Dusk had fallen, making the alleyway in the Seven Dials even darker. The stench of human waste filled the fetid air, tempting Alaric to cover his nose with a scented handkerchief. The only reason he didn’t was because he wouldn’t give his brother the satisfaction. Parked against the adjacent wall, Will was monitoring the tavern across the street.

“You’re certain Babcock said The Thirsty Ox?” he said for the umpteenth time.

“There’s nothing wrong with my hearing,” Alaric replied. “Babcock told me two facts. One, our shooter’s name is Clive Palmer, and two, he visits this tavern every Friday.”

“I’m only asking because public houses can all sound the same. Coming from Mayfair, you might not appreciate the fine distinction between The Thirsty Ox, The Drunken Ox, The Thirsty Bear—”

“Christ’s blood, William, I’m a duke not a dunce,” Alaric said icily.

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

“If by touchy you mean ready to pummel you with my fists, then yes.”

Will grunted. “As if you could pummel me.”

“Care to have a go?”

“Lads,” Kent said from behind them. “Can the bickering wait until after we catch the criminal?”

“He started it.” Will jabbed a finger in Alaric’s direction.

“For Christ’s sake.” Blowing out a breath of disgust, Alaric resumed the watch.

The street was crowded with people and hawkers’ barrows. Rowdy customers stumbled in and out of the tavern in a steady stream, their drab clothes making them nearly indistinguishable from one another. Luckily, the streetlamp by the entrance shed light on their faces as they passed. No sign of the scarred shooter as yet.

“Perhaps we should check in with Cooper,” Alaric said.

Cooper and other guards were posted at the back entrance. Alaric was taking no chances at letting Palmer escape. Initially, he’d proposed storming the tavern, but Kent had pointed out the risk in taking on a building full of drunk, armed cutthroats, and Alaric had conceded the other’s point.

Kent lifted the whistle that hung on a string around his neck. He’d equipped the guards with similar devices. “Cooper will sound the alarm if he has the suspect. Right now, he’s watching and cooling his heels like we are.”

Alaric did not like to wait. Especially not in this cesspool of an alley.

Will smirked. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the carriage, Your Grace?”

“I’m fine where I am,” he said curtly.

Silence fell again. Kent took up the main watch, and Will and Alaric hung behind him. Standing beside his brother, Alaric returned suddenly to another time they had waited together in the dark: at their father’s wake. At sixteen, Will had cried openly by the side of the casket, his grief streaming free; Alaric hadn’t shed a single tear, pain and anger bottling inside him.

Why didn’t you care for me, Da? Why wasn’t I your son, too?

Now, to his surprise, he found that his father’s indifference had lost much of its sting. The impact had faded through the years until he bore only the invisible bruises of acceptance. What did feel fresh, oddly enough, was his brother’s grief. The younger Will’s brokenhearted expression haunted Alaric here in the shadows. He knew his brother’s loss had been intensified by his refusal to take Will back to Lanarkshire with him after their father’s funeral.

At the time, he hadn’t wanted to explain his reasons. Pride had made it impossible to explain to the golden boy, the perfect son, that rejection had followed Alaric all the way to Strathmore Castle. That there must be something so despicable about him that he invited cruelty wherever he went. Nay, he hadn’t been able to say the truth aloud, so he’d done the next best thing: he’d protected Will—by pushing him away.

The old duke’s cold eyes pinned him, the belt raised. You deserve to be punished, you deficient weakling! Even as Alaric’s gut knotted in memory, Emma’s voice reached him through the darkness.

Family forgives, she’d said.

His guardian and parents were all dead. His closest living kin was his brother.

Alaric glanced at Will, who was monitoring the street with an eagle eye. Who was trying to protect him despite all the bad blood between them.

Taking a breath, he said in an undertone, “It wasn’t because I didn’t want you at Strathmore.”

“What?” Will’s gaze swung to his.

“The regiment was the safer place for you to be.”

“Why do you speak of this now?” Even in the shadows, he could see his brother’s incredulous expression. “After all this time?”

Alaric wasn’t quite sure himself. He gave a slight shrug. “You deserve to know.”

“Know what? That facing down enemies with bayonets, scouting enemy terrain,” Will said with rising ire, “that was safer?”

Alaric’s fists clenched, yet he kept his voice low, for Will’s ears only. “Compared to living under the duke’s tyranny and suffering his brand of punishment? Aye,” he said roughly.

Will stilled. “Our uncle, he ... hurt you?”

