“Ah.” The admiral looked surprised. “You’re even cleverer than I thought. Pray, how did you figure that out?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied, not wishing to risk putting Lady Cordelia and the professor in peril before Sir Charles and his conspirators were arrested. He took some grim solace in the fact that his own death would hasten their demise. “Suffice it to say, I simply began adding up a number of clues—complex calculations, shipping, your expertise in navigation—and came up with the answer.”
Wrexford paused and then sought to confirm one other piece of the puzzle that Copley had revealed in his letter. “It was you who murdered Fenwick Alston, wasn’t it? I assume it’s because he realized you were going to cut him out of the new venture, and he was seeking to blackmail you over the Argentum business.”
“Youareastute.” Sir Charles gave a mournful shake of his head. “It’s a pity you have to die.”
Wrexford eyed the naval cutlass, gauging whether he could knock it aside before it slit his throat. However, the admiral, despite his age, was quick to catch the flicker of his gaze.
The steel point flashed in the lamplight and pressed at a point just below the earl’s chin. A bead of blood welled up.
“I’m very, very good at the game of war, Lord Wrexford, be it on the backgammon board or in the flesh. As I said, I regret that I can’t let you live. But die you must. However, I’ll do you the courtesy of answering your last question. Yes, accurate navigation tables will make me rich beyond my wildest dreams. As you know, they are a key compendium of numbers that allow sailors to determine their exact position in the ocean after using a sextant to triangulate the ship’s position relative to the sun. And the current ones are riddled with errors. The British government will pay an astronomical amount of money to possess a perfect version, as it gives both naval and commercial ships an advantage over those who don’t have them.”
The admiral smiled. “Or I could provoke a bidding war. America would likely be willing to make a handsome offer.”
“A pox on your traitorous hide,” replied Wrexford.
“Curse me all you like but it’s you who are going to your Maker.” Another prick, another drop of blood. “Now we’re going to take a stroll down to the frigate,” said Sir Charles as he carefully shifted to stand behind Wrexford, circling the sword around the base of the earl’s throat as he moved.
A walk that would take him through the shipyard, thought Wrexford, where Griffin and his men would be waiting.
Perhaps all was not lost.
However, that hope died a quick death, as the admiral prodded him toward a different footpath as soon as they left the warehouse. “We’ll take a more roundabout way to the wharf. One that’s more hidden. We wouldn’t want to be spotted, would we?”
Wrexford said nothing but kept moving, as demanded by the bite of steel. Somehow, he would have to find a way to make an unholy racket—knocking over some crates or barrels came to mind—and hope that Griffin would come running.
“Halt.”
Lost in his thoughts, it took Wrexford an instant to obey. Then he heard it, too—a low raspy sound, like iron reverberating against iron, coming from somewhere close by.
The admiral peered all around, trying to see through the serpentine swirls of fog. “What the devil—”
The rasp suddenly turned into a roar. . . .
And then all hell broke loose.
As the sword fell away from the back of his neck, Wrexford spun around just in time to see a huge dark shape come hurtling out of the shadows and knock Sir Charles to the ground. A scream rose above the bloodcurdling snaps and snarls as the blade went flying.
“Get off me! Get off me!” howled Sir Charles, scrabbling at his coat and trying to draw the pistols. He managed to pull one of them free, but as he tried to take aim, a hairy paw batted the barrel away.
A deafening explosion rent the air, the shower of sparks momentarily illuminating Harper’s bared fangs, mere inches from the admiral’s terrified face. Claw marks cut across both of his cheeks, and his cravat was torn to shreds.
Wrexford grabbed at the hound’s leather collar and fought to pull him off his prey. “Harper! Harper, enough!”
The sound of running feet echoed off the sooty brick.
“Wrexford!”
“Over here, Griffin!” he called. Releasing his hold on Harper, he pointed to one of the side alleys. “Go!” he said in a low voice. “Sit and stay quiet.”
The admiral was still curled in a fetal position, moaning as if Cerberus, the mythical hound of hell, were gnawing on his leg.
A moment later the Runner broke free of the fog and skidded to a halt, several men right behind him.
“Lord Almighty,” muttered Griffin after eyeing the admiral’s bleeding hands and mangled clothing. “What happened to him?”
“Divine retribution?” suggested Wrexford.
