Chapter Eleven
“Another sodding wasted day.” Dunkeld picked up a horseshoe and tossed it at the upright handle of a sledge hammer. It hit the wood and bounced off. “Why won’t anyone try to kill this bounder?”
Max and his friends had been following Pinkerton around for hours, waiting for an attack that never came. Montague and Summerset had shadowed the American to his bank and to the docks. Pinkerton had asked about the cost for tickets back to America. Rothchild trailed their man to the butcher and again to the bakehouse. How many baguettes could one man eat? Hoping to draw out an attack, they’d instructed Pinkerton to stroll to the outskirts of town. See if the isolation would inspire an assault.
It hadn’t.
The six of them lounged in a blacksmith’s hut, its owner called in to tea by his wife. They hadn’t been invited. Looking at their dusty, motley group, Max couldn’t blame the woman.
Montague took off his hat and wiped his cuff across his forehead. “Pick this up again tomorrow?”
“I’m going to need new shoes if you want me to walk ten miles again tomorrow.” Pinkerton sat on a crate, his legs stretched in front of him. He broke off a wedge of bread and chewed.
Dunkeld swiped the baguette from the American. He took a large bite off the end. “You’ll walk barefoot if we want you to.”
Perched on a sawhorse, Summerset wiped a spot of dirt from the heel of his white, leather boot with his silk pocket square. “We might be in the country, but must you act like an animal?” He glared at Dunkeld. “Keep your mouth closed when you eat.”
Dunkeld opened his mouth wide, showing Summerset the half-chewed bit of bread.
Montague sighed. “Gentlemen, can we focus? Our current plan of attack is leading us nowhere. Any new ideas?”
“Aside from Pinkerton’s and Zed’s threats against Mrs. Bonner, we don’t know what Zed is up to.” Max had left men posted around The Black Rose to watch for anyone unknown entering the club. And to follow Colleen if she was daft enough to leave on her own again. “TheTeresa Mayshould be pulling into port in a day or too. We can try finding Dancer again at The Boar’s Head.”
Rothchild picked up a stone and flung it against the wall. “I’m tired of being lead around by our noses. My wife still has nightmares because of this arsehole. It’s time to put him in the ground.”
Montague squeezed Rothchild’s shoulder. “It will happen. Be patient.”
Dunkeld picked up a large haybale and tossed it over his shoulder like it was nothing. “We’re all a bit on edge. Let’s say we take a breather.” Kicking the gate open, he strode from the hut and flung the bale against the side of the wall. Everyone else drifted out as he stacked two more bales on top. Pulling Pinkerton over by his collar, the Scotsman told him to hold some boards against the stack. Dunkeld wrapped rope around the hay, fixing the wood to the bales.
He wiped his hands. “There. A target.”
A smile danced around Montague’s lips, and the duke bent down and slid an eight-inch blade from the inside of his Hessians. “Shall we make this interesting? Closest to that knot in the center board wins fifty pounds from the losers?”
“Agreed,” Rothchild said. Everyone else nodded.
“Why don’t we make it even more interesting?” Dunkeld disappeared into the hut and emerged with a red apple that the smithy had kept in a basket for his shoeing clients to nibble on. “Pinkerton, sit before the boards and we’ll put this on your head.”
Scowling, the American grabbed the apple and marched back into the hut, slamming the gate shut behind him.
“Humorless fellow, that one.” Dunkeld took off his coat and unwound his cravat. “I don’t know why we’re bothering to keep him alive.”
Montague stepped forwards, took aim, and threw his knife. It spun in a tight spiral and sliced into the board, three inches from the knot. “Pinkerton is a victim, too. We can’t lose sight of that.” He strode forwards and yanked the knife from the wood.
Max took his own knife, a five-inch blade, and threw. The point slid into the wood an inch closer than Montague’s. He smiled. Max gestured for Rothchild to step up.
Rothchild shrugged. “I’m not carrying.”
Dunkeld pulled out his knife, flipped it over so he held the blade, and presented the handle to Rothchild. “What’s mine is yours.”
Circling his throwing arm, Rothchild took his place in front of the target. “For the record, Pinkerton has been less than useful.” He loosed the knife, and it hit the outside edge of the wood. He grimaced. “Zed must know we’re trying to trap him. I think we should send the American on his way.”
“I agree. I’m tired of feeding and housing that man,” Summerset said, bending to adjust the lace that trimmed his boot. Quick as a whip, he flicked his wrist. His small blade flashed in the sunlight and buried itself on the other side of the knot from Max’s mark. “I’m closer.”
“Like hell.” Max tramped forwards and peered at the boards. “I’m clearly closer.” Probably. Shit. Summerset always made it easy to forget. With his ruffled shirts and obscenely bright clothes, it was hard to remember that of all his friends, Summerset was the deadliest. As elegant as a Bengal tiger, and as vicious when provoked.
“No need to bring out the ruler.” Yanking an axe from a tree stump, Dunkeld stomped next to Summerset. In one graceful swing, he brought the axe around his shoulder to his back, gripped the handle with two fists, and heaved.
Max dove out of the way, the sound of wood exploding behind him. He rolled onto one knee, panting. “Son of a bitch!” The blade of the axe had severed two boards in half, digging into the hay behind it. The handle quivered with latent energy. The target knot was nowhere in sight.
