Latymer (3 page)

Undoubtedly true. Mac would never want to be on anything other than on Somerton’s good side. Unless, of course, Somerton tried to stop Mac from killing Latymer—then he would not care which side of the spymaster he was on.

The outer door to the tavern swung open. Every eye in the establishment, including Mac’s, turned to scrutinize the newcomer, a difficult feat given the dense layer of smoke hanging about the room.

A gentleman wearing a black hat and clothes too fine for this working-class establishment, yet not fine enough for the
ton,
ducked beneath the doorframe. Cameron Adair doffed his hat, revealing dark brown hair and sharp chiseled features. His intelligent eyes cut through the gloom, searching until he spotted Mac and Somerton in a far corner. He began a winding path toward them. His lean, athletic build moved through the clutter of tables and tightly pressed bodies with an odd masculine grace.

The last time he’d seen Adair, the thief-taker had been covered in the blood of Mac’s twin brother, Mick, after Latymer had buried a bullet in his twin’s chest.

When Adair reached their table, he said, “Lord Somerton. O’Donnell.”

Somerton rose to shake the thief-taker’s hand. “Mr. Adair, please have a seat.”

Adair ignored the chair Somerton indicated, which would have meant sitting with his back to the room. Instead, he dragged a chair from another table and set it near Somerton’s.

“Have you located Latymer?” Somerton asked.

“Yes and no.”

“Start with the yes,” Somerton said.

“I’ve come across paperwork that would indicate Latymer either owns or leases several different buildings across London and a few outside the city.”

“Vast property ownership is not uncommon among the nobility.”

“True.” Adair’s voice cooled. “However, Latymer has taken great pains to conceal his association with each of these properties by placing them under different variations of the same name.”

“How do you know Latymer’s behind the name?” Mac asked.

Adair smiled faintly. “I saw the evidence with my own eyes.”

Mac wondered whose home or business Adair had invaded in order to find the information. Latymer would know better than to keep such evidence at hand.

“And the no?” Somerton asked.

“Latymer remains at large, though not for long.”

The muscles in Mac’s neck tightened. “How can you be sure? He could be on his way to France by now.”

“Anything is possible. There are far too many ways for a desperate man to escape the city. Given the fact that he was overheard coaxing his son from Abbingale with promises of sailing on a big ship, I’m concentrating my efforts around the docks. The question is which one and when.”

“Where do we start?” Mac asked.

“My men have already begun the search,” he said dismissively.

Mac’s teeth clenched against the thief-taker’s unspoken refusal to involve him. “Give me the addresses to the buildings away from the river.”

“Likely a waste of your time.”

“Better to waste it doing something rather than nothing.”

Adair glanced at Somerton, who nodded his consent. The silent communication between the two men rankled Mac’s already stretched nerves. In the clouded, logical part of his mind, he understood. Adair’s contract to find Latymer was with Somerton, not him, nor the Hunt Agency. And yet…

Reaching into a coat pocket, Adair produced a folded sheet of paper and offered it to Mac. “This is a list of all nine properties Latymer has been associated with. I’ll take the top four, the next three are country estates. The rest—do with as you wish.”

Mac rose, fighting the urge to slam the heel of his boot into the thief-taker’s face. He grabbed the list, unfolded it, committed the addresses to memory, and tossed the paper onto the table. “I’ll start with the last two addresses in London. If neither bear fruit, I’ll be joining you at the docks.”

“I’ll come with you,” Somerton said.

“There is no need. I can handle this.”

“Keep me informed of your progress, O’Donnell.” Somerton’s voice held a harder edge. “The more we work together, the faster we can locate Latymer.”

Nodding, Mac strode from the tavern. He counted to ten before slowly rolling the tension from his shoulders. He needed to save his anger for Latymer. At the moment, nothing else mattered, because Somerton was right. The sooner they found Latymer, the sooner Mac could avenge his brother and then move on with his life. An image of a petite, no-nonsense blonde danced fleetingly across his mind.

