“Very little. He was inside the house and didn’t see what happened, but His Nibs is angry.” Brewster shuddered. “I want to look in on him, but when he’s angry …”
“I know.” I had witnessed exactly what Denis could do when enraged. He rarely lost his temper and shouted as I did, but he could quietly cause very bad things to occur.
We fell silent as we went along Cockspur Street and Pall Mall, past the bulk of St. James’s Palace then north through the clubland of London to Piccadilly, and up a narrow lane to Curzon Street.
Denis resided at Number 45, a tall house of brown brick trimmed with white. I had seen only the ground and first floors inside the five-story house, whose windows at the top spoke of servants’ quarters.
We saw no sign of disturbance as we descended from the coach. I told Hagen to go home—he agreed only after much convincing. He slapped the reins to the horse’s back and the dark coach plodded away up South Audley Street, soon lost to the rain and mist.
“Let me, guv,” Brewster said as we approached the front door. Drapes had been pulled across the windows, giving us no view inside.
“You think he’ll refuse to admit me?” I asked in surprise.
“You never know with His Nibs. But Lewis will let me in the kitchen if nothing else.”
The front door opened as we stood debating—only a sliver, I noted. The butler, an elderly specimen called Gibbons, who was as cold and hard a man as I’d ever met, beckoned to me.
“He is asking to see you, sir.” The butler’s tones were chilling. “Mr. Brewster, you are to go up with him.” Gibbons turned on his heel and disappeared.
He hadn’t left the door unattended. As I crossed the threshold, four beefy men surrounded me, and one slammed and bolted the door behind Brewster.
Brewster usually waited for me downstairs with his cronies when I visited Denis, or took refreshment in the kitchen, but the stern faces on the men around us told him he’d not be welcome below stairs today. Brewster’s countenance turned sour as he ascended the stairs behind me.
The butler led us to Denis’s study, though I scarcely needed him to show me the way. We entered the spartan room, so different from the clutter that surrounded Mr. Creasey. I wondered if the state of Creasey’s office was a reason Denis kept his study so austere.
Unlike most days when I visited him, Denis was not seated at his desk. Today he paced in front of the fireplace, pointedly halting before his path took him near any window.
A tall, clean-shaven man in his thirties with dark hair in a finely tailored suit, Denis lifted a hand when I entered, his demeanor as cool as ever. However, I spied fury burning in his blue eyes, a rage that few men ever saw, and lived to speak about it.
“Before you ask for details of what happened,” Denis began, “suffice it to say that a man barreled his way past my guards and came at me with a knife. That one.” He pointed to his desk, where lay a long dagger with a slight curve to the blade. The metal was dark with age, the leather on the hilt split.
“Where is the bloke what wielded it?” Brewster rumbled.
Denis resumed his pacing. “Not here. The knife is not significant. It is of Ottoman origin but can be found in any curio shop in London. Likely bought for the purpose. My guards were able to thwart the man, and I entered my house unscathed.”
“He was waiting for you,” I stated.
I kept my chill at Denis’s blunt answer,not here, from showing in my face. The words were a reminder of why Denis was a dangerous man. The would-be assassin very likely had not lived to report to his master, but I had no doubt Denis had pried from him exactly who that master was before he’d sent the man to be dispatched.
“Obviously,” Denis snapped. “I was returning from an appointment. He hid in the lane next to Chesterfield House and darted forth the exact moment I alighted from my coach.”
“Then fools were guarding the house while you were out.” Brewster’s tone held contempt. “He shouldn’t have got near.”
“He was well hidden, and it was not an impromptu attack.” Denis’s glacial tones cut through Brewster’s bluster. “He must have watched this house for a long time. The quick actions of my guards saved me, because, I confess, I had let my mind wander to another matter.”
More anger flashed in his eyes, at himself, I understood.
“This incident is not why I asked you to come in, Captain.” Denis halted his pacing, putting himself squarely in front of the empty fireplace. “You delivered my package?”
“I did.” He’d have known I’d set off directly after breakfast.
“Thank you for being so prompt. You found Mr. Creasey at home?”
“If that warehouse is his home, then yes.”
“He does, indeed, live there.” The words held disdain. “Not many know that, which is what he prefers. Tell me, what did he say when he opened the parcel?”
I did not question how Denis knew Mr. Creasey would unwrap it as soon as I handed it to him.
