The Devil In Disguise (16 page)

He set the pewter tankard on the rough-hewn, scarred tabletop and took in his surroundings. He’d heard of the Wily Wolf, a popular gathering place for London’s criminally inclined, and he had to admit, it lived up to its reputation.

Scant light threw ominous shadows around the interior. Smoke from the tallow candles hovered in a thick cloud against the ceiling and hazed the room, preventing clients from getting more than a minimal view of their fellow drinkers.

It was a sizeable room, though Will had counted a total of only twelve tables and a large bar that ran along the back wall; hardly surprising in such an establishment, where privacy was a necessity.

Will gestured for the serving girl to bring him another ale and eased back onto the hard wooden bench. He allowed his eyelids to droop, the half-hooded appearance affording him the opportunity to observe while appearing uninteresed.

He knew most of the cutthroats present; his Young Corinthian duties had brought him into contact with many of them. One-Eyed Jack, named for the eyeball he’d lost to the knife of a business associate, slumped over a plate of alehouse food in the back. His stringy gray hair fell across his face, nearly covering the large black patch concealing his empty socket.

The man sitting opposite One-Eyed Jack had his back to Will, but from his size and build it could only be Monty Milburn, or “The Mountain” as he was called by friend and foe alike. Monty often worked with Jack, hitting the respectable neighborhoods of London with a ragtag army of street urchins. From bank notes to valuable jewelry, the two made a living off the ton, a fact that made Will smile quietly.

Jack and Monty were harmless enough. The two sitting across the room from them were not.

Owner of the brothel Giselle’s, Clive Baskers was a ruthless, moneygrubbing bastard who, by all accounts, enjoyed killing far too much. Rumor had it that more than one man had gone missing from the rooms above his gambling hell. Since the dead men were always from the lower class, Baskers had no need to worry that the authorities would bother with the matter.

Will watched the brothel owner for a moment. His gaunt frame rattled each time he coughed and spat into a worn handkerchief in his hand. But tonight, Will was more interested in the man who accompanied Baskers. Philip Gaston, a Frenchman of questionable lineage who owned a stake in the brothel. Gaston had sworn allegiance to no one, offering up information to the highest bidder regardless of their loyalties.

He’d frequently provided intelligence to the Young Corinthians through a network of communication that ensured he was kept at arm’s length and never given the opportunity to guess the true identities of the agents.

Despite his belief that the Corinthians net of secrecy held fast, Will was thankful for the rough workman’s clothing Smithers had provided him in the carriage. A secret compartment beneath the cushioned seat contained everything Will might need in the line of duty. Clothing, assorted weapons, money, and a number of other items occupied the compartment, all magically replenished by Smithers when necessary.

Will fingered the lapel of the nondescript coat he was currently wearing, absentmindedly noting the difference between the coarse wool and the smooth quality of the evening attire he’d donned for the theater earlier in the evening.

He would not be so stupid as to entertain thoughts of Lucinda outside of the confines of Corinthian business again, he brooded, tracking a pair of drunken seamen as they staggered toward the long bar. Her mercurial mood had left Will confused and frustrated—a far cry from what he’d been hoping for.

But he would not allow a woman, not even Lucinda, to distract him in such a way ever again.

The serving wench came toward his table, her tray heavy with full tankards. She set one in front of him on the table. “Can I offer you anything else?” she asked, leaning over to show her impressive breasts.

“No, thank you, love,” Will replied, reaching for the tankard.

“ ’Ave it your way,” she answered in her thick Cockney accent, then lowered her voice. “You’re needed out back, I’m to tell you. By a man with the breath of a dragon. He dinnat give a name, just said you’d know ’im.”

Will reached inside his coat and pulled out several coins. He tossed enough for the two ales on the table, then added another. “Thank you.”

The wench eyed the money greedily. “Anytime. Anytime,” she replied, scooping up the coins and dropping them into her ample cleavage.

Will took one last swig of ale before sliding out of the booth. He tugged the brim of his hat lower over his brow and made his way toward the door, careful to not move too quickly. The last thing he needed was for one of these men to become curious.

