Max pushed the man inside. “Go. Sit on the bed.” Locking the door, he slid the key into the top of his boot. He strode to a tall, rough-hewn bureau and pulled it open. Thick coils of chain lay coiled in the bottom, a row of attachable manacles lined up on the shelf above. Lengths of rope were tied in neat bundles and hung from nails hammered into the back of the bureau.
Picking up two manacles and a small two-foot chain, he walked to the side wall and slid the metal through a hook screwed in the wall. “Come here.”
“Like hell.” The man jumped to his feet and backed away. “What the fucking hell is this room? You Brits are goddamn—” His tirade broke off in a gurgle.
Max dragged him by his throat to the wall and slammed him against it until the fight drained away. Picking up a limp hand, he attached the manacles to the dazed man and let him sag against his bonds.
Max wiped his palms on his pants. “Now, let’s say we have a chat. After your many threats upon Mrs. Bonner’s person, I’m not predisposed to like you.” He bared his teeth. “And I assure you, you want me to like you.”
The man struggled to stand. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped forwards.
With a sigh, Max slapped his cheek. “Focus. Let’s start with something easy. What’s your name?”
The man mumbled.
Max cocked his head close. “Pinkie?” That couldn’t be right.
“Pinkerton.” The man blinked several times then opened his lids wide. “William Pinkerton. And that’s all I’m telling you. It’s more than just my life I have to protect.”
“You have a family?” Max nudged the man when he remained silent. “Come now. You’ve already given me your name. Telling me about your family won’t give me anything more than I could discover in a couple hours’ time.”
“A wife. A son.” Pinkerton glared at him. “Who are now almost destitute thanks to you and your friends.”
Max stepped back. “What did we do?”
Heavy pounding rattled the door. Pulling the key from his boot, Max unlocked it and cracked it open.
Julius Blackwell, Earl of Rothchild gave him a gimlet eye. “I spent all day on the back of a horse responding to Summerset’s letter and was in need of a solid night’s rest. One of your persistent footman didn’t allow that. Care to explain what was so bloody urgent?”
Max opened the door wide. “Glad you could make it.” He eyed his friend. Aside from a slight puffiness under his eyes, Rothchild looked good. Content. His marriage agreed with him. “I haven’t seen you since your wedding breakfast, such as it was.” A quiet meal of not more than ten people. And the couple seemed to be settling into an even quieter life at Rothchild’s country estate. Max was sorry he had to interrupt it.
“Come in. Meet our guest.” Max swept his hand out in front of him.
Rothchild strode through the door. Before Max could shut it, Mrs. Bonner scuttled in behind him.
Max took her elbow and tried to guide her back out. “This isn’t the place for you.”
She jerked her arm free.
“I’m the manager of this club until the time you see fit to hold up your end of our bargain.” She crossed her arms over her waistcoat. “I should be aware of everything that goes on under its roof.”
She caught sight of Pinkerton chained to the wall and her eyes flew wide.
Rothchild lounged on the narrow bed. He covered his mouth with his hand as he yawned. “I’d like to get some sleep tonight. Can we move this along?”
Mrs. Bonner kicked the door shut. “You’ll have to pick me up and throw me out if you want me gone.” She turned the key in the lock and dropped it into her waistcoat pocket, shooting Max a challenging look.
It was tempting. He had no doubt she’d fight like a hellcat, and that was always entertaining. But this man had threatened her. Perhaps she deserved to hear what he had to say.
“Fine. You can stay.” He rested his hands on his hips. “But don’t interfere.”
“Now that’s settled,” Rothchild drawled, “care to tell me why I’m here.” He jerked his head at Pinkerton. “Not that the wall hangings aren’t intriguing. Do you have a new decorator?”
“Please.” Pinkerton tugged at his restraints. “That man is goddamned soft in the head. He chained me up for no reason.” He stared imploringly at Rothchild. “Let me go and I won’t tell anyone about this.”
“An American?” Rothchild asked.
Max nodded. He’d recognized the accent, too. How a continent had managed to butcher their shared language so quickly was a mystery. He stepped forward and slapped Pinkerton in the face. Not too hard, but enough to get his attention. “First, watch your tongue in front of a woman.” Although, Mrs. Bonner had insisted upon staying. She was going to hear a lot worse than rough language. “Second, you’re appealing to the wrong man. I brought my friend here because he’s so much better at convincing people to talk than I am. I can bloody and bruise you”—and break bones, but he thought that was better left unsaid—“but my friend here will make you beg for death. And he does it all without leaving a mark.”
