“Something must be done. We simply cannot have poisoners running about Mayfair reducing the population of marriageable ladies one by one. Who will be left for Lady Gattingford to gossip about?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Home Secretary, Robert Peel, regarding the need to address criminality in a more sensible fashion.
The ugly, bald giant plunked down a tankard on the table. Jonas Hawthorn gave him a wry grin. “My thanks, Rude. Haven’t had a decent pint in months.”
Rude Markham grunted and scratched his cauliflower-shaped ear. “Aye. Been some time since I last seen ye. Off chasin’ the muslin, eh?”
Jonas drank his ale and sighed, slumping back in his chair. “Nothing so fine. Thieves and knaves, mostly.”
Rude nodded and clapped his shoulder with bruising force. “Tha’s what pays, I reckon.”
Indeed it did. Jonas spent his waking hours hunting rich men’s trinkets and the pathetic wretches who stole them—so he could one day afford to stop hunting rich men’s trinkets and the pathetic wretches who stole them. Rich men paid rich sums to find their gold watches and silver ladles. Pathetic wretches paid with their necks.
It had been years since he’d given a damn about the imbalance. More since he’d relished the chase.
Now, as he watched the ugly, bald giant return to the bar, he wondered at all the ways hunting a murderer felt different. Curious thing, that.
It was a worm in his gut. Acid and fire. He wanted this poisoner more than any thief. More than anything in a long, long time.
He’d thought Holstoke was his man. The pieces had fit. But the itch along his neck hadn’t eased, no matter how many ways he argued where the evidence should lead.
Then, there had been the problem of … her.
He closed his eyes and took another drink, warm exhaustion sliding like fog into a valley. No sense in thinking about her. That was one bit of muslin he would never see, let alone touch.
“Fine time for sleepin’, Hawthorn.”
Jonas opened his eyes and gave Drayton a half-grin and a tip of his tankard. “It comes when it comes.”
As Drayton yanked out a chair for himself, the deceptively dapper Lord Dunston removed his hat and took the seat opposite Jonas. The man’s eyes were sharper than his old moniker—Sabre. “What have you found?”
Sighing, Jonas sat up. Leaned his elbows on the table. Pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket. “Of Randall, Glencombe, Holstoke, and Froom, only one hired new servants in the past two months.”
Dunston unfolded the paper and nodded. His waistcoat shone bright green in the firelight. “Randall. Do you suspect he was involved?”
“Unlikely,” Jonas replied. “He benefitted more from keeping his wife alive. Their arrangement served him well.”
Drayton frowned. “Arrangement?”
“Mmm,” answered Dunston. “Lady Randall long tolerated Lord Randall’s affection for male companions. Some wives would not be so understanding.”
“I interviewed every member of the four affected households,” Jonas continued. “Randall’s butler hired two additional footmen to serve guests at the ball where Miss Froom was poisoned.”
“You spoke to these men?”
Jonas nodded and pointed to the paper. “The names are there. One was … occupied with Lord Randall for most of the evening.”
“And the other?” asked Drayton.
“Fell ill a week prior. His mother and two cousins claim he was in bed with a fever the entire day and night of the Randall affair.” Jonas glanced at Dunston, who, apart from his waistcoat, exhibited few signs of the dandy he pretended to be. “They also claim he was never employed by Lord Randall.”
Dunston’s gaze narrowed. “Never?”
“Not hired. Not employed. Not contacted. The boy says he worked for an army captain until the illness came on, and that he hadn’t been strong enough to search out a new position.”
“An imposter, then.” Dunston rubbed his jaw and shook his head.
“Bloody, bleeding hell,” muttered Drayton. “Appears we ’ave ourselves another ghost, m’lord.”
Jonas reached inside his greatcoat and withdrew a second folded sheet. “Perhaps not,” he said, offering the square to Dunston, who unfolded it. Blinked. Sharpened his gaze.
Jonas grinned and took a drink of Rude Markham’s fine ale. “Ghosts don’t have faces, do they?”
