The Highwayman (5 page)

“I
know
it is,” Morley said.

The hollow sound of amusement Blackwell produced yet again reminded Farah of the dark jaguar. “Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance.”

The man quoted Confucius? How unfair that a man such as he could be so clever, dangerous, rich, powerful,
and
well read. Farah stifled a sigh, then, alarmed by her reaction to him, straightened her spine and took up her quill, ready to swipe the efficient shorthand across her paper.

“Enough of this.” Morley crossed to her. “Are you ready for the interrogation to begin, Mrs. Mackenzie?”

Her name seemed to zing about the room like an errant insect, hurling itself against the steel and stone and echoing back to the man chained in the middle.

“Mackenzie.”
Farah couldn't be certain, but she thought the word may have been absorbed by Blackwell and then uttered by him. But as she glanced through her lashes at a scowling Morley, she noted that he hadn't seemed to detect it.

“Of course,” she murmured, and made a show of dipping her pen.

Morley turned back to Blackwell, his square face set with grim determination. “Tell me what you did with Justice Cranmer. And don't bother denying it was you, Blackwell; I know he was the magistrate that sentenced you to Newgate fifteen years hence.”

“So he was.” Blackwell didn't so much as twitch a muscle.

Fifteen years ago at Newgate? Farah's head snapped up, her pen creating a loud scratch against the table. It couldn't be that he was there at the same time as—

“And those missing guards,” Morley continued, his voice louder now, more desperate. “They were assigned to your ward during your stay there.”

“Were they?”

“You bloody well know they were!”

Blackwell lifted a shoulder in a helpless gesture that seemed to say, I would help you if I could, which enraged Morley to no end. “All you bobbies look the same to me. Those ridiculous mustaches and unflattering hats. It's almost impossible to tell you apart, even if I wanted to.”

“It's too much coincidence for the courts to ignore this time!” Morley said victoriously. “It's only a matter of time before you're dancing at the end of a rope from the gallows in front of Newgate, the very hole from which you slithered.”

“Confirm one shred of evidence in your possession.” Blackwell's soft challenge was threaded with steel. “Better yet, produce one witness who would dare speak against me.”

Morley maneuvered around that pitfall. “The whole of London knows your penchant for swift and fierce vengeance. I could pick any half-wit off the street and they'd raise their hand to God and swear you'd done in the judge who'd sentenced you to seven years in prison.”

“You and I both know that it will take more than heresy and reputation to convict one such as I, Morley,” Blackwell scoffed. Craning his neck to look at Farah with his good eye, he addressed her directly, which caused her stomach to clench and her hands to tremble with even more violence. “Add my solemn, official confession to the records,
Mrs. Mackenzie,
and note that I swear by its absolute truth.”

Farah said nothing, as always demonstrating her professionalism to the prisoner by ignoring him. Of course, though, he had her absolute undivided attention. That face. That savage, masculine face. All angles and intrigue and darkness. Handsome, but for the scar and the startlingly blue eye, which she found both repellent and compelling.

“I, Dorian Everett Blackwell, never have had any emotional antipathy toward High Court Justice Lord Roland Phillip Cranmer the Third. I was guilty of the crime of petty theft, for which he sentenced me to seven years in Newgate Prison, and I solemnly swear that I have learned my lesson.” This was said, of course, in that ironic way that made one doubt the veracity of every word.

Farah could only stare at him, completely absorbed, trying to unravel the message burning at her from his one good eye with a foreign and alarming desperation. She felt as though the very devil was both toying with her
and
warning her. “You understand, don't you, Mrs. Mackenzie?” Blackwell murmured, his hard mouth barely moving as the intensity of his regard pinned her to her seat. “The deeds of a willful youth.”

A thrill of danger kissed her spine.

“Horseshit!” Morley roared.

Dorian turned back to face him, and Farah was able to let out a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding as the black spell he'd woven over her suddenly dissipated.

“For shame, Morley,” he mockingly chided. “Such language in front of a lady?”

