Chapter Eight
Grief and pain were laid bare in the duchess’s eyes, and the sight affected Rhys more than he’d thought possible. He’d centered his life around his family. For his mother and sisters, he would do anything, be anything. He’d not allowed anyone in, simply because he only had so much to give. Yet the duchess’s tearstained face pierced a shield he’d not even realized existed in his heart. When had he ever felt such turmoil for another who was not family?
Her eyes were huge and shadowed, and he would have no mercy for the bastard who made this woman so vulnerable and frightened.
“Take an hour,” he murmured. “Refresh yourself and then return to Meadowbrook Park. I’ll not fail you.”
A thrill of satisfaction burst through him when he noted the moment she decided to place more trust in him. Her pain mattered to him, but for now, he couldn’t ponder how she had become so important to him in so little time.
Her son had been missing for hours, and if Rhys did not move now, the boy could be lost to them forever. Rhys launched from her and with clipped strides, collected his greatcoat, hat, and a walking stick that held a hidden foil. He would need to traverse to the darkest corners of the underworld tonight, and barter with shrewd skill.
While it would be faster to take his horse, he ordered his carriage to be brought around immediately. When he found the boy, he wanted him to be in a warm, comfortable space, for he would undoubtedly be petrified. If I find him… Pushing aside the sliver of doubt, he peered at the miniature. The young duke was a handsome boy, sharing almost all his features with his mother.
After leaving instructions for the duchess to be followed home at a discreet distance, and to utilize all means necessary for her protection, he climbed into the carriage and closed the door. Rhys allowed his thoughts to sift through everything he knew about the duchess, taking even the smallest details and turning them over. The missing nursemaid might be important. With a frown, he considered that thread, mulling over the possibilities.
He stopped at the docks, gin houses, and taverns, dropping the hints, subtle threats, and promises into the ears and eyes of his underworld connections. His reputation was such that everyone would believe his promises of repayment of an unmatched favor if the desired result was produced. He also promised a slow and painful death to anyone who had taken the job of kidnapping the child. Then he sent word that one Jane Walker, former ducal nursemaid, was wanted by The Broker.
Information was traded, promises were made, and the words started to echo in the secret walls of the stews. Confident he would have results soon, he slipped back into the carriage and tapped the roof. The carriage rumbled into motion, and less than fifteen minutes later he arrived at The Asylum.
He entered, and a ripple went through the crowd. As impossible as it seemed, word had already reached The Asylum that he needed their eyes and ears. The tension was visible from those who watched him. They whispered amongst themselves, and as he sauntered through, he caught snatches of the conversation.
“Eee promises a favor to any man who finds the boy.”
“Deuced strange if ye ask me.”
“Who is the boy?”
Rhys reached the balcony overlooking the majority of the crowd, watching and waiting. There wasn’t much more he could do out there in the night, combing the streets. A favor from him was golden in his world, the promise of receiving a desire that could be procured from no other would have everyone hunting for the information he needed, scouring the stews, the lowest thieves’ dens in London and the West End.
The only cause for concern was that he had shown that the boy was important to him. There might be those foolish enough who would think to withhold whatever information they found to drive him to a higher bargain. Then he would have to be merciless, for it could not be said The Broker was held ransom for information. Going to any length to protect those he cared about was a necessity that had been bred into his bones. It belatedly shocked him he was willing to do the same for the duchess.
Several moments of waiting passed before a shadow moved to stand beside him.
“When the word came down, at first, I didn’t believe it,” the rough voice murmured. “Who is this boy?”
“Important,” was all Rhys replied, shifting his regard from the crowd to meet his friend’s regard.
“That is all you have to say? This is not the time to become cryptic and inscrutable,” Riordan O’Malley said, his piercing eyes assessing the gaming hell, assessing his patrons and noting the tension.
“I never thought we needed a reason to help a child. The innocent must be protected at all costs.”
Riordan’s green gaze gleamed with curiosity and cunning. “Whoever he is, my friend, you’ve shown your belly to those of our world. You’ve never promised such a deal in return for information.”
Rhys couldn’t find the words to explain why finding the young duke was so important. Even now, the pain in Georgiana’s eyes haunted him, and there was an inexplicable need driving him to soothe her torment. “Any who believe they can use the boy as a further bargaining tool will learn the error of their ways.”
Riordan grunted. “The word came down that a toff is seeking someone to do away with a child. Seems this nob doesn’t have the guts to do it himself.”
Rhys stiffened. “How long?”
“He sent out the word over an hour ago. Then your call went out, and many reasoned that this could be the boy you are looking for.”
“Perhaps. Who is the nob?”
