The fence came into sight, the promise of safety. Just as Alaric reached the top, he heard his brother’s whimper behind him.
It’s too high.Will’s chubby fingers slipped against the stones, and he slid to the bottom, his eyes wide and shimmering.I can’t get over.
Cursing, Alaric dropped to the ground. Going down on one knee, he linked his hands and boosted his brother over.
It worked—toowell. Will had gone sailing over the top, landing hard enough to break his arm. Alaric could still see the accusing looks on their parents’ faces.
What were you thinking, involving my boy in your shenanigans?his stepmother had cried.
By God, you’re a bad seed,his da had spat.No son of mine would hurt his own kin.
Alaric had received the whipping of his life.
Not only that, but he hadn’t even an apple to show for it.
“Kent’s hackney just pulled up.” Will’s voice pulled him back to the present. “You’re certain you want to go in with us?”
Jaw taut, Alaric said, “I’m not hiding in the carriage like some lily-livered coward.”
“Suit yourself.” Will shrugged. “Stay close, and I’ll take the lead.”
His brother might have been a pain in his arse during their youth, but Alaric had to admit a growing respect for the adult William’s expertise. Will looked as seasoned and fierce as one of their ancient Highland ancestors as he led the way from the carriage, his eyes roving in a ceaseless scan, his brawny posture ready for anything.
Kent descended from a hackney and joined them. From the investigator’s terse greeting, Alaric assumed that the other hadn’t yet come to terms with Alaric’s involvement with Emma.
Too damn bad for him.
Entering the shop, Alaric was assailed by the scent of oil, leather, and gunpowder. It was a humble, rather gloomy premises compared to Manton’s on Davies Street, the gun maker favored by theton. Here, dust blanketed the counters, and pistols hung in crooked lines over the walls.
A round-faced clerk greeted them at the front counter. “Afternoon, gents,” he said, wiping his hands on his leather apron. “How may I be o’ service?”
Will placed the torn cartridge wrapper on the counter, tapped his gloved finger on it. “This one of yours?”
The clerk peered at the paper. “Aye, that’s from a cartridge for our double-barreled flintlock. I can tell by the quality o’ the paper.” He pinched it between finger and thumb. “Extra heavy, see, to carry the weight o’ the powder and shots. Costs extra, but it’s worth the—”
“And this?” Will set down the pair of bullets Kent had found. “Yours too?”
“Could be. But harder to say—shot ain’t that distinctive.” The clerk’s expression grew wary. “Er, what was it that you said you wanted?”
“We’re looking for the customer who bought a double-barreled flintlock and that cartridge. A fellow with a scarred face,” Will said.
The clerk’s gaze jumped nervously, his face reddening. “I’m sorry, sirs, I didn’t sell nothin’ to a scarred gent. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work...”
“Babcock, you lazy bugger, what are you jawing about?” A man with stringy salt-and-pepper hair emerged from the backroom.
“N-nothing, Mr. Palmer,” the clerk stammered.
Palmer’s eyes formed slits as he regarded Alaric and the others. “Who’re you?”
Kent stepped forward. “Ambrose Kent, at your service.” He handed over his calling card. “My colleague and I are investigating a crime. We’re looking for a man with a scarred face who might have purchased a double-barreled flintlock and cartridges to go along with it.”
Something slithered through Palmer’s eyes. He crumpled the calling card in his grease-stained fist.
“Didn’t see no scarred man,” the gunsmith said. “Now if there’s nothing else, I’ve got a business to run.”
Will jerked a thumb at Alaric. “Do you know who this is?”
Palmer eyed him up and down and sneered, “Some nob, by the looks o’ ’im.”