He knew what Dunston saw—he’d drawn it. The slim nose. The mild brow. The round, gentle eyes. It was a man, but one with such banal features, he’d had a devil of a time prompting maids and other servants to give him sufficient descriptions. Still, it was a face. That was something.
Dunston handed the paper to Drayton. “Recognize him?”
“No. Looks harmless.”
Dunston met Jonas’s eyes. “The cleverest ones do.”
Jonas raised his tankard and saluted the true statement before taking another drink. “Glencombe’s butler said one of Randall’s footmen delivered a message to Lady Theodosia the morning she was killed.”
“Let me guess,” said Dunston, sliding the sketch across the table. “He was the messenger.”
Jonas nodded and set his near-empty tankard on the table, gesturing to Rude. The proprietor slung a towel over his shoulder and retrieved a pitcher. “That’s as far as we’re likely to get by questioning the households. Randall knows nothing. Froom and Glencombe want Holstoke’s head on a platter. And Holstoke claims he knows of no reason why the poisoner would desire his attention, apart from a fascination with his mother.” Jonas folded the sketch and list before tucking them into his pocket. “I need to know more than what I know,” he continued, nodding his thanks to Rude, who slapped his shoulder and poured for all three men.
“That there’s the truth, ain’t it, Hawthorn?” Rude said, wiping the pitcher with his towel. “I said as much to Reaver last week.” The bald giant glanced around The Black Bull with both pride and nostalgia. “Would that I’d known at the start what I know now. But I were just a fighter with a bit of blunt. Reaver taught me some when I bought the place from ’im. But I ain’t no Reaver, that much is certain.”
“You do fine, Rude. Just fine.”
“Ah, ye’re a staunch cove, Hawthorn.” Another bruising clap of his shoulder, along with a booming laugh. “A mite clutch-fisted from time to time, but a good sort.”
As Rude wandered away, Drayton sat straighter and squinted at Jonas. “Reaver might remember somethin’. He helped me track Lady Holstoke when ’is lordship married and …” Drayton cast a sidelong glance at Dunston and raised a shaggy brow. “Gave up the chase. For a time, at any rate.”
Dunston murmured his agreement.
Sebastian Reaver was the owner of a gentlemen’s gaming club occupying an entire square off St. James. The quality liked to frequent the place, or so Jonas understood. As he wasn’t quality, he wasn’t a member. He’d never met the man. But knowing Reaver’s reputation, Jonas would guess he’d been both relentless and effective.
“What might he recall?” Jonas asked.
Drayton finished his swallow of ale and shook his head. “Could be he knows somethin’ of the apothecary.” The older man rubbed his own leg beneath the table.
“What do you remember of it?”
“Well, as I told ye, we’d tracked the Investor’s—that is, Lady Holstoke’s—poisons to an apothecary shop near the Strand. When we entered, the place was wrecked. The apothecary wore nothin’ but a shirt and drawers. In a bad way, he was.” Drayton ran a hand down his face and took a long pull of ale before continuing. “Shakin’ and droolin’. His eyes were too big.”
“Too big?”
“Bulgin’. The centers were big, too. Like Mrs. Varney’s.” Drayton took a shuddering breath. “Anyhow, Reaver picks up the poor bugger and tries to get a name. Nothin’. The man was chokin’ on his own throat. Reaver sends me out to search the garden behind the shop. High walls. A gate leadin’ out to an alley.” He rubbed at his leg again. “The shot came sudden. Scarcely turned round before the scrawny bastard slipped out the gate.”
Jonas’s neck itched. “Scrawny?”
“Aye. Thin as a girl, but moved like a boy.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Nah. Only caught a glimpse of his back. I took him for the apprentice. After the surgeon pulled the ball out of me, I attempted to find him, but the apothecary had no apprentices registered with the guild.”
“We concluded the boy had been paid to dispose of Lady Holstoke’s partner,” Dunston said. “She had a penchant for hiring young men to rid her of her difficulties.”
“So, you never learned what became of the boy who shot you.”
