A Risk Worth Taking (5 page)

“Is there a point to your comment, Captain Blackmoor?”

Griff spun to face his former commanding officer. The threat he presented forced Fitzhugh to step back.

“Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me there were still loose ends from our last mission during the war?”

Fitzhugh stiffened. “We thought we’d taken care of them.”

“Damn you, Fitzhugh! You’re the head of British Intelligence! You’re the one who sees the reports first. Why the hell didn’t you warn me that we hadn’t eliminated all of them?”

“We thought we had. The last
loose end
, as you call it, was eliminated after Fespoint was killed.”

“Who took care of it?”

“Hawkins.”

“Then there must have been someone else.”

“There couldn’t have been.”

Griff took a step closer to Fitzhugh. “If you don’t think there is a possibility of another agent out there, then why the hell are Hawkins and Johnston and Turner still following surveillance procedures? I’ve tailed them for nearly a month. They’re hunting for someone.”

“They’re following my orders. I’m simply making sure we didn’t overlook anything.”

Griff slammed his fist on the wooden railing and glared at Fitzhugh. “Now is a hell of a time to think you may have overlooked a stray killer.”

Several long, uncomfortable seconds of silence hung between them. Fitzhugh was the first to speak. “I’m going to credit your rudeness to the fact that you lost a dear friend, Blackmoor. And your accusations to the liquor
you’ve consumed. But don’t push me too far. I’m warning you. We’ve done everything possible and can’t find any evidence that anyone followed you to England.”

“Tell that to the late Marquess of Brentwood’s family. I’m sure it will be a great comfort to them.”

Fitzhugh reached into his pocket to pull out some papers. “These are Hawkins’s reports. Everything is included in them.”

Griff snatched the papers out of his former commander’s hand. It was too dark to read them here. But he didn’t want to wait to find out what they contained. “Humor me. What do they say?”

“Only what you already know. We discovered one more member of the spy ring. He was the one who killed Fespoint. We thought he was the last. We assumed that when Hawkins eliminated him, any threat to you was over.”

“Well, it wasn’t. Or the Marquess of Brentwood wouldn’t be dead.”

“You can’t be sure his death is related to what happened over there, Captain. There’s no proof.”

“What other reason can there be?”

“Maybe Brentwood had enemies and it was just your bad luck to be with him when he died.”

“You can’t be serious. Brentwood had no enemies.” Griff fisted his hands at his side. He’d lost the battle to hold his temper at bay.

Fitzhugh turned away from Griff and stared out into the fog. The message was clear. Their conversation was at an end.

Griff put the papers in his pocket and took a step back. “If you find out anything,” he said through clenched teeth, “I want to know.”

“You’re no longer under my command, Blackmoor. You resigned your commission.”

“I don’t give a good bloody damn. You’ll tell me what you know or I’ll find out on my own, Colonel. And you won’t like my methods. I can promise you.”

Griff walked away from the man who had been a friend to him since he’d been assigned to intelligence.

When he was far enough away to regain his temper, he reached into his pocket and drained the flask in one long swallow.

Then he headed for the nearest tavern.

O
ver the last three months, Griff had used every skill he’d perfected during the war to find the gunman responsible for Freddie’s death—and come up with nothing to show for his efforts. He was perilously close to running out of options, perilously close to running out of leads. But not once did he consider giving up. Vengeance was strong motivation.

He put his half-empty flask back in his pocket and made his way down the walk, keeping close to the rows of storefront buildings already locked up for the night.

He’d turned over every rock, followed up on every lead, talked to every person who might have seen anything that night. But as each lead ended in futility, his frustration consumed more of him. His fear that the killer had gotten away with another murder, and that he, Griffin Blackmoor, was the cause of another innocent person’s death, ate away at him like a deadly cancer.

At first he thought he’d lose his mind trying to battle the unrelenting guilt that refused to go away. But he’d figured out the amount of liquor he needed to consume every day to numb his emotions without affecting his ability to think. It was important that he always remain alert
enough to function—at least until the nightmares came. Nightmares that drove him to the brink of insanity.

Griff pulled the flask from his pocket and took another long swallow. Now he simply subsisted in a haze of blessed numbness, not sober enough to recall the faces of the people he’d condemned because of their association to him, yet not drunk enough to completely forget.

Griff kept his feet moving until he reached Waterman’s, the club to which every member of his family had belonged for generations. He stopped and stared at the doorway, not sure when he’d been here last. Not sure when he’d been anywhere last.

He swiped a hand over his brow and entered through the door the ever-present Harry held open for him.

“Good evening, Mr. Blackmoor.”

“Good evening, Harry. How are you this evening?”

“Fine, sir. And you?”

“Fine. Just fine. Send over a bottle, would you?”

“Right away, sir,” Harry said, but he didn’t rush off as he usually did. “Sir?”

Griff turned. “Is something wrong?”

“Not exactly wrong, sir. But you might want to consider that Lord Bington is here and avoid him tonight.”

Griff tried to recall the last time he’d seen Bingy. He couldn’t. “I take it I offended Lord Bington recently,” Griff said, handing over his coat and hat.

“Yes, I believe you did. It seems Lord Bington took offense at a disparaging remark you made regarding the lack of participation by any of his offspring in our war in the Crimea.”

The air caught in Griff’s chest. “A disparaging remark?” he asked, trying to remember the incident.

“Well, actually it wasn’t a remark, sir, but more an accusation because not one of Lord Bington’s six sons considered it their duty to serve their country. If I recall correctly, you compared several of Lord Bington’s sons to those brave soldiers who had given their lives for their country and found Lord Bington’s heirs, um…lacking.”

