"Not if you pay as you should. A thousand quid an' not a penny less."
The gentleman considered his options. Sighing, he said, "Alright, you win. I'll have the money to you on the morrow."
A leering grin spread across Murdoch's face, and he reached for the glass. "I'll drink to that."
The gentleman raised his own cup. He had to wait less than a minute before Murdoch gasped, the latter's empty glass falling to the ground and shattering. The cutthroat's body followed, accompanied by gasps and gurgles. When all was silent, the gentleman crossed over to peer down at Murdoch's unseeing eyes. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot.
No movement—not ever again.
As the gentleman collected the whiskey and the remaining glass, he sighed again. Why was good help so difficult to find? In the end, one could trust no one but oneself, and he could only be grateful that the Lord had blessed him with an abundance of problem-solving abilities. He'd already worked out a new solution. To protect what was his, he would have to rid himself of Lady Marianne Draven once and for all... and the blade was not the only answer.
To the contrary, there were weapons far more deadly.
Smiling with relief, he closed the door behind him and strolled out into the night.
12
"God's blood, those thievin'buggers 'ad more brains than I gave 'em credit for." Standing on the dock, the captain shook his head in disbelief at the pile of stolen goods that Ambrose's team of watermen had unloaded from the rowboat. "They fit all that on the bleedin' dinghy?"
Crouching, Ambrose showed him the boat's false bottom.
"Damnation, two or three grown men could fit in there!" the captain said.
"The thieves have a fleet of these lighters," Ambrose said. "They rob ships like yours, fill the hidden compartments with loot, then sail down the Thames in broad daylight."
The other man whistled. "The river's a safer place with you and your men surveying it." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a coin purse. "My thanks, Mr. Kent."
"'Tis my duty to keep law and order on the Thames," Ambrose said. "No reward is necessary."
Though God knew he could use the coin. The rent on his family's cottage was coming due next week, and he was still short. Left with no choice, he'd have to sell his last possession: the volumes of philosophy that his father had given him when he'd joined the River Police. Samuel Kent had never quite approved of Ambrose's career choice.
Never forget that the pen is mightier than the sword,my boy, he'd said with mild reproof.
But the sword paid the rent. At least it had, until Samuel's debt had come along.
"Go on, take it." The purse dangled from the captain's fingers. "I insist."
Ambrose shook his head firmly—as much to himself as to the other man.
Grunting, the captain re-pocketed the money.
After ensuring that the recovered goods were in order, Ambrose took his leave of the grateful seaman. Mid-morning was his favorite time along the water, and on impulse he stopped at an empty spot along the pier and allowed himself to look out over the sparkling waves. For a few moments, the salt-tinged breeze and warmth of the sun chased away his worries and responsibilities. Overhead, gulls soared, their cries mournful and beautiful.
The memory of fire and violence blazed in his mind's eye. Two nights ago, they'd defeated the villains in a fierce battle and rescued Miss Fines from harm. The evening's most unexpected triumph, however, had been that of love over revenge: Gavin Hunt, the most ruthless hell owner in the stews, had declared his feelings for Miss Fines, proposing to her before all.
Now the two were engaged to be married.
Love was a mysterious thing. Ambrose shook his head in bemusement. All's well that ended well, except… His mood darkened as his thoughts returned yet again to Lady Marianne Draven.
That night, he'd been appalled that she meant to approach Bartholomew Black on her own. Worse yet, he'd been powerless to stop or protect her. If he'd tried to follow, his presence would have endangered her further—Black's dislike of those who enforced the law was well known. After her departure, Ambrose had convinced Hunt to send a pair of the latter's rookery-bred guards to discreetly follow her and defend her if need be.
With concern still gnawing at him, Ambrose had gone to assist in the rescue of Miss Fines. Black had showed up to save the day, and the cutthroat's assertion that Lady Draven had been safely deposited back at home did little to dispel Ambrose's disquiet. So he'd gone to her townhouse. With the aftermath of the fight still thrumming in his veins, the scent of blood and smoke saturating his senses, he hadn't trusted himself to be in her presence. At the best of times, she provoked him; God only knew what he would have been capable of at that moment.
Nonetheless, he'd had to see for himself that she was safe. From the shadows of an elm tree, he'd watched her first floor window. His vigil had been rewarded when her curtains parted. With her hair falling in pale, gleaming waves to her waist, she'd looked so young. She'd turned her flawless face up to the moon, and the silvery glow had revealed the sparkle of tears upon her smiling cheeks.
An expression of happiness enhanced anyone's beauty. On a woman already beautiful beyond measure, the effect had caused Ambrose's heart to stumble in his chest. For the first time, he'd seen Lady Marianne Draven stripped of her armor. Who knew that beneath that sophisticated skin lived such a poignant mix of joy and sorrow, such fragility? No wonder she'd roused his deepest male instincts, made him yearn to protect her from all ills.
What had triggered her bittersweet tears? What secrets was she hiding… and why?
