Vanquished (39 page)

Staring him down from the other side of his desk, Caledonia lifted her chin. "This is no social visit, sir, as well you know. I believe you have something that belongs to me, and I want it back."

Beneath the blur of her hat veil, he glimpsed her puffy eyes and pale face, the irrefutable signs of female suffering, and hid a smile. It seemed that St. Claire had done his work even better than he'd credited. Not only would the chit be ruined politically and socially after tomorrow, but it appeared she already suffered the ill-effects of a broken heart--vanquished beyond even his fondest dreams. Despite his throbbing face, he could barely contain his glee.

"Really?" He tapped a finger against his lower lip, one of the few spots that didn't hurt, and pretended to consider. "I do not believe so," he said at length. "Might you be more specific?"

Charlotte Rivers, silent since entering, marched up to her niece's side like a mother lion prepared to defend her cub to the death. "Josiah, you know full well what we came for. Now where is it?"

Born Charlotte Smythe, Caledonia's aunt by marriage was still a very attractive woman though she must be his age or near to it. Dubbed "Lovely Lottie" at her come-out ball, she'd been the reigning queen of her season, a diamond of the first water who'd had even the most devoted bachelors contemplating a trip to the altar. He'd been set to offer for her himself when Edward Rivers had stolen her out from under his very nose. Not that he'd loved her, love for women wasn't in his nature, but he did have an appreciation for rare, beautiful things, and she was certainly that. Charming, lovely, and accomplished she would have made a far more adept political wife than that brainless country mouse he'd finally settled on marrying--yet another reason to despise the Rivers family.

He held his arms out at his sides as though inviting them to search his very person. "I'm afraid I am at a loss, although if you could only describe in some detail what of yours you think I have, perhaps I could be of more help." The latter was said by way of a dare. Casting his gaze on Caledonia Rivers, her photographed image flashed into his mind, and he barely bothered to contain his smirk.

Even fuming, Charlotte was a lady to her very core. "This isn't over yet, Josiah," she said, words dripping ice water. Turning back to her niece, standing frozen as a statue, she said, "Come along, Callie, we are obviously wasting our time. We cannot appeal to the honor of a man who has none." Hooking her arm through that of the younger woman, she steered them toward the study door. On the threshold, she paused to look back at him. "Josiah, whatever has befallen your face?"

For the first time since they'd entered, he felt his smile slip along with his mood. The bandage on his nose was bad enough but now there was his jaw, too, painfully swollen and likely still bearing the imprint of St. Claire's knuckles. "An unfortunate accident. I took a fall from my horse."

In truth, he'd had to give up riding years ago along with a great many other corporal pleasures, and the penetrating look she sent him told him she knew that and more, putting him in mind of just how shrunken and gouty and old he'd become, a veritable shadow of the man he once was. The latter though had him reaching down to cinch his dressing gown's velvet tie.

"That is most unfortunate indeed, Josiah. Why if I didn't know better, I could almost think you'd run afoul of someone's fist."

The snow pelting the back of his neck and the mewling of gulls overhead pulled Hadrian out of the blackness. He came to, not so much in pain as numb. Sykes and Deans had him between them, pulling him along the pier. Resisting the temptation to open his eyes, he kept them closed and let himself be carried along. Judging by the stench of fetid water and decaying fish, there were in the East End somewhere near the docks.

"Put a move on, why don't you? At the pace you're going, it'll be light before we get him to the water." The voice belonged to Sykes.

"I'm doing my level best," Deans complained, giving off a pungent whiff of leeks. "But he's heavier than he looks."

"He's dead weight is all or at least he will be soon enough." Sykes's barking laugh punctuated that pronouncement. Bracing him between them, they paused to catch their breaths. "Did you bring the rope?"

"What for?"

"For tying his hands and feet, idiot."

"Why bother? He's out like a light."

"He may not be once he hits the water, and Dandridge won't want us taking any chances. Betimes, St. Claire's like a cat. You never know what sewer hole he's liable to crawl back out of."

"All right, all right, rope's in the boot. I'll fetch it."

Eyes still closed, Hadrian let himself sag against the bully's bulk, keeping his ears trained to monitor Deans's retreating footfalls. It was his chance and though beaten as he was it would hardly be an even fight, he knew he'd never get a better one.

Silently he counted to ten and then opened his eyes. Next to him, Sykes was an ungainly silhouette backlit by the beach, moonbeam striking atop his billiard ball head. "So it's rise and shine time, is it St. Claire?"

"Rise . . . and
shine."
Whirling on him, he smashed his fist dead center of Sykes's fleshy throat.

The bully fell back with a groan, crashing into a stack of empty shipping crates propped against the side of a transit shed. Staggering like a drunk, Hadrian limped away, a thousand invisible pins needling away at his feet and legs. Willing himself to ignore the agony, he kept the brick warehouse ahead in his sights. He couldn't possibly outrun them in the open, but if he were lucky he might be able to lose himself in the maze of shipyard clutter until dawn when the stevedores and watermen showed up to work.

"Hold you, where do you think you're off to?"

Hadrian darted a look back to where Deans had rounded the coach, shouldering a coil of sailor's rope.

