"The name is John Magnus, Miss Fines." The scruffy old man stared at her with his good eye. One of his hands gripped a cane; the other aimed a pistol at her chest. "And I prefer to keep it that way."
"What's the chit talking about, Magnus?" Kingsley demanded.
"Nothing of consequence."
Magnus gave her a warning look, and Percy realized that his partner in crime knew nothing of the past. Recalling what Gavin had told her about the betrayal and back-biting that went on amongst the club owners, she hit upon an idea.
Bucking up her courage, she said, "I wouldn't call your motive for killing Mr. Hunt inconsequential, Mr. Magnus."
"What motive? What does she mean?" Kingsley demanded.
Magnus clucked his tongue as he turned to his colleague. "She's just a foolish miss with a wild imagination. Why didn't you gag her like I told you to?"
"Had other uses for her mouth." Kingsley's smirk made Percy want to retch. "Your flag may not fly, old man, but others of us still run a high mast."
"You and your prick," Magnus said in disgust. "I'm still cleaning up your mess with O'Brien. Had everything going according to schedule and you turned it a shambles. And for what? A stupid wench."
Percy's ears pricked. O'Brien—the man Paul had owed money to? What had happened to him?
Kingsley's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't my fault. I had Evangeline taken care of; the bitch wouldn't dare breathe word of our affair. If Finian hadn't stuck his nose where it didn't belong and tried to blackmail me over fucking her—"
"Enough." Magnus' gaze returned to Percy, who tried to keep her expression neutral. Inside, her heart thudded. "Little pitchers have big ears, don't you know. Hand me your cravat, Kingsley, and be quick about it."
"Did Mr. Magnus tell you he knew Mr. Hunt years ago?" Percy said in a rush. "That he wants to kill Mr. Hunt to keep his crime a secret?"
Kingsley paused, his neck cloth stretched between his hands. "What secret? What haven't you told me, Magnus?"
"I said shut the wench up. Give me that bloody cloth." Letting go of his cane, Magnus tried to snatch the material from the other man. He clawed futilely at the air.
Kingsley held it out of reach. "Oh no, you don't. Not until I hear the truth."
Just as Percy was scouting escape routes, Magnus regained himself. He took a breath, ran a hand over his wild grey locks. "It's not important. But, yes, I knew Hunt when he was a boy. He worked for an old enemy of mine."
"Benjamin Grimes," Percy said, her pulse quickening.
Magnus shot her a murderous look. "Aye. Bastard took my eye. And I took something back of his."
The answer popped into her head. "'Twasyou. You burned down the flash house that night," she said. "You set it afire and left Gavin to take the blame."
A crafty smile spread over the old man's face. "Aye. That I did."
At last, the truth of what had happened that night. And proof of Nick's innocence. Now if only she had a way to escape, to get back to Gavin...
"That's quite a skeleton you've got rattling in your closet," Kingsley mused. "Hunt would slit your throat if he knew the facts."
"Which is why I'm going to slit his first. Make no mistake, Kingsley: you may know something about me, but I have far more filth on you." As his partner scowled, Magnus said, "We're in this together, and there's only one way out. We kill Hunt tonight. Now are you going to gag this wench, or do I have to do it?"
Percy's hope dwindled as Kingsley approached her.
* * *
If someone had told Gavin he would be working together with a marquess, a policeman, and a baroness, he would have asked for the premise of the joke. Yet at present Morgan, Kent, and Lady Marianne Draven clustered around the coffee table in his office. They'd followed him from the Harteford residence, insisting to be part of Percy's rescue plan. Paul Fines had been left the task of guarding his mother and the other Hartefords.
Now Gavin shared grim glances with the three. The brooch he'd given Percy lay on the table between them; it had come wrapped up in a ransom note. The instructions were simple:
Midnight. Watson's Blacking Factory. Come alone or the girl dies.
The clock struck nine. With three hours left, there was little time to prepare an offensive.
