“Mikaela! Where are ye, lass?”
The sound was muffled, a whimper, and I realized that it was myself. Strong hands closed around my upper arms and I collapsed against Brodie’s shoulder.
A lantern appeared, held by Munro as he climbed down into the hold, while a dozen faces including Alex Sinclair and Rupert the hound, peered down after.
Brodie tugged the gag from my mouth as he held me against him. I stared at his bruised cheek and the cut over his left eye.
There was no time to say anything as Munro reached us.
“We had some assistance,” he announced. “Sir Avery sent some of his people.”
“Sir Edward?” I asked, my throat dry, my voice more like the croak of a frog.
Munro nodded. “According to one of Sir Avery’s men, he was found not far away...along with a man with the bowler hat by the name of Howell, who has been in his employ over the last fifteen years or so. Hetook care of thingsfor Sir Edward when he wanted something done, often outside the law.”
Jacob Howell, who had once served in Her Majesty’s service. From witness reports, it seemed that had included the murder of Stephen Matthews ten years earlier. And Ellie Sutton?
Twenty-Three
There was more,of course. There usually was when it came to murder and other crimes that somehow were part of it.
It was all connected, as Brodie and I had first thought. Still, finally emerging from the hold of the Matthews cargo ship, I leaned heavily against Brodie as we left the ship.
I had no idea where Mr. Hastings was directed to take us, until I saw white clapboard residences that lined the street in Mayfair.
Nothing was said as we arrived. Between the throbbing from the blow to the head I’d received, then being dragged down into the hold of the ship, I was in a sorry condition.
“Mrs. Ryan will be here shortly,” was all Brodie said, as I leaned against him when my knees threatened to go out from under me, and I discovered that somewhere between the warehouse and the hold of the ship, I had acquired other bruises.
It seemed that Jacob Howell had no compunction about striking a woman. I’d obviously taken a slap to the face that resulted in a split lip.
Split lips healed, but not the memory. I could only lament that I hadn’t enough time to retrieve the revolver in my bagwhen he came up behind me. I would have gladly ended his brutal habits. As for Sir Edward?
When I asked Brodie, he merely shook his head. Alex Sinclair was more forthcoming. It seems that Jacob Howell was not willing to take blame alone. Confronted by Brodie and Sir Avery’s people, he had readily admitted to the killing not only of Stephen Matthews ten years earlier, but to the murder of Ellie Sutton as well, that was to have included young Rory.
No witnesses left behind, no one left to expose the even more chilling aspect of their deaths—that he had been hired by Sir Edward Matthews to “take care of things,” for very lucrative compensation. To all intents and purposes, he was a hired assassin, whose job it was to eliminate anyone who stood in the way of Sir Edward Matthews’ ambition. I was simply one more obstacle to‘take care of.’
That was as much as I was able to take in, as we arrived at the town house in Mayfair.
Though he was hardly in any better condition that I was, Brodie escorted me upstairs.
I was a sorry mess. My reflection in the cheval mirror in my bedroom looked like someone I didn’t know. Yet‘she’was in there somewhere as he assisted me into the adjacent bathing room, then removed my soaked and muddied clothes.
I then found myself in that steam-filled showering compartment, as I braced myself against one wall, dizziness from the blow to the head threatening to send me to the floor.
Between the bruises, the lump on the back of my head the size of an egg, and split lip, I don’t think I would have minded, except I would have missed Brodie’s gentle care as he bathed me from my head to my toes, then just as gently dried me.
From there it was a very short distance, albeit it took slow effort, to the bed, where he tucked me under the covers. I was only vaguely aware he was there, then aware of nothing else.
I wakened slowly, thoughts returning even more slowly as I stared about the room.
I was in the bedroom at Mayfair, I realized, as the events of the day slowly climbed out of the fog of sleep.
A single electric light glowed faintly through the doorway to the adjoining bathing room, as my gaze slowly cleared on the shadow beside the bed—Brodie.
He had brought me back to Mayfair, washed away the mud, grime, and dried blood from my time in the hold of the ship, then left.
Somewhere in the hours between, he had returned, and now sat beside the bed, head back, handsome features along with an assortment of cuts and bruises, partially hidden in shadows in the room. Except for that dark gaze that slowly opened and fastened on me.