Drayton shook his head. “He disappeared. After a few years, I reckoned he returned whence he came or landed in a grave like many others who’d done tasks for Lady Holstoke.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Reaver remembers more.”
Jonas looked again at Dunston. “Care to make an introduction?”
The lean lord smiled. “Why not?”
A short while later, Jonas and Dunston stood inside a third-floor chamber in one of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London. Jonas took in the surroundings, noting the neatness and sturdiness of the furnishings. The room was less lavish than the rest of the club, but spacious and comfortable, for all that. Rising from behind a massive oak desk, a man more muscled and two inches taller than Rude Markham removed a pair of spectacles.
Dunston introduced him as Sebastian Reaver.
Jonas could see where the black-haired giant had acquired his reputation. He looked like he might break a man with a single blow.
“Hawthorn,” he rumbled, coming around the desk. Black eyes focused upon Jonas. “I’ve heard the name. And the complaints.”
“Thieves.” Jonas chuckled. “They cluck worse than a thousand hens.”
“Aye. Particularly when there’s a wolf in their midst who never fails to catch his supper. What brings you here?”
Jonas withdrew the sketch and handed it to the giant, who retrieved his spectacles and gave it a look. “Have you seen him?”
Reaver glowered down at the sketch and shook his head. “Who is he?”
“Another poisoner,” Dunston replied softly. “An admirer of Lady Holstoke’s work.” Dunston described the murderer’s deeds, his apparent fixation upon Lord Holstoke, and their suspicions about his methods.
Reaver’s eyes flashed and narrowed. “The formulations are different than hers, eh?”
“So says Lord Holstoke,” said Jonas.
“He would know.” Reaver grunted and shook his head. “Bloody brilliant, that one. Relentless, too. Went after his mother’s accomplices like a demon for several years after her death. Found her victims by matching descriptions of their deaths to her methods.”
Jonas knew that to be true. Holstoke had coldly explained his reasoning, his exhaustive process. He’d appeared emotionless, but after seeing the earl’s reaction to Lady Eugenia Huxley, Jonas tended to believe it was more a mask than his true nature. “Based on Holstoke’s analysis, it appears the killer’s formulations more closely resemble the poison used upon Lady Holstoke’s apothecary. You were there. What do you recall of that day?”
The giant ran a hand through his hair and rolled his massive shoulders. “It was no easy death. By the time we arrived, the man was insensible. Strangling.”
“Were you in the garden when Drayton was shot?”
“No. I heard the shot and ran out there. Saw a figure fleein’ out the gate.”
“Male or female?”
“Male. Wore a brown hat, coat, breeches. Moved like a boy.”
Drayton had said the same thing. Jonas pointed again to the sketch. “Could that have been him?”
Reaver looked again. “Never saw his face. I gave chase, but he disappeared quick as rum from a sailor’s flask. You believe the boy who shot Drayton is the killer?”
Jonas’s neck itched. “Perhaps. How tall was he?”
“Bit shorter than you. Thin. Fast.”
Jonas leveled a hand across the bridge of his nose. “About this tall?”
“Taller.”
Jonas moved his hand to his forehead.
“Aye.”
Bloody hell. Too tall. The killer had been described by Randall’s staff as around five-foot-eight. If Reaver’s memory was right, it could not be the same man.
With a grim scowl, Reaver looked to Dunston. “Does Miss Gray know of the blackguard’s fixation?” Reaver asked. “Is she safe?”
Everything inside Jonas shot to attention. His neck prickled. His hands itched. His hair nearly stood on end. Admittedly, his reaction was extreme, but the last topic he’d expected hear out of Reaver’s mouth was … her.
“Curious how Miss Gray was your first thought,” Jonas said softly, keeping his tone mild despite the odd urgency running through him. “Why is that, Mr. Reaver?”
Dunston cleared his throat. “Perfectly reasonable, my good man. Being Holstoke’s sister puts her within the killer’s sights—”
“But why her, specifically?” Jonas moved closer to the giant. “Why not the woman Holstoke married? Or Holstoke, himself?”
