His gaze shifted and suddenly he pointed into the gloom. “Just ask Kirkland!”
Wrexford spun around and spotted the dark-on-dark silhouette of a figure standing deep in the shadows. And yet he’d been sure the corridor was deserted just a few minutes ago when he’d slammed Gannett up against the wall.
The man stepped forward, bringing with him a flutter of chill air as he fumbled with the fall of his trousers.
That explained it, thought the earl. The back alleyway would serve as a pisspot for the patrons.
“Come, Kirkland, you knew Hollis during our undergraduate days! Tell them how he was expelled as a troublemaker,” pleaded Gannett. “Remember how he was always rattling on about the rights of the common man and the oppression wrought by church and state?”
“No,” replied Kirkland. He turned to the earl, and the weak light of the sconce caught the haughty curl of his well-shaped mouth. “I remember no such thing.”
“But you must!” exclaimed the gamester, terrified that his alibi was slipping away.
Kirkland expelled a martyred sigh. His face was handsome, with chiseled features—and the look of arrogant boredom that Wrexford so loathed in his peers. He appeared to consider the plea for a long moment before drawling, “I suppose the name rings a faint bell.”
With a careless tug, he pulled on a pair of soft leather gloves that matched the burgundy color of his coat. “And yes, as you say, the fellow was a thoroughly dirty dish.”
“You see!” said Gannett quickly. Grasping to keep hold of the chance to throw the blame on someone else, he added. “Now that I think of it, Carruthers knew Hollis too. He’s throwing dice in the next room—let’s go ask him if he knows the bloody bastard’s address.”
“There seems little to lose,” observed Sheffield.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me . . .” With a brusque nod, Kirkland brushed past them. “I must be going.”
Wrexford watched him walk away. The man looked vaguely familiar . . . but then, he had likely met every donkey’s arse who moved within the beau monde’s privileged circle.
“A conceited coxcomb,” muttered Sheffield, sensing the earl’s interest. “He gambles often and deeply, though usually in fancier places than this one. Not that he has much success, but his purse always seems full.” A grimace. “A generous father, I suppose. Which is bloody unfair.”
“Aye, bloodyunfair,” agreed Gannett. “Fortune ought to favor—”
“We’re wasting time,” cut in Wrexford. “Let’s see if Carruthers knows where Hollis resides. If not, we’ll head on to the Crown and Scepter.”
As he expected, the visit to the dice table brought no luck. Against the squawking of Gannett, Wrexford took the precaution of paying the owner of the gambling hell to lock the gamester in a storage closet for the night. However unlikely a villain the man now appeared, the earl wasn’t willing to risk making a lethal mistake.
* * *
The tavern was, as Sheffield had said, a dingy, dirty hole in the wall that catered to a rough crowd. The owner pretended to know nothing of Hollis, but a fistful of guineas soon loosened his tongue, and they were given an address.
“It’s not far away,” said his friend as they exited through the back of the building. “Follow me.”
Wrexford felt his pulse quicken, their loping footfalls over the uneven cobbles echoing the rush of blood through his veins.
After a quick traverse through a twisting alleyway, Sheffield stopped at the head of a narrow lane and motioned at a brick building on their right.
Pulling the two pistols from his coat pockets, the earl hurriedly checked the priming and handed one over. “I’ll lead the way from here,” he whispered.
Clouds scudded over the moon, hiding their approach to therickety entranceway. He slid a thin knife from his boot, prepared to pick the lock. But a touch to the iron keyhole showed it was broken.
The door swung open with a tiny groan.
Up the stairs he went, swiftly and silently taking the treads two at a time. It was dark as Hades, and on reaching the top floor, Wrexford was forced to feel his way along the wall to find the latch to their quarry’s lair.
It, too, yielded to the pressure of his palm . . .
Which stirred a sudden prickling at the nape of his neck.
Taking hold of Sheffield’s arm, he quickly positioned him on one side of the door. Then, after drawing back the hammer of his weapon, he kicked in the door, and ducked low.
Nothing.No shot exploded from inside. Indeed, the room was dark and unnaturally still. Wrexford waited for another moment before cautiously edging over the threshold. After several steps, his boot hit up against a smashed chair. He reached down and felt broken glass on the floor. The odor of lamp oil swirled up from the planks.