Griff ignored the stabbings of guilt that tore at him. Even if what he said was true, he’d had no right to make such comments in public. “I’ll try my best to avoid Lord Bington, Harry. Thanks for the warning.”

“My pleasure.” Harry cleared his throat and looked a little sheepish. “It’s only that I overheard Mr. Waterman himself remark that he wouldn’t tolerate any more disturbances where you are involved, Mr. Blackmoor.”

Griff nodded his understanding, then walked into the room. He found a table in the corner where he could be by himself, and waited impatiently for the bottle he’d ordered. The minute a footman brought it, he poured a liberal amount in a glass and drank it. He reached to fill the glass again but stopped when Viscount Sheridan, who was seated at a nearby table, greeted a stranger approaching him.

Griff intended to ignore Sheridan. They had never been close acquaintances, and from what Griff had heard of him, he had no intention of making any change in their relationship. But his intentions evaporated when Sheridan used Freddie’s title to greet the stranger.

“Brentwood,” Sheridan said, pulling out a chair for his guest. “Sit down and join me. I haven’t seen you since you
came into all that Brentwood wealth. I thought perhaps you considered friends from your old life too insignificant to bother with now that you possessed such a lofty title.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherry. You and I spent too much time in each other’s homes as youths. You know me better than that.”

“I do, friend. So, what has kept you from coming to London before now? It’s been more than three months since you’ve inherited. Is it true you’ve been so busy entertaining the late marquess’s sisters that you couldn’t tear yourself from their pleasant company to visit us?”

“Hardly. Lady Anne and her sister moved out of Brentwood Manor the day after the solicitor read the will. I’ve seen very little of them since. As the oldest, she watches out for her sibling as if I were the bad wolf in that appalling fairy tale.”

“Well, aren’t you?” Sheridan laughed a lot more raucously than Griff wanted to hear. “I thought maybe you’d be sharing your bed with at least one of them by now.”

“You wound me, Sherry. As their only remaining relative, I’ve taken them both under my wing for safekeeping.”

Viscount Sheridan slapped his hand on the table and laughed. “I thought you were going to tell me you’d taken them both into your bed.”

“Not yet, friend. Not yet. My first step was to offer them the old caretaker’s cottage to live in until they find another residence.”

“And when will that be?”

“Never.” Brentwood’s tone dripped with condescension. “Rumor has it they’ve already had to pawn some of their mother’s jewelry in order to put food on the table and buy
a few necessities. If they’re that lacking in funds, they can hardly afford to pay rent on a place to live as well. It won’t be long before they’ll have to accept my generosity.”

“You haven’t opened your pantry to them?”

“Such a magnanimous offer would only hinder my goal.”

“Which is?”

“To wait until they are desperate.”

“And then?”

“I’ll make my offer.”

“What offer?”

“Marriage, of course.”

“You intend to marry the late marquess’s sister? Lady Anne?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because she’s hardly your type, Brentwood. She must be all of twenty-five. It’s a well-known fact that when she had her coming out a few years back, she all but chased every eligible suitor away. Society still talks about it.”

Brentwood laughed. “I don’t doubt it. She hasn’t changed since then.”

Sheridan continued. “By all accounts, she’s turned into something of a recluse. Some even call her odd.”

“The only thing odd about her is she’s as cold as a block of ice. Being in the same room with her is like sitting next to a frozen statue.”

“Then why would you choose her for your bride?”

Brentwood laughed again and set his glass down with a loud thud. “I have my reasons. Besides, can you imagine anything more exciting than the submission of an unwilling wife?”

Griff fisted his hands around the glass in front of him and took a deep breath. Freddie had mentioned the distant cousin who would inherit his title and land if anything happened to him. Griff also remembered he hadn’t said anything good about him. The new marquess had a violent reputation with women that his overprotective family had kept secret. That did not speak well for the man who’d given Freddie’s sisters shelter—the man who intended to wed the sister Freddie called Annie.

Take care of Annie. Promise me.

Griff ignored the rest of the conversation between the two men and concentrated on refilling his glass, then emptying it. He refused to let Brentwood’s bragging over his good fortune due to Freddie’s death affect him. He refused to consider helping Freddie’s sister as Freddie had begged him to. The only way he could protect her was to stay as far away from her as possible.

Eventually, the two men rose to visit a brothel that specialized in satisfying the darker side of a man’s sexual appetites. Griff watched them go, then finished another glass of liquor. He tried to forget what he’d overheard but couldn’t. He tried to forget about Freddie’s sisters—but couldn’t. Especially the one he remembered standing alone at the window. The one called Annie, who seemed able to see through him to his very soul.

She was alone now. What if she found herself forced to marry such a man to support herself and her sister? What if she had no choice but to submit to such a man night after night?

Griff released the glass before it broke.

Take care of Annie. Promise me.

He pushed his chair back and stumbled to his feet. He needed to get out of here. Needed to go where he could be alone.

He threw the remaining liquor to the back of his throat and took one step forward. Fingers of iron clamped tight around his arm and stopped him.

“Griff. Sit down.”

Griff turned around too fast and took an unsteady step backward. When he was able to focus, he found himself looking into his brother’s angry features.

“Adam. What an unpleasant surprise.” Griff pulled his arm free with a jerk. “If you’ll excuse me, I was about to leave.”

Adam pointed to the chair Griff had just vacated. “I’d like to talk to you if you don’t mind.”

“Well, I do mind.”

“It’s important, Griff.”

Griff stared at his brother. A knot of unease welled inside him. “Leave me alone, Adam. It’s late. I want to go home.”

Griff staggered toward the door. He had to get out of here. Had to go someplace where he could be alone. Someplace where he could forget the deaths he’d been responsible for. Someplace where the memories wouldn’t haunt him.