Chapter Forty-Four
Jones stepped into the room, training be damned, and aimed his pistol at the center of Wycomb’s chest.
“Ah, Jones.” Wycomb shifted his body, ready for the assault, though he did not reach for his own weapon. “You fell in love with her, I see. A more unsuitable match for the Baroness Worthington I cannot think of—and I’ve already signed the contracts, so Hedgewood already owns her.”
Hedgewood spun, staring at Jones with an expression ripe with disgust. “No. I will not tolerate—”
“I don’t care what you will tolerate.” Jones moved his pistol so it pointed at Hedgewood now. “Your claim on her is nothing but words on paper. A bullet in your heart will void any contract you entered into.”
Hedgwood blanched, and despite the physique he must have honed at Gentlemen Jackson’s, he shrank back—a coward when faced with a true battle. That still left the owner of the den, Wycomb, and anyone else lurking in the warrens in the lower floors.
“Don’t fight us, Wycomb. If you come in without resisting, it will be easier.” Jones already knew Wycomb’s answer and that blood would be on his hands that night.
“No.” Wycomb dove forward, the expression on his face bereft of anything beyond survival. His body hit Jones as if it had been coiled for hours, waiting to spring.
Wycomb went for the spot just beneath the rib cage that would knock all breath from the lungs. Jones knew the same spot, but it was too late. His breath was gone and he lay on his back on the floor.
Yet he wasn’t done.
Jones kicked out both legs as Wycomb rushed past. The man went down, his cry swallowed just after it was given voice. Dimly, Jones recognized Angel dealing with Hedgewood and the other man. He had little chance to think as Wycomb rose above him, fists clenched together to maximize pressure when they came down again.
But Jones knew what he planned.
He jerked to the side as Wycomb tried to thump those joined fists against Jones’s chest. The blow glanced off his side and drove the air from him, but not the need to protect.
Gasping, heart pounding to remind him hadn’t died, Jones rolled over. Every breath was a trial, every heartbeat beyond what his body could comprehend. Still, the figure that rose in the doorway became everything Jones hated. The man had cut Cat’s skin. He’d sold her to an opium den. Wycomb had bruised her face so that a line of shadows chased her cheekbones.
Jones reached for the pistol that had dropped from his hand. Raised it.
Shot.
Wycomb went down. Screaming, still struggling, but he was down. Blood blossomed on buff-colored breeches, the stain growing each second.
Jones rolled to his knees, caught his breath in the midst of a cloud of black powder. Wycomb gripped the door frame, scrabbling through it with one leg while the other dragged behind.
Jones sure as hell wasn’t letting him disappear now.
He rose to his feet, still gasping for air, and followed Wycomb into the hallways built into the den’s lower floors. Other sounds met his ears—dozens of footsteps pounding. Shouts as Angel was overwhelmed, more shouts and a shrill battle cry as the Flower and the Shadow joined him.
Still, Wycomb knew the maze of rooms and Jones did not. Jones guessed at the direction Wycomb would have turned, running through the warren of hallways and rooms. He guessed wrong, it seemed, and was forced to retrace his steps until he reached the stairs to the ground floor.
More footsteps sounded behind him, but he did not stop to determine who was fleeing the scene. Only Wycomb mattered—and Wycomb was bleeding at the top of the stairs just in front of him.
Jones leaped, aiming for Wycomb’s back. They went down hard on the floor of the main hall, limbs struggling for purchase and leverage. It was Jones who found it first and drove a fist into the man’s face. He tried not to find satisfaction in it, but he did. So he drove the other fist into his face and watched Wycomb’s eyes roll back.
He leaned closed. “You will not touch Cat again. Is that understood?”
Jones rolled Wycomb onto his stomach, pulling a thin, strong coil of rope from the pocket sewn into the back of his coat. He wrapped a circlet around one wrist, then the other, pulled tight and formed a knot. Rolling Wycomb onto his back once more, Jones stood, breathing heavy, and looked down at the man who had hurt Cat. The man who had sold her to the opium den.
“You don’t deserve to live.”
“Then kill me,” Wycomb rasped. Despite the words, his teeth were bared. He no longer resembled an elegant, well-dressed spy, but a desperate man who belonged in the rookeries. “We both know if I make trial I will hang.”
“So you will.” As much as Jones wanted to do the deed himself, he did not. Justice was not dealt in the shadows. “But you will not die by my hand.”
“You’ve always been weak, Jones.” Wycomb spat the words, thin lips pursed.
