Chapter Nineteen
As Sophie suspected, a well-timed smile and a bit of flattery was all it took to persuade Bertram to assist her. The carriage clattered over the cobbles as the driver set a breakneck pace. The Waterloo Bridge loomed ahead, magnificent over the moonlit Thames.
She pulled the curtain aside. At this time of night, the city had quieted, still not asleep, but far more peaceful than at the peak of day. The horses trotted briskly along the Strand. Over the rattle of the coach, a bellow of pain made it to Sophie’s ears. What the devil?
With a rap against the roof, she signaled her driver. “Bertram—what’s that commotion? Stop the carriage.”
With the window open as it was, she could hear the old man’s muttered epithet. Despite his curmudgeonly response, Bertram slowed the conveyance to a halt, steps from the darkened alley that seemed the origin of the miserable cry.
“Do you hear that?” Sophie strained to make out the angry voices coming from the backstreet. What in blazes was going on?
“Sounds like some unlucky sot is about to lose his tin.”
“I should investigate.”
“I’ll go.” Bertram retrieved his long gun from its spot beneath the bench. “Don’t even think about puttin’ yourself in reach of those criminals. I’ve already gone against my instructions by bringing you here on this errand, as you dubbed it. I cannot let you put yourself in harm’s way.”
“In harm’s way?” She slanted him a glance, then lowered it to the powerful weapon in his hands. “You could bring down a dragon with that thing. I have nothing to worry about.”
She opened the door. Maneuvering her skirts out of the way, she stepped to the pavement. As her heels touched the cobbles, a male voice reached her ears, low and slurred and so familiar, her skin peppered with a sudden chill. Despite the distortion of the syllables, she felt certain she knew the speaker’s identity.
“It’s Stanwyck,” she whispered.
Bertram shot her a scowl. “More likely he’s indulged in too much of the bottle.”
Sophie shook her head. “He’s in trouble. I feel it in my bones.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve developed a soft spot for the bloke.”
“Nonsense.” She covered her blond hair with the hood of her cape to avoid the moonlight’s reflection. “We must investigate.”
With Bertram at her side, she crept toward the alley, careful to stick to the shadows. Reaching the narrow lane, she peered around the corner.
The nearly full moon provided sparse illumination, but she could make out a carriage on the dark path. Stanwyck’s, most likely. Clinging to the perimeter, away from the moonlight, she tiptoed closer.
Two men flanked a third gent, appearing to force him past the coach. He resisted, though his actions were weak and futile, his words so muffled, she could not make them out.
Good heavens, was that Stanwyck?
A ray of moonlight brought one of the men into focus. His silver-pale hair took on an ethereal appearance. Jack! She bit back a cry of alarm. Was this the thug’s retribution for Gavin’s interference with their plan?
She touched Bertram’s sleeve, silently alerting him to the danger ahead. Soundlessly, she reached into her reticule. The cold steel of her pistol provided some measure of assurance, but not enough to tamp down the stutter of her heart. She had to do something. Stanwyck was in grave danger.
“Just let me put a bullet in his brain,” Reggie’s rough voice reached her ears. Shorter than the pale man by a head, he brandished a revolver as an equalizer. “One pull of the trigger, and he won’t be givin’ anyone any more trouble.”
“That’s too easy on the bastard. Damn it, Reggie, ye should’ve checked him for a knife. The bastard cut me,” Jack muttered.
Reggie snorted. “The way ye howled about it, I would’ve thought he’d gutted ye. The bloke can barely hold himself upright. How was I t’know he’d fight back?”
Jack turned to Stanwyck. The rhythmic slap of a club against his hand telegraphed his intentions. “I might’ve let ’em show ye some mercy, but after what ye just done t’me, we’re goin’ t’take our time. Let’s see how well ye can swim with two broken legs.”
“I don’t like this,” his partner protested. “The boss wants it t’look like an accident. We’ll give ’im a cosh on the head like the rest and pitch him in. Quick and clean. Then he’ll wash up…they always do.”
The words unleashed a fresh chill along Sophie’s backbone. Dear God, was this the answer she’d been seeking? Was this confirmation that their suspicions were correct, that the men’s deaths had been staged?
She steadied herself. There was no time to contemplate the implications of the brute’s words. They had to act quickly.
“I don’t give a damn.” Jack’s voice seemed a growl. “The job will be done, and we’ll collect what we’ve got comin’.”
If Sophie had anything to say about it, what they had coming would be a trip to the gallows at the Old Bailey. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Can you cover me while I go after him?”
Bertram nodded. “I’ll go after the dirty bastards. You lead Stanwyck away.”
“First we need to distract them.” She pulled in a fortifying breath. “Wait until I signal you—I’ll remove my hood.”
“Aye. Remember—I’m here, and I’ll kill the bastards if they touch you.”
“Good enough.”
Tugging the hood down to camouflage her features, she sauntered into the alley. She swayed on her feet, singing a ballad in a deliberately off-key voice, lamenting a lost love with each unsteady step.
Jack went still. “What the bloody ’ell is this?”
Ignoring his question, Sophie took another step, then another. Adding a singsong note to her tune, she cocked her head, verifying the third man was indeed Gavin Stanwyck. His head bowed, his shoulders slumped forward, he appeared to be teetering on the edge of consciousness. Her heart hammered in her chest. What the devil had the curs done to him?
Reggie stepped closer. Beneath the veil of her lashes, Sophie saw he’d lowered the gun.
“We don’t want nothin’ t’do with yer kind, ye daft wench,” he growled.
Again, she kept to her pitiful, high-pitched lament. Another few steps and she’d be close enough to draw the man away from Gavin so Bertram could take his shot.