“I’d rather have taken on an entire battalion,” Alaric said succinctly.

After a moment, his brother said in hushed tones, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t a topic for polite conversation. And we haven’t exactly been on good terms.”

“But you’re my brother. I would have ...” Will trailed off.

“Exactly. You could have done nothing. It’s over; I just wanted to clear the air.” Alaric returned his gaze to the tavern, signaling an end to the conversation.

To his surprise, Will said softly, “I had wondered why you seemed different. On the rare visit home, I mean. Ma thought it was because of your illness, but I knew you weren’t yourself.”

His brother had noticed? An odd spasm gripped his throat. “The illness was only a part of it. The sicker I was, the more the duke punished me.”

“Bluidy hell, Alaric, I never knew—”

“Attention, lads.” Kent’s furious whisper broke the spell of the moment. “Scarred man leaving the premises. Can you identify, Your Grace?”

Alaric pushed from the wall, strode to the mouth of the alley. He spotted the figure instantly. While the burly figure and greasy, overlong hair could have belonged to anyone, there was no mistaking the jagged mark that bisected the man’s face into two menacing halves.

“That’s him,” he said grimly.

“Do you wish to wait here?” Kent began.

Alaric didn’t bother answering. Pulling his hat down low, he started toward Palmer. Kent and Will’s bootsteps sounded behind him, and from the corner of his eye, he saw them fan out, mingling with the throng. Taking his cue from them, he slowed his pace; when Palmer suddenly swung around, Alaric halted at a barrow. He felt the other’s gaze on him, his heart thudding as he pretended to study the peddler’s offerings.

“That cup’s made o’ sterling, guv,” the gap-toothed hawker said cheerfully. “Ruin may rot your gut, but it won’t tarnish that lovely piece.”

Alaric fought not to look at Palmer. “How much?”

“A quid, guv, an’ that’s on account o’ my generous ’eart.”

Alaric risked a sidelong glance ... and saw Palmer’s back fading into the distance. He took off after him, the hawker’s voice ringing behind him. “’Alf a crown, guv, an’ that’s my best offer!”

Kent and Will were gaining on Palmer, flanking him on two sides. Alaric quickened his steps and kept to the middle of the road, pushing past drunks and painted whores, dodging carts of goods. His eyes and nose stung from the smoke of scorching chestnuts. He was almost upon the fiend, and Will and Kent were nearly parallel: their triangle formation was poised for attack.

He met Kent’s gaze, saw the other nod, and his muscles bunched, ready to propel him toward the target.

In that instant, Palmer turned his head.

Recognition flashed across the disfigured face, and the cutthroat broke into a run.

He turned right, and with beefy momentum, plowed through Kent, the investigator sprawling to the ground. The villain vanished into the nearest alleyway, Will on his tail, Alaric just behind his brother. Alaric heard the shrill of a whistle cut through the thudding in his ears before he was enveloped in darkness. The labyrinth of the rookery engulfed him, the walls widening and narrowing, a twisting path of disorientation.

“Up ahead,” Will shouted. “There’s a dead end. We’ve got him.”

That his brother knew the stews with such acuity astounded Alaric, and he could only be grateful to have the other as a guide. Energy pumped through his veins, the battle instincts of his ancestors kicking in. He thirsted for his enemy’s blood.

The darkness grew lighter as the low-hanging eaves gave way to the night sky. He saw a faint glimmer paces ahead: a stream of moonlight striking off stones ... a wall. Palmer scrambling to get over.

A few steps ahead of Alaric, Will raced forward, shouting, “Stop! You can’t escape.”

Palmer spun around. Steel glinted in his hands.

“Down, Will!” Alaric yelled.

He threw himself forward, knocking his brother to the ground as twin shots whizzed past him, blasting through the night. Breathing hard, he pushed to his feet in the next instant, saw Palmer struggling to reload the pistol. He charged into the cutthroat, sending the firearm scuttling into darkness. Red filled his vision as he slammed his foe into the wall. Pinning the other by the throat, he drove his fist into the bastard’s face again and again.

“No one shoots at a McLeod,” he growled.

“Strathaven, I’ve got Palmer covered.” Kent had arrived, positioning himself to Alaric’s left, panting and aiming a pistol at the villain.

Caught in the grip of bloodlust, Alaric didn’t give a damn. He drew his fist back again.

Palmer gasped, “Bloody ’ell, stop ... I give ...”

“Who paid you to kill me?” Alaric slammed Palmer against the wall. “Give me his name.”