“
She
is my employee,” Sir Morley gritted through clenched teeth. “And I'll thank you not to bother about her if you want to keep the vision in the eye you have left.”

“I can hardly help myself. She's such a ripe piece of skirt.”

“Bite. Your. Tongue.”

Farah had never seen Sir Morley so angry. His lips pulled back from his teeth. A vein pulsed in his forehead. This was a man she'd never met before.

“Tell me, Morley,” Blackwell calmly but ruthlessly persisted. “How much time does she spend at her own desk, as opposed to beneath yours, with her lips affixed to your—”

Sir Morley erupted, driving his fist into Dorian Blackwell's face with a force she'd not thought him capable of.

Blackwell's head snapped to the side, and an angry split tore into the corner of his lower lip. But to Farah's astonishment, the large, dark man made no sound of pain, not even a grunt. He simply brought his head back around to face the wrathful inspector before him.

Sir Morley glanced over Blackwell's ebony hair at Farah, a glint of shame touching his gaze.

“Gather your things, Mrs. Mackenzie. You are dismissed.” His blue eyes lit with an anticipatory rage when he looked back down at his prisoner. “You don't need to see this.”

Farah stood suddenly, her chair scraping with a jarring screech as she protested. “But sir, I—I don't think—”

“Leave, Farah!
Now,
” he commanded.

Breathlessly, Farah gathered her paper, pen, and ink, surprised that her cold, shaking hands obeyed her. As she passed Dorian Blackwell, he turned his head toward her and spat a mouthful of blood onto the stones beside him, though it didn't reach the hem of her skirts.

“Yes, Farah Mackenzie, you
should
run.” The voice was so savage and cold Farah thought her mind might be playing tricks. That she may have imagined that when he said her name, a note of something like warm recognition thrummed through the words. “We're going to be here yet a while.”

Turning back to him with a gasp, she was surprised to see that Blackwell wasn't watching her leave. Instead, his face lifted toward Morley, who stood over him, hands fisted at his sides.

Of all the evil Farah had had a chance to glimpse in this room, Dorian Blackwell's smile, full of his own blood and teeth and challenge, had to be the most frightening Farah had witnessed in her entire life. His eyes were dead, devoid of any hope or humanity, the milky blue one utterly motionless but for the reflection of the torchlight lending it an unnatural pagan gleam.

Farah turned from the sight and swept out of the room, past the silent inspectors who followed her progress with rapt attention.

It took everything she had, but she kept her trembling hidden until she was alone.

 

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

Three nights later, Inspector Ewan McTavish struck a match on the gray stones of St. Martin-in-the-Fields and leaned against the rear of the building while feeding the embers of his well-worn cigar. He scanned the shadows of Duncannon Street thinking that, once he'd concluded his appointment, he might pay a visit to Madame Regina's down on Fleet Street. As always, after these clandestine meetings, he developed an itch born of the life-affirming feeling of having escaped the reaper. It would take two or three goes with a doxy to feel like himself again.

“Thinking of that new little Parisian skirt at Madame Regina's?” The voice that had become the stuff of his nightmares caused McTavish to all but jump out of his skin.

“Jesus kilt-lifting Christ, Blackwell!” he wheezed, retrieving his fallen cigar from the soggy ground with a petulant scowl. “How is it a man of yer size can slither through the shadows with nary a sound?”

If McTavish had his way, he'd never again have to see the Blackheart of Ben More crack a smile, for the fine hairs on his body would stand on end for hours after.

“That was all well done of you,” Blackwell remarked. “You executed your orders admirably.”

“Wasna easy,” McTavish groused, finding it difficult to meet the expression of bemused calculation on Blackwell's cruel features. “Disbanding yer mob and sneaking records into yer cell while trying to hide my actions from my precinct. Ye're lucky I'm not the only one loyal to ye at Scotland Yard.”

If it was difficult to look Blackwell in the face, it was nigh impossible to meet his eerie, scrutinizing gaze. No one knew just how well the Blackheart of Ben More could see through his blue eye, but when it fixed on you, a man felt like his skin had been flayed open and his darkest sin exposed.

