Iona took the book and flipped pages. “I am better stationed where I can smell people as they pass by. Isobel has some of the same ability. Not as strong, I fear. Her gift lies elsewhere and is not useful in this case. Perhaps if she sat with you, though, she might note any strong suspicious scents.”
“And where will you be?”
Iona rubbed her palms against her skirt. “I’m hoping to pose as one of the urchins. If I could have your dog with me, that would be perfect.”
“No, the street urchins all know each other. You’ll have to wear a uniform and pose as a groom or some such. You can linger near the front entrance, and we’ll park the carriage at the alley in back. But if they’re not in that tavern. . .”
“Someone needs to verify it, yes.” Iona nodded vigorously, delighted to have a partner in crime. “Perhaps your husband or Lord Dare could speak with Lord Ives.”
“All we have to do is smuggle you out from under my aunts’ noses,” Phoebe crowed happily.
“All, she says,” Iona muttered, but her thoughts were already racing ahead.
“You will not attend, Rainford,” Gerard insisted, shrugging away his valet to tie his own cravat. “You are your father’s sole heir. A dukedom dying out because of a knife fight is simply not done.”
“I imagine it has,” the marquess said thoughtfully, tapping his walking stick on the hearth. “Duels, swordfights, war, that sort of thing. And there’s always my cousin.”
“Not done,” Gerard repeated. “Mortimer has taken up the challenge I sent. Blair has offered to attend with me. I think he’s had quite enough of Lady Alice’s arrogance. I only expected her to stay with them a night, but she’s apparently taken a liking to their household and won’t leave.”
Rainford chuckled. “That was cruel to inflict her on the innocent. We should introduce her to Mr. Winter. That would cure him of his lust for titles.”
Gerard lifted his chin and allowed Lowell to adjust his collar. “Not a bad idea. Alice’s father could persuade the rich American to contribute generously to some cause of the queen’s, get him noticed, knighted. . .”
“Dream on. The American is claimed, and just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it won’t happen. I don’t know why you’re going to this effort for a female who needs to marry wealth.”
Stupid bastard the old soldier muttered. Or maybe that was Gerard’s own opinion of himself. It didn’t matter. Five thousand pounds burned a hole in his pocket. He could fix Wystan’s roof before the snow flew. But he knew what was right. He would finish this first.
“It will give me satisfaction to see a man who has made lives miserable be tossed into misery of his own.” Satisfied with his appearance, Gerard picked up his hat and stick. “Off you go, Rainford. Give my greetings to your father. Choose your bride. I’ll expect notice of an heir this time next year.”
The very proper marquess made a rude noise and sauntered out after him. Checking his weapons, Lowell locked up. A sharpshooter valet wasn’t of much use in a crowded tavern, but one never knew when one might come in handy.
Leaving the marquess to go his own way, Gerard and Lowell took a hansom across the bridge to the old side of town. Stepping down at the tavern, Gerard tried to attune his senses to his surroundings as he had the prior night, but his thoughts were too cluttered.
Why was he really doing this? Surely not for a woman who intended to marry for money and march out of his life? For justice, maybe. Because he was damned bored with his life, more likely. That didn’t mean he should put an end to it by stepping into a den of thieves.
Undeterred, he took the stairs down to the gambling hell, Lowell on his heels.
Viscount Drummond and a few of his friends were waiting, as were Andrew Blair and Zane Dare, who preferred to be called doctor and not viscount. Since Mr. White and his penchant for titles wasn’t about, it didn’t matter what Zane called himself. Mortimer was their mark, and he was already there, three sheets to the wind.
“You stole my daughters,” Mortimer slurred. “I want them back.”
“And you think winning at cards will persuade them to return to you?” Gerard couldn’t in all good faith trounce a drunk. He’d hoped Mortimer would attempt to stay sober enough to play. “The best you can hope for is to win back the money.”
“If it weren’t for you, they’d be back! It’s their mother’s land.” Slouched in his chair, Mortimer glared belligerently through half-lowered lids. “I should swab the floor with you. But I’ll let them fellows do it. They’re not happy with your interference.”
Gerard felt a chill down his spine. Andrew and Zane straightened and pushed back their chairs. His valet emerged from the shadows, his hand ready on his pocket. Gerard didn’t have to turn around to know the room was clearing—except for the bad vibrations at his back.
He should have gone to Wystan.
Judging distance from the tremors of violence, Gerard dropped into a crouch. Using his newly-purchased sword stick, he spun around and swung at the wrinkled trouser legs approaching. Screams of pain drowned in the explosion of gunfire over his head.
The tavern erupted in fists and cudgels and knives. Cursing, regretting that he’d dragged his friends into this, Gerard focused on his goal—Mortimer. The ship sailed in the morning.
Dodging cudgels, fighting dirty and landing crippling blows with his stick and any body part that sufficed, he finally reached the fake earl and bunched the cad’s waistcoat in his fist. Staying low, he yanked Mortimer out of his chair and down to the filthy floor. The drunk attempted just enough of a
