“I don’t,” Anthony said in a hard tone. “But you are a Blackwood boy. Therefore, I am doing my duty.”
“I don’t understand?”
“I’m sure you don’t, but listen to me now, Beaton.”
“I-I have lost it all,” the man whispered. “The shame—”
“You are to go home to your bed. In the morning, you will rise and not say a word to anyone about what you’ve done.”
“I have nothing—”
Anthony took a card out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Beaton. “Come to this address on Friday at 10:00 am.”
“I-I don’t understand?”
“You will. Now you are going home.” He pulled the man to his feet.
Anthony walked and heard the slow scrape of shoe leather almost as if each step was too much effort, and yet the broken man followed. He saw the movement from the corner of his eye. The Frenchman was still watching from the shadows.
“I told you to leave.”
“I was just checking you needed no further assistance.” He spoke the words in French, clearly thinking Anthony could understand them.
“I need nothing from you. Do as I ordered at once, and forget what you have seen,” Anthony replied in the man’s tongue. “This is no place for one such as you.”
He did, but only after a few muttered words Anthony translated to mean arrogant nobleman, and then Renee was gone.
“Damn fool Frenchie,” Beaton rallied himself enough to say. Clearly having forgotten that were it not for Renee, the man would now be dead.
“As he was attempting to help you, I doubt he is any more a fool than you,” Anthony replied.
No words were exchanged after that. They walked to a main street, and Anthony hailed a hackney as it rolled closer. Opening the door, he waved Beaton inside.
“Go home and present yourself at the address on the card on Friday. Bring your son, as he has a great deal more sense than you. This is not up for debate, my lord,” Anthony added when the man opened his mouth. He then shut the carriage door, and it rolled away.
He’d done what he could. If Beaton lived long enough, they would help him because he was one of them, for better or worse.
“Got any money?” Two men stepped into his path, both looking for trouble. He would be happy to oblige them with that.
“What’s he smiling about?” one asked the other.
“Maybe he’s not right in the head?”
“Believe me, you couldn’t be further from the truth. Let me pass, gentlemen, or pay the price,” Anthony said welcoming the rush of excitement.
They ran at him. He stuck out his boot, and one tripped and fell hard on the ground. The other was faster and punched him in the jaw. Anthony tasted blood and returned the favor. They traded blows until the other man regained his feet, groggy and bleeding from his nose. Anthony finished toying with the man and landed a blow that sent him to the ground. The sting of his knuckles making him feel alive.
“Come on then,” Anthony taunted the other man. Blood streamed from the brigand’s nose. The man turned and fled, much to his disappointment.
Stepping over the unconscious one, Anthony continued his journey home, relishing the surge of heat inside him. For those few brief minutes, the cold was gone again. Entering his townhouse, he made his way up the stairs with lamps lighting his path. His staff were familiar with his nighttime movements.
The house was large and had been lived in by Earls of Hamilton for generations. Things left behind by his dead relatives were everywhere, including the portraits that hung in a perfect row in the gallery.
Reaching his rooms, Anthony tugged off his boots and clothes. After washing, he held the cloth to his throbbing cheek, then pulled on a dressing gown. He then stepped back out into the hallway, and across it to his study.
Lighting the lamp he kept there, he then pulled out paper and pen and wrote the notes. When that was done, he took them downstairs and placed them where his butler would find them for delivery in the morning. Only then did he retrace his steps and head for his bedroom.
Minutes later he was lying with the curtains open, watching as the gray light of dawn crept slowly over the city of London, his heart once again a cold shriveled organ.