Mac definitely had something better to move on to.

GILES

10:49 p.m.

Near the White Tower

If only everything would go back to the way it was before the AWFUL DAY.

Before the awful day, Mama would take me to the park where we would munch on lemon biscuits and I would play with the other children all afternoon. Before the awful day, Papa would spend hours on the floor, helping me position my British and French toy soldiers in preparation for their next bloody skirmish. Before the awful day, when the mean men came to take me away to that terrible place, I was never scared.

Not like now. Now, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t scared. And cold. 

Scrunching my shoulders together, I buried my fists under my arms and hurried to catch up. I squinted hard to keep the tall figure in sight. It was so dark. The street lamps did little to cut through the shadows and fine mist.

I know I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed where Papa told me to, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. What if Papa never came back, like Mama? What if the mean men showed up again and took me away? This time, forever?

Papa would be angry if he found out I had disobeyed him and followed him. I shivered, thinking about how he might punish me. I don’t like any of the lessons Papa teaches me when I’m bad, but silence is the worst. One time, he didn’t talk to me for five days. I wasn’t bad for a very long time after that lesson.

This time is different. It’s not at all like running over Mama’s new carpet in my muddy shoes for the third time. No, this time is about making sure Papa doesn’t die like Mama. All I have to do is stay with him and keep him safe.

Up ahead, Papa slowed his furious pace. After crossing an intersection, he approached a shiny black carriage that rested along—I glanced around to find a street sign—St. Catherine’s Lane. Rising above the buildings behind the carriage, I caught a glimpse of the White Tower. Mama and Papa took me there once. I liked the ravens that protected the fortress far more than hearing the tales of torture that had happened inside.

The carriage door opened and a well-dressed gentleman wearing glasses and carrying a leather bag stepped out. Papa glanced up at the driver and then motioned for the passenger to join him near the back of the carriage.

I wanted to move closer so I could hear what they were saying, but there was no place for me to hide. Instead, I pressed up against the nearest building, like Papa had taught me, and waited.

After exchanging a few words, Papa pulled a letter from his coat pocket and handed it to the gentleman, who slipped it inside his own pocket. Papa pointed to the hidden letter and seemed to be giving the gentleman instructions.

Movement to the left caught my attention. A pretty, dark-haired woman wearing an unusual dress and a large blond-haired man strode down the pavement between the row of buildings and the black carriage. Unlike Mama’s narrow skirts, the woman’s dress stopped several inches above her ankle, allowing her to walk much more freely.

I stared at the forbidden sight of her skirts bouncing against her tiny boot-clad ankles until she and the gentleman disappeared behind the carriage. Heat rose into my cool cheeks, and I glanced guiltily toward Papa in time to see the well-dressed gentleman giving Papa a string-tied packet.

What was this secret meeting about?

The pretty woman and the large man emerged on the opposite side of the carriage. She immediately drew close to the well-dressed gentleman whose back faced her. Suddenly, I could see his eyes open wide, and then his mouth gaped open in an
O
of shock. He plunged facefirst into Papa, who caught him and lowered him to the ground.

Confused, I watched the pretty lady step away from the protection of the carriage. She smiled at Papa. Then I noticed the large knife in her hand. It dripped with blood. I shrank back, my heart pounding.

Someone yanked the driver down and slapped the horses into motion. The carriage bolted down the street, revealing the driver’s crumpled form on the pavement. Thick, dark liquid pooled around his head.

Papa grabbed for the fallen packet at the same time the knife-wielding lady kicked it away. Focused on the packet, Papa failed to notice the second, larger man coming at him.

“Papa, behind you!” I called out.

Papa whirled around, ducking a split second before the man’s massive fist connected with the side of his head. Papa landed a hard punch to the man’s lower back, the impact making his spine arch. The man bellowed with rage. Papa didn’t stop. He thrashed the man until he lay unmoving on the street.

