“You started the fire across the street because he told you to,” Malum said, his voice low, steady, and razor-sharp.
She nodded.
“What about the fire at Crossings’?”
“Milton did that one.” Tears were spilling down her cheeks. “I didn’t even know the duke was in there with her… I almost took both of them out. But I did it for him!” Her voice broke, anger and despair mingling. And then, with another flash of fear, she met Malum’s stare. “I didn’t do the one at the brothel, though. Milton hired two brothers to set that one.”
“What two brothers?”
“Milton called ‘em the two carrots. Had northern accents.”
An unlikely twist—hired by not Crossings, but Northwoods…
The room fell silent, the gravity of her confession settling like a lead weight.
Malum turned to Westcott and Beckworth. “Let’s bring in our other witness then, shall we?”
Westcott grinned, the kind of smile that was all teeth, and pushed off from the wall where he’d been leaning. “With pleasure.”
Beckworth was already moving toward the door, his movements brisk but controlled. As the two men disappeared into the hallway, the faint sound of their boots echoed on the polished floors.
Minutes later, the sounds of shuffling signaled their return. Westcott entered first, his expression tight with barely concealed distaste. Behind him, Beckworth carried one end of what looked like a makeshift stretcher. On it lay Crossings, looking battered but somehow still managing an air of defiance.
His leg, splinted with a crude wooden brace, was stretched stiffly out in front of him, and his face bore a bruise that spread from his cheekbone to his temple.
His eyes, cold and empty, were as calculating as ever.
“Have a seat, Crossings.” Malum was feeling grim.
Westcott and Beckworth didn’t bother with gentleness. With a grunt of effort, they heaved the older man off the stretcher and into a chair. Crossings hissed in pain as his injured leg jostled, but he said nothing.
For a moment, the room was still, save for Crossings’ labored breathing. Malum touched his chin as he regarded the man before him.
“You’re tougher than you look,” he said dryly. “I’ll give you that.”
Crossings’ lip curled in a vicious sneer, the motion tugging at his bruised face. “You put me on a cot?” His voice dripped with disdain. “Your manners are as barbaric as your reputation.” He straightened—or tried to—grimacing when his leg didn’t cooperate. “We may both be dukes, but you are a stain upon the title. Your father would be rolling in his grave if he realized what his son has become.”
“He’s lucky to be in a grave,” Malum said. “Soon enough, you’ll wish you were rolling around with him.”
“Right.” Crossings laughed. “Do you really think the crown will tolerate this? The Duke of Crossings being treated like a common criminal? You’re the one who’ll end up in Newgate, mark my words!”
Malum regarded him silently, content just to listen as Crossings spewed more empty threats. And even after the duke was finished with his tirade, Malum waited, the blood in his veins as cold as ice, but then he tilted his head. “I’m not particularly worried about any of that, Crossings. Because, you see, the crown might find your story even a little believable if you hadn’t provided such a thorough trail of your treachery.”
Malum withdrew the incriminating letters from within his pocket and waved them about like a winning hand of cards, deliberately casual.
Crossings stiffened, his composure slipping for the first time since he’d been dragged in. Mrs. Green let out a bark of laughter, conveniently drawing Crossings’ attention to her presence.
Unease flickered on his face.
Mrs. Green, for her part, had recovered from her tears. “Just look at you, Duke. Trussed up like the fatted calf. At least Milton escaped.”
Of all things, it was being disrespected by someone so low that truly inflamed the duke’s temper. “You!” he spat. “I told youto stay away from him. You were supposed to report to me, not diddle around with that weasel!”
Mrs. Green’s eyes flashed, and she leaned forward, her tone surprisingly menacing. “And I told you—if you wanted my loyalty, you should’ve paid for it. You owed me money, Crossings. You think I’d do your bidding for free?”
It was something to see, the Duke of Crossings and Northwoods’ jilted lover—a common fraudster—trading barbs like they were the only two people in the room. Helton took notes, a well-ingrained habit after all his time at the paper, while Malum and the rest of the Rakes sat back and listened to the unexpected exchange.
Crossings’ pride warred with his growing frustration, and Mrs. Green, emboldened by her bitterness, refused to back down. Both, nonetheless, were more than willing to sell Northwoods down the river.