“Don’t ... know.” Blood streaked down Palmer’s face, trickling into his scar. “’E ne’er told me. Just paid me five ’undred quid ... for the job.”

“What did he look like?”

“Black ’air, pudgy face—like a babe’s. Wore sp-spectacles.”

Silas Webb.

“Where can I find him?” Alaric demanded.

“If I tell you, you’ll let me go ...”

“If you don’t, I’ll kill you.” Alaric squeezed Palmer’s throat.

“He will, you know.” This came from Will, who now stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him. “We Scotsmen keep our word.”

“All right ... all right,” the bastard choked out. “I followed ’im once—like to know where my blunt is comin’ from. ’E’s got a place ... in Whitechapel.”

“Take us there,” Alaric said.

* * *

The tenement was part of a sagging pile of misery at the heart of the East End.

“That’s the room.” His hands manacled behind his back, Palmer could only jerk his head toward the peeling door of the apartment. “I remember it on account o’ it being next to the stairs.”

“Take him back to the carriage,” Alaric said to Cooper. “Keep an eye on him.”

The guard nodded and hauled Palmer away at gunpoint.

Kent tried the knob. The easy click raised the hairs on Alaric’s nape.

Wordlessly, Kent withdrew a pistol from his greatcoat, and both Will and Alaric followed suit. Kent pushed the door harder, and the squeal of rusty hinges spurred Alaric’s heartbeat. Darkness greeted them, the air musty and dank, and there was an indistinct noise ... a buzzing. An unsavory odor caught Alaric’s nose, and his stomach gave a queasy surge.

Kent held up his lantern, and shadowy light spilled over the cramped interior.

“I think we’ve found our man,” he said in grave tones.

A figure lay face down on the table in the middle of the room. As he approached, Alaric saw the flies swirling, the stain beneath the head. Will lit another lamp, and brightness flared above the dead man’s head—what remained of it anyway. A gaping hole had been blown out the back; a pistol lay on the ground near the man’s dangling hand.

With a detached professionalism that Alaric could only admire, Kent turned the corpse’s head to the light.

“Silas Webb?” the investigator asked.

Alaric grimaced. “Aye.”

“By the state of decomposition, I’d say it’s been several days since the bastard blew his brains out,” Will muttered. “Damned messy way to go.”

Bending, Kent fished a sheet of paper from the pocket of Webb’s jacket. Creases deepened around the investigator’s mouth. “It’s a signed confession. Webb says he acted out of revenge but now repents.” Kent passed Alaric the note. “Can you verify the handwriting?”

Alaric scanned the brief lines. “It looks like Webb’s signature.”

He wondered why he didn’t feel relieved. As he looked around the room, he didn’t see signs of anything untoward—no evidence of a struggle, of this being anything but what it appeared to be: a sinner succumbing to his conscience. Yet Webb had never struck him as a man of strong morality or the type to end his own life.

Alaric took a step forward, intending to look around, and something crackled beneath his boot. Bending, he found wire spectacles, the lenses cracked—and the glint of something else in the shadows. Reaching beneath the table, he retrieved the small object nestled against Webb’s boot.

“What have you found?” Kent asked.

Alaric showed him the cuff link. Made of onyx and gold, its workmanship fine, the expensive piece was clearly out of place in the dingy environs.

Swiftly, Kent checked the corpse’s wrists; both brass links were intact. The three men commenced searching through Webb’s meager belongings, and to no one’s surprise, the twin to the onyx cuff link did not emerge.

Icy premonition gripped Alaric’s gut. “The cuff link didn’t belong to Webb. Someone else was here.”

Kent’s gaze matched the brightness of his lantern. “So it would seem.”

“Over here,” Will called.

They went to join him by the hearth where he’d unearthed the charred remains of a ledger.

“Looks like an appointment book,” Will said.

When he opened it, ashes drifted to the ground.

“My guess? The true murderer destroyed this to hide his identity,” Kent said. “Do you know of any men Webb might have had dealings with, Your Grace? A wealthy man. One with a penchant for fine accoutrements such as the cuff link?”

Alaric shook his head. “As far as I knew, Webb had worked solely for United Mining for years. Until I dismissed him, that is.”

“We’ll come back in the morning,” Kent said decisively, “and canvas the neighborhood. Perhaps someone saw Webb with our mystery man.”

“I appreciate your diligence,” Alaric said.

“We Kents do not concede until the matter is resolved.” An unexpected hint of a smile relieved the somberness of the other man’s expression. “I believe you know something about that, Your Grace.”