“My, my,” the lady said in a husky, French-accented voice. “Such vigor, William.” She held up her hand in a staying action when the first big man charged for Papa.

“Collette.” Papa straightened, pulling a blade from his sleeve. “What are you doing here?” His attention shifted briefly in my direction, long enough for me to see his thunderous expression.

“Your son?” the lady asked, her smile broadening.

I glanced around and felt the blood drain from my face. No longer did I stand in the protective shadows of the building. Now, I stood at the edge of the street. Out in the open, vulnerable, and in trouble.

“Who sent you? Bonaparte?” Papa asked.

“Seems you’ve been a naughty boy, darling. The emperor is not happy with you. He wanted that list of agents. He wanted it badly.”

Napoleon Bonaparte?
I shuffled closer.

“I told his first assassin the list did not exist. Somerton would not be so careless as to commit the names of his Nexus agents to paper.”

She waved a negligent hand in the air. “Men in power often become deaf to reason.”

My shock at being caught faded when I realized Papa knew the French lady. How could this be? And why was Papa carrying a knife up his sleeve?

“So he sent you,” Papa said.

Fingering the tip of her bloody knife, she began to move in a circle around him. “He felt the situation needed a woman’s touch. We do tend to be much more tidy in these circumstances, don’t you think?”

The big man circled around Papa from the opposite direction.

“Papa,” I whispered.

As if he’d heard me, his dark eyes bore into mine. “Run,” I heard him say.

I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. I couldn’t leave him.

The lady began to walk in my direction, a look of determination on her face. Something about her eyes seemed lifeless and cold…empty somehow. A tremble of unease started in my stomach.

“Run, Giles. Run!” Papa roared.

Fighting back a sob, I turned. And ran.

PART TWO

DESPERATE FATHER

LATYMER

3:14 a.m.

Three minutes. That’s all it had taken for Latymer to incapacitate Collette’s last bodyguard and follow in her and Giles’s wake. But three minutes had been three too many, because both his son and the French assassin had disappeared into the warren that was London’s streets.

Losing his son was only part of his heartache.
The Gladys
had set sail, and another ship wouldn’t be bound for America for five more weeks. Five weeks. They would be lucky to survive the next five hours. Keeping safe for over another month seemed nigh on impossible.

Right now, he couldn’t think about
The Gladys
or America. His one and only concern at this moment was locating Giles.
Dammit, where is he?

An hour later, Latymer had investigated every nook and cranny between the Tower, his office near the docks, and Somerton House. Out of desperation, he’d even gone to Abbingale Home, only to discover the boys’ home inexplicably closed down.

The only place left to look for his son—the only place he could imagine Giles would go—was the little house he’d bought for Lydia and Giles. They’d all been happy there once. He used to visit them several times a week, more when his schedule had allowed. On occasion, he had taken them on sightseeing outings or found private spots for the three of them to enjoy a quiet picnic.

From the first moment he’d seen Lydia Clarke strolling along the banks of the Serpentine, he’d wanted her. Not only for her beauty and desirability, but also for the innocence and compassion he’d glimpsed in the depths of her green eyes. Lydia had never expected more from him than he could give. Her low birth dictated they could never marry, which meant Giles could never inherit his lands or title.

She had known that one day he would have to marry a young, well-connected, preferably rich debutante who could provide his estate with an heir and refill his depleting coffers. A
ton
wife, trained to look the other way while he spent most of his time with his mistress and son. When he’d begun the search for an appropriate heiress two years ago, Lydia had cried. In all the years they’d been together, he’d only seen her shed a tear once before—when their son was born.

The experience had staggered him. His reaction had confused him. Then angered him.

He’d stayed away from Lydia for an entire month, during which time he’d flirted and danced with and kissed every eligible debutante on display that season. None of them had stirred a single lust-filled thought in his head. Not one.

It was then he realized that he loved Lydia and would do anything to be with her and Giles. From then until now, every decision he’d made had been in service of securing their future.