Garenne pushed his stew about, forking a chunk of mutton into his mouth and chewing. His beard itched as did the snarled wig atop his head, but he hardly noticed as he swallowed the gristley meat. Watching Clairemont from across the tavern had proven enjoyable for any number of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that the giant knew nothing of his presence.
“Idiot,”
he muttered to himself, nearly choking on the inferior cut of meat.

It galled Garenne to admit that such a man had kept him from success, but he would not have to suffer at the hands of the duke for long. The man had made a disastrous mistake interfering with plans for Lady Lucinda Grey, but he would pay. Slowly, methodically, and, with any luck, painfully. The duke would pay.

It was a pity that Garenne himself would not be the one to deliver the death blow, but there were details to decide upon and he would not leave one out of place.

Garenne tossed a coin onto the planked table and moved toward the door. No, everything would be in order and the woman would be caught. Or else.

Once the tavern’s heavy door slammed shut, the dark night shrouded Will. The moonlight was faint, thick clouds nearly concealing the pale curve. Will picked his way around the decrepit building, dodging refuse and a trio of scavenging, half-starved dogs along the way. The rear of the tavern was cast in shadow, the meager light glimmering from two dirty windows above the establishment not enough for Will’s liking.

The hair on his neck stood up, a sign he had learned to trust years before. He spun, backing up against the wall, and pulled a knife from a sheath sewn inside his coat.

“Gaston, I trust you know better than to screw with me,” he said sternly, quickly assessing his surroundings and calculating his escape routes.

A flash of silver caught the light. Will braced himself as a dark figure flew out of the blackness at the back of the alley, followed closely by a second and third. Will pressed against the wall and waited, dropping to his knees at the last second.

The first man missed Will and hit the wall hard, the sound of his face connecting with brick filling the air. He crumpled on the ground to Will’s right, moaning.

Will drove forward, slamming his fist into the second man’s groin and sending him flying backwards into a massive pile of rubbish. But before Will could spin to face the third, he attacked from behind, slashing a knife across Will’s back and slicing deep before grabbing his shoulder and dragging him around to face him.

He kicked Will’s knife from his hand, a second vicious kick catching Will’s chin. Will dropped to the ground, stars whirling as his sight dimmed, and before he could recover, the man straddled him.

The attacker’s lips curled in an evil grin, his bared teeth gritting with exertion as he struggled to hold Will down.

“He said you’d put up a fight,” he spat out, gloating as his fingers closed on Will’s throat and he raised the knife. “You gentry coves are all the same.”

A potent mixture of anger and bitterness raced through Will’s veins.

He roared, startling the man sitting on his chest just enough to make him slacken his grip. Will grabbed a thick piece of firewood on the ground beside him and swung.

The savage blow clubbed the man on the side of his head, sending him flying backwards. Will shoved upright and hit him in the rib cage, then the leg. The attacker screamed.

“We are not all the same, you useless bastard,” Will panted, leaning over the man.

He readied himself to deliver the death blow, his arm arching over his head with the wood in hand.

At the last moment Will lowered the weapon and stood back. “You’re not worth the effort.”

He moved toward the alley, cutting across two streets to where a hackney waited. “The Young Corinthians,” he told the driver, slamming the door himself.

The cab came to life, the pull of the horse throwing Will back against the seat. He cried out in pain, his injuries just starting to make themselves known.

Sheer force of will was keeping him conscious despite the blackness that threatened, beckoning just at the edge of his vision. He began to count, this time starting at one hundred.

“You’re bleeding,” Weston observed as he helped Will into the back parlor of the Corinthian Club. “Profusely, actually.”

Will winced with pain when Weston’s arm pressed against the wound on his back. “I’m well aware of that,” he ground out, allowing the man to aide him as they mounted the stairs.

He’d managed to drag his battered and bruised body to a hackney, sheer will keeping him conscious despite the blackness that threatened, beckoning just at the edge of his vision. The ride from the Wily Wolf to his waiting carriage had seemed an eternity, the wound across his upper back burning with pain.

