“The witness is the son of a duke, whose lineage goes back even further than your father’s family,” lied Wrexford, sensing Blackstone was listening carefully and coldly calculating all the ramifications. The marquess was known to be a brilliant but ruthless man in business. The flat opaqueness of his lordly eyes reminded the earl of a snake. A sleek, sinuous predator, devoid of emotion.
“Not thatyouhave a peerage to protect you, Blodgett,” added Wrexford, driving his needle in deeper. “In the eyes of the authorities, you’re no better than the street sweep you just disparaged.”
A look of pure hatred twisted on Blodgett’s face. “He’s lying, Father. Let me shoot him.”
Blackstone held his position, blocking the way to the desk. Eyes narrowing in speculation, he looked back to the earl. “The son of a duke? Pray tell, who?”
Wrexford’s skill at bluffing was well known in the gaming hells of London. Without batting an eye, he replied with another lie. “Lord James Greville.” The man had returned from the West Indies several weeks ago, but from what the earl knew of the fellow, he was not prone to pissing in alleyways.
“Greville?” Blackstone lapsed into a pensive silence.
As his son watched him with growing dismay, Wrexford slowly inched toward the desk and the weapon.
“Greville,” repeated the marquess. A mournful sigh followed.
Wrexford could almost hear the aristocratic gears turning in Blackstone’s head. A life of well-oiled privilege, of ingrained entitlement, was allowing him to spin the wheels to align with his own self-interest.
“An unimpeachable witness,” pressed Wrexford, as he slid a touch closer. He knew the arrogant assumption of God-like privilege held by many of his fellow peers. Blackstone would think himself above the law. All he had to do was give the marquess another little nudge. “But of course, there’s no witness toyoubeing part of any perfidy.”
“Then I suppose . . .” Blackstone sighed again, the only sign of emotion. “I suppose Geoffrey will have to swing for the crime. A pity—he’s intelligent, but apparently not quite as clever as he imagined.”
“Father!” gasped Blodgett.
Blackstone eyed him coldly. “It’s purely business, my boy. When a deal goes bad, you simply have to cut your losses.” Turning back to Wrexford, he added, “You’re right—there’s no evidence to prove I knew about any of this. I’ve been away in Wales and have people who will swear to that.” An evil smiletouched his lips. “And who would ever believe that a father would have his heir murdered? ”
“But it wasyouridea!” exclaimed Blodgett. “Y-youpromised!” His voice broke for an instant. “You promised we would build a glorious business empire together! You promised I would be rich! Important! Respected!”
“So I did,” said his father calmly. “But the key to success in business is the willingness to improvise.”
Blodgett sucked in a shuddering breath, his face turning white with fury. His hands fisted for an instant, then quick as a cobra, he yanked a knife from his boot and before Wrexford could react, lunged and stabbed the marquess in the chest.
Blackstone looked down in disbelief as blood spurted from the wound, turning his snowy shirtfront crimson. He staggered back a step, his fingers feebly touching the hilt.
As his father’s body crumpled to the floor Blodgett spun around and snatched up a hammer from the tools lying on the side table. Swinging it high with a keening cry, he rushed at the earl.
A sudden flash of fire flared in the gloom outside the open doorway just as Wrexford pivoted and threw up his arm to parry the attack.Too late! The devil-dark hammer was but a hairsbreadth from—
Crack!
Wrexford flinched as a second flash exploded with a deafening bang. Blodgett stumbled and fell, the weapon slipping from his hand as the echo of the gunshot died away.
The thumping bounce of steel on wood sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
“Ye god, another dead peer I have to explain to my superiors,” drawled Griffin. The scrim of smoke floated away, revealing the Runner standing in the corridor. He lowered his pistol. “At least you didn’t set half of London on fire this time, Lord Wrexford.”
“I am growing more cautious in my old age,” replied the earl dryly. “My thanks, by the by, for not letting that madman smash my skull.”
“Oh, it isn’t me you should be thanking . . .”
It was only then that he noticed Sheffield standing in Griffin’s shadow.
“My weapon misfired, but thank God your friend is better at marksmanship than he is at gambling.” The Runner flicked a speck of burnt powder from the barrel of his weapon and slid it into his coat pocket. “It seems he’s a clever fellow when it counts.”
“Clever, indeed.” Wrexford locked eyes with Sheffield and held them for a long moment before giving a gruff nod. “I’m most grateful, Kit.”
A smile twitched on his friend’s lips. “A purely selfish reaction. Who else would be so generous with his port and brandy?”
“Aye. I’m grateful as well,” interjected Griffin. “I would sorely miss my excellent suppers.”