“What d’ye think ye’re up to?” Reggie’s tone went surly. “Carry yer scrawny arse somewhere else.”
With weaving steps, she moved to the other side of the alley, not quite within reach of Stanwyck and out of Bertram’s line of fire. She stilled. “Is that any way to talk to a lady?”
With that, she swept off the hood.
Bertram stepped from the darkness and announced himself with a rifle shot. As the report slammed against Sophie’s ears, she pivoted to Jack and lifted her revolver, taking aim at his chest.
Reggie’s scream nearly eclipsed the gunshot. Clutching what was left of his hand, he cried out in a series of agonized gasps. “Bloody hell…my thumb! Ye took off my thumb, old man.”
“One move and I’ll take more than that.”
Jack eyed Reggie’s pistol lying on the cobbles between Reggie and Sophie.
“Don’t—” She held her voice low and steady. “I will pull this trigger.”
Bertram came closer, pinning Jack in his sights. “Move away from the gent or I’ll blow ye in two.”
As Bertram held Jack at bay, Sophie scooped up Reggie’s gun and tucked it in a pocket of her cloak. Brandishing her pistol, she moved toward Gavin.
He blinked, seeming to recognize her despite his barely conscious state. “Sophie.” His head sagged forward as if too heavy for his neck.
“Can you come to me, Gavin?” Odd, how her heart ached with each word.
He nodded weakly. Jack moved to block him.
“I meant what I said,” Bertram warned.
“Bugger off, old—”
Bertram fired a warning shot, striking the ground inches from the hoodlum’s boots. “Move away from the gent, and I won’t have to put the next one into your gullet.”
“To hell with this,” Jack muttered. Turning on his heel, he bolted.
“We must move quickly.” She trained her pistol on Reggie. “He’ll be back, no doubt with reinforcements. Gavin, can you make it to our carriage?”
“If the bloody world would just stand still,” he muttered.
“I will help you in a moment. First, there’s a matter to be dealt with.”
He nodded weakly and propped a hand against the ebony door of his coach to steady himself.
She aimed the Sharps Pepperbox at Reggie’s gut. “Do not even blink. I’d love an excuse to try out my shiny new pistol.”
“I’m bleedin’,” the hoodlum groaned. “Ye’re a heartless one, aren’t ye?”
“Given that you and your cowardly friend attempted to abduct me and were intent on murdering this man, I’d say the fact that you are still breathing is testimony to my good nature.”
Bertram retrieved a set of binding cuffs from a jacket pocket, yanked Reggie’s hands behind his back, and secured them.
“I didn’t think ye had it in ye, ye ancient scarecrow,” the thug muttered.
Bertram puffed out his chest. “East India Company, Afghanistan.”
“What are ye goin’ t’do with me?”
“The two of you planned to toss this man into the Thames. Perhaps you’d like to take a turn plunging off the bridge,” Sophie said coolly. “To paraphrase your associate, let’s see how well you can swim with your hands cuffed behind you.”
Reggie squirmed, and though she couldn’t see his features in the dim light, she felt quite certain sweat must be beading his forehead. “We was only jestin’…we wanted to scare the fellow. No harm done.”
“Tell me what you’ve done to him.” She infused her tone with steel.
“We didn’t hurt nothin’ that won’t heal. He’s a weak one, he is.”
“Really, now? As I see it, you’re the one who appears ready to bawl. Now, tell me what you’ve given him. It’s apparent he’s been drugged.”
Reggie shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Do you really expect us to believe you?”
“I swear I’m tellin’ the truth. Another fellow took care of that detail.”
“Another fellow? How many are involved in this?”
The hoodlum shrugged. “Can’t say as I know. Tonight, there was three of us. Me and Jack and another gent—quality, like this one.”
“Quality, you say. Do you know this man’s name?”
“The chap’s name is John. That’s all I know.”
John. How bloody convenient.
“Where can we find him?”
Reggie glanced away, as if debating how much to tell.
“I would imagine the river is cold now, especially at night.” With any luck, the cur would believe the menace in her tone was real.
“Ye don’t have t’do that. I’ll tell ye what I know. The blighter was at the gent’s club. The Hound and Fox. That’s where we were told he’d be.”
Sophie dragged in a breath, calming her indignant anger. Had Gavin been betrayed by someone he trusted?
“This man named John…he is a member of the club?”
Another shrug. “He got in and he put something in the gent’s drink. That’s all I know.”
“You have been helpful,” Sophie said. “Now come along. We must see that you obtain medical attention. That is a rather nasty wound you’ve suffered.”
Bertram escorted the handcuffed man to the coach and ordered him inside. Sophie dashed to Gavin’s side and draped his arm over her shoulder. Amazing how right the warmth of his body felt next to hers, even under such dire circumstances.
With Gavin leaning on her for support, she led him to the coach. Bertram emerged from the vehicle, a cloth in hand smelling distinctly of chloroform.
“Much as it troubles me that you should have to share a space with that ruffian, it seems an ugly necessity.” The twinkle had faded from Bertram’s gaze. “I’ve ensured he won’t give you or Mr. Stanwyck any trouble.”
“The usual treatment?” she asked, careful to remain cryptic in case Gavin could digest her words.
“Yes.” Bertram tapped his pocket, indicating his chloroform-treated handkerchief. The devices had become standard issue among the agents. Brilliant, really. The plain white linen square was protectively housed in a twill pouch. Upon removing the cloth, only a few brisk rubs of the fabric were required to activate the chemical.
She motioned to Gavin. “He’s been drugged. I suspect by dawn he won’t recall much, if any, of this night.”
“That would be to our advantage. Remember, discretion at all times.” His gaze flickered to Gavin. “Even among those you might be tempted to trust.”