A hard, black gaze scoured and scanned, flashed and calculated. Finally, Reaver replied, “Because if this whoreson admires Lady Holstoke, he must surely despise the girl who shot her.”
Shot her. Sweet Christ. The cold, untouchable Miss Hannah Gray? He could not picture her deigning to lay her delicate fingers upon a gun, much less fire one. Jonas looked to Dunston, unaccountable fury rising in his chest.
Dunston glared at Reaver. “There was little need to tell him.”
“Every need,” the giant retorted. “She’ll be in danger. Again. If he’s to stop this blighter, he must know that.”
Danger again? Why the hell had she been in danger at all? “I need to know everything, Dunston.” Jonas snapped. “Everything.”
The other man sighed. “Hawthorn, all you need know is the girl suffered mightily because of Lady Holstoke. She shot the countess in defense of her life and that of others in the room, including me and my wife.”
“The records from the magistrate in Dorsetshire made no mention of this.”
Reaver answered, “We all vowed to protect her, and so we have. Bloody, bleeding hell, she’s been through enough, eh? Dunston is right. You needn’t know details. Just know she may be a target again.”
“Was it because she was a by-blow? Did Lady Holstoke—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dunston said flatly.
It mattered. Enough to make him want to pummel answers out of both men. Why, he could not say. Hannah Gray was the haughtiest of haughty females. Beautiful, of course. Cream-white skin. The most stunning eyes he’d ever seen. But from the moment they’d met, she’d treated him like the leavings of an ill-bred mount—repulsive and best avoided.
He should not give a damn whether she was in danger. He should not care that she’d “suffered mightily,” and had “been through enough.”
Just like he should not be dreaming of her at night and waking hard as stone.
Life was full of should.
They were interrupted by Reaver’s wife, who entered without knocking. She was tall. Auburn hair. Confident and regal. She swept toward her husband, one gloved hand resting upon her round, swollen belly. “Bastian, your sons have decided to steal Mr. Duff’s boots and ride them like a pony. Perhaps you can—oh!” She blinked. Glanced from Jonas to Dunston. “Lord Dunston. And …?”
Reaver moved to her side. The giant slid his arm around her, bracing her fully. “This is Hawthorn. He works at Bow Street.”
She inclined her head in queenly fashion. “A pleasure, Mr. Hawthorn.” Then, she gave a regretful smile. “Gentlemen, I fear I must steal away my husband.”
A deep, rumbling chuckle sounded. “Are the boys givin’ ye that much trouble, Gus?”
She gazed up at her husband with flagrant adoration. Then, she patted her belly. “This one is. He has dreadful timing.”
Reaver’s heavy muscles went rigid. Black eyes went wide. “No. Not for another—”
“Two weeks.” His wife sighed, her expression sheepish. “My calculations may have been off slightly.”
“Bloody, bleeding hell.”
“I do apologize, gentlemen.”
“Never mind them. We must get you home. Where is the coach?”
“The same place it was before. I asked Duff to collect the boys. They were not particularly cooperative.”
“Time to leave.” Reaver, looking panicked, bent and scooped his wife into his arms.
“Bastian! I am neither an invalid nor a valise. And this is the hardly the first time—”
Without another word to Jonas and Dunston, Reaver strode out of his office carrying his wife, who appeared to be on the verge of delivering him another babe.
Dunston retrieved Jonas’s sketch from the floor and handed it to him with a wry grin. “That will be the extent of his assistance, I’m afraid. Reaver is single-minded when it comes to his family.”
Jonas tucked his sketch into his pocket and gave Dunston a hard glare. “Which leaves you to answer my questions. A bit more fully this time, if you don’t mind.”
The dapper earl grinned. Then chuckled. “Come, Hawthorn. It so happens I am a member here at Reaver’s. Let us drink brandy and pretend we are civilized.”
Jonas did not smile. “I will have answers, my lord.”
“I do not doubt it, my good man.” Dunston clapped his shoulder with force rivaling Rude Markham’s. “Civilization first. Plenty of time for hunting hens later.”
*~*~*