“I am a great many things, Inspector, but lucky has never been one of them.”

McTavish found himself wishing he'd be as
unlucky
as the impeccably dressed blackguard in front of him. Rich as Midas, they said, powerful as a Caesar, and ruthless as the devil. So he didn't have a pretty face for the ladies to coo over, but a man such as Dorian Blackwell drew feminine notice wherever he prowled. Fear and fascination proved to be powerful tools of seduction, and women reacted one way or the other toward the dark giant.

“Why'd ye do it, anyway?” McTavish asked. “Why summon yer men for a riot only to send them away?”

Ignoring his question, Blackwell reached into his dark overcoat and produced a gold cylinder. From it, he pulled a brand-new cigar, which he handed to McTavish, who could only stare at it for a moment, hoping he lived long enough to finish it.

“I thank ye, sir,” he said hesitantly, taking it and holding the fragrant treasure to his mustache before biting off the end. Blackwell struck a match with his gloved hand, and McTavish had to fortify himself to lean close enough to light it. His need won out, though, as he was pretty sure he'd never have the occasion for such an expensive smoke again. “Well, I only knew ye'd have to get yer hide in front of Justice Singleton and ye'd be walking the streets free as an alley cat. Morley didn't have a thing on ye.”

“Indeed.”

The flame of the match illuminated Blackwell's features and McTavish gave a little sympathetic wince. “He really went to work on yer face.” He noted the healing lip and multiple bruises on Blackwell's cheekbones. “Whatever grudge he's holding against ye, it's powerful.”

“As police beatings go, this was rather minor,” Blackwell said almost genially.

McTavish blanched. “Let me be the first to apologize for—”

Blackwell held up a hand to silence him. “Before I pay you, I require some information.”

Puffing on his own little piece of heaven, McTavish nodded. “Anything.”

The Blackheart leaned down. “Tell me
everything
you know about Mrs. Farah Mackenzie.”

Pausing mid-puff, McTavish asked, “Mrs. Mackenzie—the clerk?”

Blackwell was still and silent, but his droll stare was easy to interpret, even in the darkness.

Perplexed, McTavish scratched the back of his neck, trying to think of anything interesting to say about the woman. “She's been around as long as any of us can remember. Before me, even, and I started at Scotland Yard seven or eight years ago. Come to think of it, though, I havena learned much about her in all that time. She's efficient and well liked, but keeps to herself. Quiet. Which is a rare and commendable female trait, in my experience. She works harder than the other two clerks, but gets paid less.”

“What sort of
work
does Morley have her do?”

“Oh, the usual sort of clerical business. Bookkeeping, records, paperwork, supply orders, courier bookings, note-taking, filing documents at court, that sort of thing.”

Blackwell remained motionless. Expressionless. But McTavish could feel the hairs rising on his neck again. He was trained to read people, and though the Blackheart of Ben More was an enigma, the inspector in him noted that his gloved hand was clenched just a little too tight.

“Her husband?”

“A Scotsman, if ye'd believe it.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Next to nothing. Story goes she married young and he's a long time dead…”

“And?” Blackwell prompted, belying more impatience than McTavish had thought him capable.

McTavish shrugged. Intrigued, but knowing better than to show it. “That's pretty much all we know, come to think of it. Sure, we've speculated over the years, but she's never inclined to talk about it, and it's not polite to ask a lady about such matters.”

“Is she … romantically involved with any of the men employed at Scotland Yard?”

McTavish found the idea so ludicrous, he laughed aloud. “Were she not such a pretty bird, most of us would forget she's even a woman.”

“So … no one?”

“Well, the rumor is she's been spending an increasing number of evenings out with Sir Morley.”

They simultaneously spat on the stones at the mention of the chief inspector, and Dorian's split lip curled with disgust.

McTavish froze. Something about the increasing intensity of Blackwell's demeanor caused his heart to kick. “I think he's sniffing around the wrong skirts for what he wants,” he hurried to say, waving his hand as though it was of no consequence.