As he came to a turn, Wrexford peered around the corner and saw two guards up ahead. They were crouched down on the floor, half hidden in the opening of a small side room, their weapons set aside as they took turns rolling dice through the flickering of their own lantern’s flame. If he could sneak past them, another turn would bring him to the room with the steam engines.
With luck, their boredom would play in his favor, thought the earl. As would their greed. The pile of coins on the floor was growing. He waited, timing the rhythm of the rattling ivories and the resulting hoots of triumph and disgust.
“Bloody hell—Lady Luck be a she-bitch.”
A few quick steps, then Wrexford held himself very still.
The guard added another oath. “Gimme a swig of yer gin.”
As light winked off the pewter flask, the earl darted past the doorway.
So far, so good.He waited another moment, but the clatter of the dice showed the game was continuing. Moving quickly, he turned another corner and followed the ghostly wisps of steam to the engine room. His blade made quick work of the lock, and as he ventured a glance inside, the glow of the wall sconces showed the space was deserted.
Whoosh-clang. Whoosh-clang.The small test model of the valves was running at quarter speed, the noise sounding like a sleeping dragon that had swallowed a hammer. Hurrying around the spitting, sweating metal, Wrexford approached the much larger machine, which was sitting in silent slumber at the back of the room. Though the light was dim, he had no trouble locating the condenser. From the nearby tool bench he grabbed up a small wrench and removed several bolts, allowing him access to the interior. One by one, he emptied the half dozen vials of his potent corrosive acid mixture into the casing. The precision valves would quickly be ruined, and as the villains didn’t have the drawings, the demonstration couldn’t happen—even if he and Hillhouse weren’t rescued.
Wrexford replaced the cover and bolts. It was now time to sabotage Blackstone’s departure.
Making his way around the workbenches, the earl slipped between two coal bins and was just coming abreast of the hissing prototype when a noise at the door signaled someone was about to enter. He quickly took shelter in a deep alcove near the bins.
The portal bumped open with a bang, and a moment later the earl saw why. Black with coal dust, the two pitifully small boys he had seen imprisoned with Skinny were struggling to push a large wheeled container over to the bins.
“Ye lazy buggers, stop slacking.” The brute with the cudgel was behind them. Quickening his steps, he lashed out a vicious blow with his stick that knocked one of the boys to the ground.
Outrage boiled through his blood, but Wrexford kept a gripon his wrath, reminding himself that stopping Blackstone would put an end to such torments. Temper, temper . . .
And then with a nasty laugh, the brute began kicking the boy, his thick hobnailed boots drawing blood. Another few blows and—
Be damned with the consequences. Wrexford shot out of his hiding place and caught the brute by his collar.
“Only craven cowards hit children,” he growled as he swung his foe around and smashed a hard blow to his face.
Grunting in pain, the brute staggered back, then regained his balance and swung his cudgel at the earl’s head.
Wrexford ducked under the stick and with a swift pivot slammed his knee into his foe’s crotch. A gasp—followed by a thump as the brute dropped to the floor, writhing in agony. Still caught in the haze of fury, the earl swung his foot, taking savage satisfaction in thethudthat knocked the brute unconscious.
The sound seemed to snap him out of his rage. Rubbing at his brow, he paused for a moment as his senses cleared. He wasn’t proud of the last kick—but he had never claimed to be a saint.
He hurried to the fallen boy, who had been helped to his feet by his comrade. They both stared at him uncertainly, looking torn between fear and hope.
“Listen carefully, lads,” he said softly. “I’ll have you out of here in a tic, but you need to do exactly as I say.” Taking their hands, he led them to the door. A quick check of the corridor showed the sounds of the struggle hadn’t been heard over the noise of the engine. “Go quickly and quietly to the door leading to the coal pile. Once you’re outside, run like hell and lose yourselves in the alleys. Understood?”
The boys nodded.
Another check. “Go!” urged Wrexford, and watched them dart off. They were street-tough urchins, used to surviving the cruelty of the rookies. The odds of escape were in theirfavor. More so than if they had stayed locked up with a violent brute.
Charlotte would likely tease him for having a conscience. A smile played over his lips. Was his cynicism softening?
Interesting though the question was, he had other things to think about. Skinny had indicated that the stairs to the upper level were to the left and at the end of the corridor. Wrexford gave the boys a moment longer to escape, then left the engine room, taking care to draw his knife and re-engage the lock to imprison the brute before continuing on his way. The gloom deepened, the wisps of steam dissolving to dampen the air with an oppressive chill. He had just reached the stairwell and set his foot on the first tread when an icy tickling touched the nape of his neck.
And then the chill suddenly turned coldly metallic.
“You surprise me, Wrexford,” said Blodgett over the click of a pistol being cocked. “Word is you’re a cold-hearted bastard, but it seems you have a fatal weakness for little boys.”
A weakness, to be sure.Whether it would prove fatal remained to be seen.
“I dislike cowards who prey on those too small to fight back,” he replied calmly.
“Bad luck for you.” Blodgett laughed and jammed the pistol barrel harder against the earl’s neck. “Up you go. You’ve become a thorn in my side, and I think it time to remove the irritation once and for all.”