“No name came with the request. Only a promise of two hundred guineas. Such a fortune would have many men respond, even if the job is a child.”
Rhys did not believe in coincidences. It was rare for a child to be kidnapped and murdered. Many wealthy children, if left unattended, would find their shoes, coats and even all their clothes stripped from their bodies. Those less fortunate would see themselves forced into life as a pickpocket, a chimney sweep, and even to the brothel. No one casually took the life of a child, since alive they were worth more in profits.
“What time did this nob require a meeting?”
“At ten, at Vauxhall. I suppose he thinks he will be safe there.”
Rhys glanced at his pocket watch. That was almost an hour from now, enough leeway for the man to panic and do the deed himself.
“I want you to go there for me, Riordan. Broker the deal and rescue the child. If the man does not show, it may be that I have him already.”
“You know who it is.”
“Perhaps.”
A hush suddenly descended on the boisterous throng. Two rough-looking men pushed through the crowd and subtly inclined their heads toward the back of the building. They had something for him. With clipped strides, Rhys made his way to the upper floor where the men waited in the corridor.
“She’s in the room,” one of the men said softly. They didn’t need to identify her name. Satisfaction slithered through him. About two hours after he had sent out the word, Jane Walker had been delivered.
“See Mr. O’Malley. He will settle with you.”
They nodded and slinked away toward the stairs leading to the lower floors. Rhys entered the room and closed the door with a snick. A sack covered her head, her hands and feet were bound, and he could feel the terror rolling from her. She writhed and twisted, but there was no give her in her bonds.
“Miss Walker,” he said, moving into the room. Rhys tugged the sack from her head.
Wild eyes swung around the office before they settled on him. She reared up and froze. “Who are you and where am I?” she screeched.
“Jane Walker?”
She twitched and then froze. Rhys smiled. She blanched, her throat working, and a greater fear filled her eyes.
He stooped and removed a knife from his boot. She whimpered and tried to scoot back into the sofa. He cut away the rope, freeing her wrists and ankles. Rhys stood and lowered himself into the chair facing her.
“Something has been taken…something precious, and you are a part of it. Reveal what you know, and you will return home this night. If not…” He let the threat hang in the air.
As expected her imagination did the rest, and she started to tremble. “What do you want to know?” she asked from bloodless lips.
“The Duchess of Hardcastle’s son has been taken.”
Jane gasped, and her hand flew to her lips. “Is…is Nicolas alive?”
“That is what I am trying to ascertain.”
Her face crumpled and tears slid down her cheek. “How was he taken?”
“While at Meadowbrook Park he disappeared.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said hoarsely, hugging herself. “That is why I left and hid myself away from everyone. I did not even tell my parents where I was…and in the cottage the squire set me up in, I went by a different name. I thought…I thought if he couldn’t find me and if I wasn’t there, no one else would help him.”
“Lord James?”
She nodded.
“Start from the beginning, and be quick. Time is of the essence.”
She hurried to speak, her words tripping over themselves, but Rhys got the gist of it. Lord James had been pressuring her to help him abscond with the young duke from the estate. She had been resistant, and he had gotten mean. In fear, she had accepted the squire’s protection as his mistress, hoping Lord James would then leave both her and the duke alone.
“Why did you not inform the duchess?”
Eyes wide with fear and guilt peered into his. “I…” She wetted her lips. “I simply thought if I disappeared, Lord James’s leverage would vanish.”
He stared at her coldly, picturing snapping her selfish, scrawny neck in his hands. “I’ll allow you to leave.”
She gasped in relief.
“If harm befalls the boy, you’ll see me again.”
Without awaiting a reaction from her, Rhys walked from the room and descended the stairs to outside the gaming club. He sifted through the information he’d gleaned on Lord James from when the earl had come to him. Lord James was heavily in debt, but he had still opened his townhouse in Mayfair for the season.
Less than thirty minutes later, Rhys was slipping through the small side gardens of the man’s townhouse. He tested the back door that led to the kitchens and found it locked. He retrieved a pair of picklocks from his coat pocket and slid them into the lock. They clicked a couple of times, to his satisfaction, and with a deft twist, he opened the door, and padded soundlessly into the house. He waited in the darkened kitchen, letting the still, warm night air wash across his senses.
His knife held low by his thigh, he moved through the house silently, checking a few doors and finding the sitting room and several other rooms empty. He entered what he thought must be the library and closed the door. The floorboard groaned, and a few seconds later the door to the library opened. A man strolled in, a candlestick in his hand, the light illuminating his dissipated features. His hair was disheveled, his cravat unknotted, his eyes darting around the room with a frenetic kind of worry. Lord James paced to the mantel, where he poured some liquor with strong fumes into a glass and swallowed. A cough jerked from him, and it was as he spun around that he noticed Rhys standing in the shadowy corner.
