with the advantage of surprise and number, the men attacked with more enthusiasm than precision. Though Ruan suffered a hard blow to the midsection, he drove the heel of his palm hard into a face. That one staggered back, clutching his nose. He whirled and lashed out with an elbow to the cheek. The other flailed madly, screeching when he saw his companion flee. Ruan got a handful of his coat but the man jerked free and escaped into the dark, leaving Ruan holding only a tattered coat.

Quickly, knowing he risked another attack by staying, he rifled the pockets. He found a knife. Several, actually. He took the sharpest and slid another into his boot. The pound note in another pocket likely represented the man’s fee for murder. And, Ruan decided, a fair one for the night’s work. Off in the distant, he heard shouts. Whether they came from his attackers screwing up choler enough for another go at the price on his head, he did not stay to discover.

As he walked, he held the larger knife like a man who would know what to do with it. Which he did. He moved as rapidly as the filthy streets permitted. Mayfair was a lifetime away on foot, and he didn’t expect he had a prayer of finding his carriage and horses nor any transportation but his boots. No hack who valued his gig would look for a fare in these streets. It’d be an invitation to robbery.

A whore who could think of only one reason for a man of quality to be out alone fell into step with him just long enough to discover her mistake. He brooded while he walked. He’d been tricked on more than one level. Flat out tricked. As for the man responsible for duping him, who but Thrale would even know of his progress in discovering the culprits? He wondered if tonight another woman would pay for his stupidity.

When he stalked into Cyrwthorn, he hardly looked at Merchant. “Has Bracebridge called?” With a flick of the wrist, he tossed Merchant the knife.

“No.” He caught the knife handily.

“Aldreth?”

“No, your grace.” With equal ease, he snatched Ruan’s hat and gloves from the air.

“Any letters?” He refused to think of what might have happened to some young innocent. Not until he had word to the contrary. “Has anyone called? Anyone at all?”

“No, your grace.”

“Send three or four men to the Three Swans.” Ruan flew up the stairs with an energy borne of pure frustration. Merchant valiantly kept pace. “They’re to find my phaeton and my horses. Have them fetch the constable if necessary.”

Merchant spoke between gasps. “Your—grace.”

“Close up the house.”

“Sir?”

“I’m going to Fargate Castle—” Three rapid-fire blows on the front door stopped Ruan in his tracks.

“Are you at home?”

“Find out who it is.”

Merchant drew a deep breath and went downstairs. Ruan waited where he’d stopped, nearly to the first landing. He heard voices, recognized Merchant’s calm tones. The other he couldn’t make out except that it was a man’s voice. Another husband or father beside himself with worry?

Merchant returned. “The marquess of Thrale.”

“Indeed?” He said the word in a voice so arid desert sands would have seemed moist. As cautious as the marquess had been so far, he would have expected a letter or another boy culled off the street. He wondered what sort of game Thrale thought he played.

Merchant inclined his head toward the front door. “He says he has your carriage.”

“Indeed.”

“Furthermore, he is under the impression you have been injured, though I assured him you are in perfect health.”

“Thank you, Merchant. I’ll see him in the Red Salon.”

“Shall I bring coffee, your grace?”

“Please.” Ruan went to his rooms. When he was dressed in buff trousers—just the sort of daring attire Lord Ruin would adopt—shining boots, white cravat, striped waistcoat, but without the cutaway frac for now, he went to the Red Salon, a man, to all appearances, just in from a night of festivity.

Thrale jumped up. “I must say I am relieved to see you well.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“How did you get home?”

He lifted a hand. “Why, I walked.”

Thrale pursed his lips. “You’re not injured?”

“As you can see, I am in the pink.” He went to the sideboard. “May I offer you something? Brandy? Claret? Both are excellent.” The door opened. “Ah. Here is Merchant with coffee. My cook makes an excellent coffee.
Comme les Turques
, he calls it.” He poured for Thrale first then himself.

Thrale breathed in the aroma of Jubert’s thick coffee, then took an experimental taste meant to be no more than polite. As Ruan expected, Thrale’s eyes opened wide. “Excellent indeed, Cynssyr.”

“Why are you here?”

“Well, to be honest, I thought you might have come to some mischief. You’re certain everything’s well?”

“More sugar?”

“No.”

“May I ask, my Lord Thrale, what were you doing in that part of town?” He forced all emotion from him. There wasn’t anyone better at game-playing than the duke of Cynssyr. “I didn’t take you for one to visit the hells.”

“Hardly a hell.” Thrale’s eyebrows shot up in what appeared to be genuine confusion. “It wasn’t so far from here, as it happens, and—”

“Where, here?”

“The mews behind Lynlear Close. Only saw it by accident. Just caught my eye, the oddness of it, I suppose, and I went to have a look.”

“How the hell did my phaeton get there?”

Surprised mid-sip, Thrale made a face. “Not your phaeton. Your coach. Big hulking black thing.”

“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, Thrale. You couldn’t have found one of my coaches anywhere but here.” A sense of foreboding turned his mouth to chalk. “There’s some mistake.” Ruan rang for Merchant. “Ah,” he said when the butler came in. “Thrale here tells me he’s found my coach. Who took it out and why?”

“The duchess, your grace.”

“Impossible. She’s halfway to Fargate Castle by now. In her own carriage.”

Thrale put down his coffee with such force the saucer broke in three.

“But, your grace—” Color drained from the servant’s face.

“I saw her off to Cornwall this early afternoon.”

“Yes. But, your grace, she went first to Portsman Square to make her good-byes to Lord and Lady Aldreth and her sisters. She’d hardly got to Oxford Street when the carriage broke an axle.” He drew himself up. “You were at Whitehall by then. I understood, your grace, that you felt she must leave London without delay.”

“You understood correctly.”

“I took the liberty of sending her your father’s carriage.”

Ruan spun on his heel and walked a straight line from the fireplace to the exact midpoint of the room. He felt like he’d just walked into a furnace. The sensation was gone in an instant, replaced by bitter cold. He wasn’t even aware of his cup hitting the table with a thud. Anne. Oh, God, Anne.