“Right away, Your Grace.”
Hart finally took stock of the room. Brooks’s main room was long and narrow. The green walls were lined with portraits of its founding members and large paintings of lush landscapes. Raucous laughter and colorful swearing travelled across the room from several large circular tables where men gathered to gamble away a pleasant evening. Along the edges were smaller clusters of chairs from which a low hum of conversation buzzed. Thick embroidered Turkish rugs covered the dark wood floors and muffled the constant murmur of voices. Hart had a membership at White’s as well but had always preferred the lively energy here at Brook’s.
His drink offered on a small silver tray appeared at his elbow. Hart took a large gulp of his favorite brandy. “Bring another along shortly.” The man nodded and disappeared. Hart took a more measured sip. Who was here tonight? No one he knew. Some men he recognized but did not socialize with. Wait, no, he’d recognize that bald spot anywhere—Comstock. His old friend sat at one of the large tables, his back to Hart. The men were playing cards, a large mound of coins piled in the middle of the table.
The man across from Comstock nodded toward Hart. Comstock twisted in his seat to glance over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed. Then he rose, swayed a bit on his feet for a moment before steadying, and began to walk toward Hart.
Hart straightened and finished off his drink. His friend looked more perplexed than threatening. Hart took that as a good sign. “Good evening, Comstock.”
Comstock came to a stop in front of him. “Hartwick, I didn’t know you were back in town. And it’s Galey now.”
“Yes, of course. My apologies, Lord Galey. Won’t you have a seat?” He gestured to the chair next to him.
Comstock hesitated but then sat down with a sigh. “I really want to hate you. But you look like shit.”
Taken aback, Hart said nothing for a moment. When he found his voice, he asked, “Why do you hate me?”
“Because you’re alive, and he is dead.”
“I did try to get him out of the carriage, but it all happened in a moment, and I was thrown back by the blast.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Why were you in my father’s carriage?”
Hart debated how much to tell him, but really, if anyone deserved to know the why of it, it was the man’s son. He glanced around the room. Anyone could observe the two of them talking, but they had some modicum of privacy from being overheard. Besides, the time for discretion was over; he wanted answers, and he didn’t care if people knew his suspicions.
“Your father asked me to meet him that night. He had answers for me surrounding the murder of my father and brother.”
Comstock’s eyes widened. “I thought they died in robbery.”
“I have had my suspicions about it being not a random act of thievery. Then I received the note from your father. He never got the chance to tell me the exact details just that he knew who did it, and he couldn’t live with the guilt of not telling the truth.”
“I don’t believe you.” His friend shook his head. “My father was incredibly honorable. He would never be a part of any murder.”
“I didn’t say he was a part of it. He said he knew who did it, and they were incredibly influential. That they had eyes and ears everywhere. Then the window of the carriage was smashed, and a crockery bomb sailed into the carriage. Your father yelled, ‘They know.’ I jumped out, turned to reach for him, and then the whole world exploded.” Hart reached for his second drink and drained the glass. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save him.”
Comstock was silent for several long moments. Then he turned his gaze to Hart. “I know you would have if you could have.” He gestured to Hart’s face. “Is this the worst of it?”
Hart shook his head. “No.”
Comstock nodded. He raised a hand at a passing attendant. “I’ll have what he is having.”
The attendant turned to Hart. “And for you, Your Grace?”
Hart nodded. When the servant left, Hart turned to Comstock. “I am going to find out who is responsible for these murders. I will have vengeance.”
A smile cracked open across Comstock’s face for the first time. “I have no doubt you will, Your Grace.”
*
Hart stumbled outsideinto the alley. Damn, he needed to piss. As he fumbled with the buttons on his falls, he lost his balance. Slapping a hand on the brick of the building, he cursed his friend. He’d forgotten how much that bastard could drink. He laid his head against his forearm and drained his bladder. Buttoning back up proved to be just as challenging. Hart peered around blurrily. Now, where was his carriage?
“Good evening, guv.” A gravelly voice came from behind him.
Hart tried to turn to face the voice but stumbled to the right. A sharp slice of pain seared his side. He yelped and jerked backward, his back hitting the wall.
“Stop moving, you,” the voice grumbled.
A large, meaty hand gripped his shoulder. Through a haze of alcohol and pain, Hart stared down at the dark hair that covered the man’s knuckles. This hand was going to kill him. This was how it would finally end. Damnation, Lucy had been right. He hated it when she was right.