“Who the bloody hell are you, and why are you in my house?” Lord James demanded.
Rhys said nothing for a few moments, taking the lord’s measure. “You sent word you needed a man to take care of a problem you have,” Rhys said softly. “I’m that man.”
“How in damnation did you find me? My connection said when they found someone they would set up a meet at Vauxhall.”
“I always make it my duty to find out about my employers, to avoid being squeezed out of my blunt. It didn’t take much to find you. A word here and there, a coin here and there. The job promised two hundred guineas.”
The fear leaked from the man’s eyes to be replaced with hope.
“Thank God,” he muttered, sounding desperate, “I was beginning to worry I would have to do away with the blighter myself. Very unpleasant business.”
“Is it now?” Rhys said, a cold rage working though his bloodstream.
“Yes, nasty business, I fear I do not have the stomach for it. Come, he’s this way.”
The man led the way down the hall, and then down the stairs to what appeared to be the servant’s quarters, conspicuously absent of all servants. A door was pushed open, and atop a narrow bed lay a small boy asleep. He was curled on his side, a dark smudge that looked suspiciously like a bruise visible on his cheek.
“Who is he?”
“I’m not paying you to ask questions,” Lord James snapped.
“What exactly are you paying for?”
A breath huffed from the man, and he held the candle high, casting the light in Rhys’s direction. Lord James wetted his lips. “I…I want him to disappear.”
“And never be found again?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “His body needs to be found. I need him to be declared dead. I would prefer if it looked like an accident and his body was dropped near where he was taken. Maybe a broken neck? Or just drown him. I will pay you when the deed has been completed.”
To speak so casually of taking the life of a child. Rhys stared at the man, noting his nervous tension.
“And if I insist on payment now?”
Lord James flushed. “I’m a gentleman, a man of honor. You will get your money and a bonus as soon as he is found. You have my word.”
A whimper came from the room, tugging their gazes to the bed. The boy stirred restlessly, but he still slumbered.
“Did you drug him?”
“Laudanum. I should have given him the whole bottle,” Lord James muttered. “Take him away and be done with it.” He scampered over to a small table wedged into a corner, grabbed a knife, and handed it to Rhys. “This is what I’ve contemplated using for the last few hours. If a weapon is more to your liking, have at it.”
A dark feeling stirred in the pit of Rhys’s stomach. “You’ll always be a threat, won’t you?” he murmured.
Lord James lowered his hand, the knife still held in a firm grip. “I beg your pardon?”
“Even if I whisk the boy away and return him home, you’ll keep trying. Even if you were called before the courts, what evidence is there to implicate you? The words of a blackguard like me over those of a gentleman of honor like yourself?”
There was a short silence. Fear settled on Lord James’s face as he recognized all was not as he expected. “Who the bloody hell are you and of what do you speak?”
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Hardcastle, sends her regards.”
Lord James whitened and dropped the candle, dousing them in darkness. He lunged, slashing at Rhys’s throat, but he was already moving away from the arc of silver slicing through the air. The lord had some training, perhaps fencing, but Rhys had been fighting in the gutter most of his life. He blocked the stab at his gut, dipped low, and slashed his knife upward to sink it into Lord James’s stomach while slamming his forehead into the man’s face to prevent any possible cry of alarm. A groan tore from Lord James, and blood gushed from his nose. Without giving him the time to rally, Rhys clasped his hand over the man’s mouth and ended their affray with a quick plunge of the knife deep into his heart.
He slid soundlessly down the wall, and Rhys helped him down. He checked for a pulse. He was dead, and no remorse stirred inside for the man who would have callously taken a child’s life. Leaving his body, Rhys slipped inside the room, and shrugging from his coat, he bundled the boy inside. Rhys moved silently through the house to the back entrance he’d come through. A moment later he whistled low, and a shadow appeared from near a gas lamp.
Riordan prowled over. “You knew I followed,” he said flatly.
“There is a body on the lower floor, servant’s quarters. See that he is found outside his house, the victim of a footpad.”
Rhys didn’t need to wonder about his friend’s loyalty or love—their friendship was uncompromising and had traversed all roads. He’d known Riordan would follow, and Rhys had trusted his friend would protect his back without knowing the full of the situation.
“I’ll see it done,” Riordan said softly.
Rhys hugged his cargo closer and hurried though the fog-filled night to the waiting carriage several houses down.