A voice, Sykes's, rasped, "Don't just stand there. After him!"

Deans hesitated, then dropped the rope and gave chase. Heavy footfalls lumbered behind Hadrian, closing the distance on his narrow lead. Ordinarily he would have had no difficulty in outpacing the heavier man, but already his left leg was cramping badly, the muscles in both legs afire from his time folded into the carriage boot.

Still he kept on, one thought, one hope, one woman fueling his fight for survival. Callie. If he could only manage to escape, to find his way back to her, he would throw whatever was left of him at her feet and beg for her forgiveness.

Deans was at his back now, no more than an arm's length away, the warmth of his breath all but beating down on the back of Hadrian's neck. Heavy weight like a sandbag crashed into him, knocking him to the ground. Sprawled atop him, the henchman pinned him to the path, oyster shells cutting into his palms as the shattered camera glass had all those years before.

The memory roused whatever fight Hadrian had left in him. He knew he'd never escape now, but he resolved he wouldn't go down easy. No, he'd give them a fight they'd remember for some time to come; the rest of their miserable, misspent lives. He reared up, knocking Deans off balance. He was upon his knees when beefy hands took hold of his collar, pulling him back down. This time, though, he managed to wrangle his way on top. Several well-placed downward jabs had Deans's face looking little better than his own must have appeared. Knowing it was either kill or be killed, he wrapped his hands about the thick throat and found the fragile larynx with his thumbs.

The sharp poke of a blade in his back had him stilling his hold. "Leave off, St. Claire, or I'll run you through here and now." Sykes, voice husky, pressed the knife deeper between his shoulder blades, leaving him no choice but to pull back. "That's better." To Deans, busy dusting himself off, he barked, "Fetch that rope and bind him. We'll sit him down on that crate over there. No reason not to have a bit of fun before we feed him to the fishes."

Not content with drowning him, they meant to torture him first. Limp, Hadrian let them shove him back over to the crates. Whatever hope he'd harbored of escape was lost now. Setting one of the boxes upside down, they shoved him down onto the makeshift seat, then pulled his hands behind his back and wound the rope with punishing tightness about his joined wrists.

Deans, face bloody, grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his lolling head upright. "Shall I start by lopping off your ears or maybe that cock of yours would make a better trophy for the pickle jar, eh?"

Hadrian offered up a silent prayer to whatever God there was that he'd either pass out or bleed to death before they did their worst. Looking up into the two bullish faces looming over him, he said, "If you lads take my cock, at least you'll have the one between you."

"You were always too clever for your own good, St. Claire," Sykes said, shaking his head. "I wonder if you'll sound half as clever as a soprano." Face stretched into a hideous leer, he nodded to Deans, who dragged the point of his knife from Hadrian's Adam's apple downward to rest between his legs. "It's moment of reckoning, fancy man."

Not caring to witness his own gelding, Hadrian squeezed his eyes shut. A pistol's booming report had him opening them in time to see the two henchmen drop to the ground. He looked across the beach to see the silhouette of two men striding forward, weapons drawn.

"I wouldn't count my trophies just yet were I you." A tall, dark-haired man elegantly turned out in a riding coat and breeches stopped a few paces away, smoking pistol in hand. His slightly shorter, brawnier companion stepped up beside him, his weapon cocked and a lantern in his other hand.

Looking up through a haze of blood and pain, Hadrian could scarcely credit the proof of his eyes. Gavin and Rourke? "What took you so long?" Dividing his gaze between his two friends, he cracked a smile, which set his swollen lips to bleeding.

The bullies were on their knees with their hands up. Sykes turned to Deans, and said, "It's only a single barrel he's carrying. He can't hit us both." Eying Rourke, he slowly got to his feet, Deans following suit.

The Scot broke into a toothsome grin. "Aye, 'tis true enough, but then at this close range, I canna be counted on to miss, either." Waving the weapon between them, he said, "Which one of you brave lads will it be, eh?

Exchanging looks, the pair wavered, all the time needed for Gavin to reload. "As they say, 'no honor among thieves,' and apparently not a great deal in the way of bravery either." A siren's blare had the two henchmen turning their heads sharply to the road above. In answer to their unspoken question, Gavin supplied, "That would be the police. The magistrate is an old friend of the family. I would have got here sooner, but I stopped to send a message 'round to his house. If you two lads don't mind holding tight a moment or two more, we'll have you safely tucked into the police wagon and slapped in irons in no time at all."

The visit to Dandridge had been a waste of time and breath as Callie had known it would be, but when her aunt had insisted they couldn't very well sit about quaffing sherry all night, she'd reluctantly agreed to go. Likewise, she'd put up only a fledgling fight when afterward Lottie had wanted to drive by Hadrian's shop on their way home. The shop windows were dark when their carriage pulled up to the curb.

It wasn't until Lottie pressed for them to disembark and knock on the very door that Callie had put her foot down. "Really, Aunt, I've subjected myself to sufficient humiliation to last another ten years, don't you think?"

Sitting on the carriage seat next to her niece, Lottie said, "We don't know for certain he's even turned over that picture. It might be in his possession even now."