By the time they reached the lower floor and the two made their way to a bookcase, third from center of the shelves lining both sides of the hallway, Will was leaning heavily on Weston’s strength. Without comment, Weston reached for the slim volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He pulled hard on the false book, triggering a hidden mechanism, and the section of the wall swung out, revealing a second hallway, lit by Argand lamps.

“Shall I carry you from here?” Weston asked, winking at Will.

Will fought off the urge to punch the man, knowing he’d only injure himself further if he did so. “Do and you’ll live to regret it.”

They entered the last room on the right in silence. Carmichael and the Corinthian’s physician met them at the door.

“On the table, Your Grace.”

Will followed the physician’s orders and awkwardly eased facedown onto the table, unable to silence a small grunt of pain. Wordlessly, the men took out knives and cut his shirt off.

“Hmm,” the physician muttered deep in his throat, then reached for a cloth, dipping it into a basin of water.

Will flinched when he began to clean the wound, a sharp wave of pain nearly knocking him unconscious.

Carmichael handed Will a silver flask. “Drink this.”

“All of it,” the physician added, finishing with the cloth.

Will turned his head to the side and swallowed the contents of the flask, the brandy slowly warming him from the inside out.

“How did this happen?” Carmichael asked, the anger in his voice barely contained.

Will lowered the empty flask to the tabletop, next to his face. “The usual way. A knife. A stiletto, if I’m not mistaken.”

His flip response met with clear disapproval, Carmichael’s mouth tightening to a grim, thin line. “More importantly, perhaps,
why
did this happen?”

“I’ve been told that meetings with Gaston are usually quite predictable,” Will began, flinching as the physician began to stitch his flesh back together. “I had no reason to believe this one would be any different.”

“Need I remind you that Garenne is here, in London?”

“Of course not,” Will growled in response.

Weston pulled a slim flask from his coat and offered it to Will. “Gaston is a right bastard, but he’s never betrayed us before.”

“Well, now he has,” Carmichael hissed, turning his back to the trio.

Will emptied the second flask and handed it to Weston. “We’ll take further precautions, old man. You have my word.”

Carmichael turned back, his eyes shuttered once more. “Let us hope you live long enough to make good on that.”

“I want him to come,” Lucinda spoke out loud, ripping the petal off an errant wildflower that she’d pilfered from Tristan’s shaggy mane. “I do not want him to come,” she continued, another poor petal meeting its untimely demise.

It was a dreary, gray morning, the lovely spring flowers in the fields that bordered Lover’s Walk in Hyde Park doing little to lift Lucinda’s spirits.

She looked up at the sky, noting the full clouds that threatened rain at any moment. She slowed Tristan to a plodding walk and allowed him to wander off the path and drop his head to the green grass.

She’d barely slept the night before, the evening spent with Will and his family occupying her thoughts entirely. Lucinda could not say what she’d expected from the duke, but it was certainly not what had transpired.

He’d been the perfect gentleman—charming, polite, and utterly devoid of any sign of a connection beyond what was expected. Then his demeanor had changed drastically, his assumption that he held any real power over her as a suitor irritating at best.

She’d struggled to keep from whispering her feelings in his ear the moment Grimaldi had taken the stage, Will’s use of her given name pure music to her ears. And then he’d transformed into what, she couldn’t quite tell. It was all quite upsetting.

Tristan abruptly stopped grazing and raised his head, his ears pricking forward at the sound of someone approaching.

Lucinda tossed the flower to the ground and reached for the reins. Tamping down her nervousness, she blew out a breath and sat straight in her saddle. A raindrop landed on her nose sigh. “Perfect,” she muttered, tucking a lock of stray hair behind her ear.

To her surprise, the horse cantering toward her was not the majestic King Solomon’s Mine. The mount was a stout chestnut, his rider’s build not as bulky as Will’s and the man was fairer in coloring. Lucinda narrowed her eyes in an effort to make out the man’s identity but could not, and resigned herself to turn Tristan about in order to face the oncoming rider.

The stranger pulled the chestnut to a walk and slowly approached. “Lady Lucinda Grey?”