“My bet is Dutton is getting ready to flee,” Stephen whispered in Patrick’s ear.
He nodded. That was exactly what that rodent would do. They couldn’t take the risk of Dutton leaving if they looked for a rear entrance to the house, so Patrick moved to the shadows beside it. Pistol still raised, he walked to the steps and then silently up.
Looking in the door, he saw it was empty and stepped inside.
“We can’t just leave him, my lord!”
Those words came from upstairs. Patrick started climbing with Stephen on his heels.
“I care nothing for him, only getting away from here before that bitch alerts the authorities. Besides, he will not last the night.”
Dutton.
“We don’t know when the women left, my lord. We could have hours.”
“I will not take any chances. We’ll go to France. I’ll be safe there,” Dutton said, panic clear in his voice. “Then plan once more what is to be done.”
Moving slowly through the rooms, Patrick opened the first and saw a man lying on the bed. Reaching him, he found Jack Spode.
“Help me.” The words were weak as he looked up at him, and Patrick saw the pool of blood on the bed.
Stephen moved closer and studied the man. “He’s dying.”
As if he’d willed it, Jack Spode drew in a shaky breath, and then his eyes closed. Seconds later, he stopped breathing.
“It’s done. Come, we need to get to Dutton,” Stephen said. “Now, before he gets in his carriage.”
They heard footsteps on the stairs then and ran out. Dutton was leaving. Patrick ran down, taking them two at a time.Reaching the bottom, he ran to the door to see Dutton reach his carriage.
“Going somewhere, you sniveling weasel?”
If he hadn’t been so angry, Patrick would have laughed at the high-pitched squeal that came out of the man’s mouth as he turned to look at them. Seeing who stood there, Dutton dove into his carriage.
“Idiot,” Stephen muttered as Patrick ran.
Reaching the carriage, he stood in the doorway and looked at the cowering nobleman.
“I am going to rip your head from your shoulders for what you did to my wife!” Patrick bellowed, finally finding an outlet for his rage. Grabbing the man’s arm, he hauled him out.
“It wasn’t—” Patrick didn’t let him finish that sentence. His fist connected with his jaw, sending him to the ground.
“I-it w-was Spode!” Myles shrieked as Patrick lifted him to his feet once more, this time to shake him and hurl him through the air so he landed in the fountain, which was filled with rancid, dirty water.
“You lying bastard!” Patrick roared.
“No more, Colt,” Stephen said as he reached into the fountain to grab Dutton. He then pried Patrick’s fingers from around the man’s neck. “If you kill him, you will need to flee the country. He’s not worth it. Besides, I want to ruin him in the eyes of society and know he’s spending the rest of his life behind bars.”
Patrick walked away, drawing in deep breaths to remove the red haze from his eyes. Had Stephen not stepped in, he would have killed Dutton with his bare hands and enjoyed doing it. Sophie had done that to him—made him feel emotions he had previously kept deep inside.
“Find a room and lock him in it tied to something. We’ll get the magistrate to come for him,” Patrick added as Stephen pulled Dutton out of the water. “Much as I want to finish him,you’re right. He will suffer more if we strip him of everything he loves most.”
Stephen pulled Dutton’s hands behind his back.
“I know your wife was a servant, Coulter!” the man cried.
“And I know you consorted with a criminal, Dutton,” Patrick said, moving to stand before him. “A dangerous man who has killed, robbed, and maimed. Many have been trying to catch him, Dutton.”
“I should have been the Earl of Monmouth,” the man whispered through swollen lips. “It should all have been mine.”