Jones did not rise to the bait—he’d learned to work with an opponent’s mind years ago. “You will stand trial for what you’ve done to Cat.” Jones could barely say the words beyond the fury writhing in him. He yanked Wycomb to his feet and pushed him forward, uncaring that the man’s injured leg buckled beneath him.
The shot caught them both unawares.
The sound reverberated in the air. Wycomb jerked and Jones did the same—but only one of them had blood welling on his chest.
As Wycomb slipped to the floor, Jones looked up to find Hedgewood standing with his back to the front door and still sighting down a pistol.
“He lied to me,” Hedgewood said conversationally. He looked down the pistol sight and met Jones’s gaze with clear green eyes. “Whatever contract he signed, whatever he told me, he lied. The baroness is nowhere near this place—if she were, you would be rescuing her, wouldn’t you? Not bothering with Wycomb.”
“True enough. She’s safe and under my care.” Jones ignored the writhing and gasping at his feet. If Wycomb passed, it meant nothing to him but one less threat to Cat. The pistol aimed at him was more important. It was a single barrel, and though he hadn’t seen Hedgewood reload that did not mean he hadn’t—nor that it was the same pistol he’d already fired. “Wycomb made a mistake thinking the baroness had no spine. Don’t make the same mistake.”
Hedgewood paused, met Jones’s gaze, then turned and ran through the front door before Jones could protest. At his feet, Wycomb clutched at Jones’s boots, fingers curling around them—whether in supplication or aggression, Jones could not tell.
…
Cat could only watch and wait, the agony of the unknown coursing through her.
The street was quiet and dark, mist writhing in the shadows. Occasionally the shadows moved as someone passed the window, but in these alleys the people were fast and full of fear, trying to locate a haven.
She paced, window to fireplace and back again. Picked up the knife, set it down. She would be as likely to injure herself with it as any intruder. She strode back to the fireplace, contemplated the low flames there. Reaching for the iron bar Bill used as a poker, she moved the logs and stirred the embers.
She heard the first pistol shot from far away. It might have been someone dropping a dish in the rooms on either side. Moving to the window, she curled the curtain aside and peered into the gloom. Still nothing.
The second shot was loud and unmistakable.
A moment later, Hedgewood spilled from the door of the den as if the hounds of hell were after him. He joined the shadows, pressed against the wall beside the door as if lying in wait for those hellhounds. The door swung on its hinges, back and forth from the force of Hedgewood’s push. The opening emitted dim light from inside, revealing an empty hall.
She realized just as Hedgewood did that no one was following him.
He began to creep down the street, still watching that doorway. Panic erupted in her as she waited for someone to stop him. Jones, another spy—any of them should burst through that door and stop Hedgewood.
They didn’t.
“Oh, bugger that.” Cat seized the iron bar and was through the front door before her mind understood what her body was doing. Somewhere in Bill’s room was her cloak and safety. Somewhere in the buildings beyond was Jones and his spies.
Here, now, was Hedgewood—and Cat.
He whirled, feet scuffing on filthy cobblestones and pistol pointed straight at her before he recognized her. “Ah. My lovely bride.”
“Hedgewood,” she said evenly, keeping the bar behind her billowing nightshift. The metal was warm in her hand, fitting easily against her palm.
“Come, my dear. You are safe now.” The pistol dropped away, aiming for the ground as he stepped slowly toward her. As if gathering his charm, he straightened and smiled at her. Light moved over a face that no longer seemed handsome to her. “I have killed Wycomb. You have nothing more to fear from him.”
The words brought her no comfort.
“Am I to think you are my savior?” She gestured to the opium den behind him. “You are as involved as he.”
“Not quite.” Hedgewood shrugged, as if to minimize his part, all charm fading into the mist and stench whirling around them. “This was your uncle’s project. I was simply his investor. When my investment failed, Wycomb paid me with your hand in marriage in exchange for additional funds to satisfy his, ah, creditors.”
“I see. You recoup your investment through my lands.”
“Don’t forget your body, my dear.” He moved close, closer, predator stalking prey in the wilds of the rookeries. “A man in my position must have an heir.”
Fury lit her from within, burning in her veins. She slammed the iron bar into his chest, the resounding thud turning her stomach. He started to crumple, but she raised the bar once more and struck his side as he went down.
Jones surged from the opium den and into the street, nearly wrenching the door from its hinges. “Cat!” he shouted, then skid to a halt on the cobblestones. He looked once to Hedgewood’s inert form, then again to Cat.
“Good thing Bill keeps this around.” Breath heaving, Cat held up the iron bar.
A smile spread across Jones’s face, lighter than any she had seen from him before. He strode toward her, his pace steady and sure. “I think you’ve discovered a lady’s newest accessory.”