Emerson’s gaze cut to Oscar—those broken fingers, the signet ring black with grime—and a cold clarity slid through him like Thames water in winter.
Not chance. Never chance.
“And the warehouse?” Emerson said, low and deadly. “Was that you?”
Faulk’s lashes clung together with blood as he forced them open. “Aye…but not…not mine to empty.” His breath hitched. “Orders.”
“From whom?”
“Her,” he whispered. “The lady. Said the proof had to be gone. Ledgers…routes…” His fingers twitched weakly. “Said she’d not hang alone.”
Emerson’s jaw locked. “Lady Lockhart.”
A faint, broken sound—something like a laugh.
“Aye,” Faulk rasped. “All of it…runs through her, best I know.” A ragged breath. “House…accounts…men comin’ and goin’ like it’s nothin’.” His gaze flickered. “She knew…every blasted piece of it.”
Emerson stilled. “And you?”
Faulk’s lips trembled. “Thought I could manage it. Skim a bit. Keep it tidy.” A wet cough. “Then it weren’t tidy no more.”
His fingers twitched weakly. “She had me by the bollocks from the start.”
Emerson’s voice dropped to a lethal quiet. “And Oscar? What had he to do with this?”
“A bad break for ’im. That’s all. I swear it. Things were in motion years ago. One bad ’un’s out, another steps in ’is place.”
A portion of the note he and Ben had found in Sussex flashed through Emerson’s mind.They mean to use my late father’s title to legitimize their work. The scheme runs beneath London like rot beneath floorboards.
His gaze lifted, settled on Stockton’s pale countenance. “Is Stockton part of this scheme?”
“Nay,” he choked out.
A shot of relief rushed through Emerson. “Where’s Billy now?”
“Where ’e can’t hurt no one no more. Ye’ll find ’im at the bottom of the Thames.” Faulk’s eyes rolled, unfocused. “I told ’im not to work the nob over. T’was too risky.” Faulk’s breath shuddered once…then stilled.
Blast. Emerson let Faulk’s head drop, disgust warring with fury, worry. ButRose. Rose was still in danger. Terror skittered over and through him. “Faulk’s dead.”
His gaze swept the company then stopped. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice held level by sheer force. “Take Oscar. Send for a surgeon. One you trust—and, Tatton, place guards at each residence until we can locate Lady Lockhart.” He turned, already moving, his heart pounding, erratic at best. “I’ve got to get to the Norfolk ball.”
Ryleigh’s look held iron. He was a man accustomed to issuing commands, not taking orders from merchants. Yet what Emerson’s own face must have said was enough. To the duke’s credit, he nodded. “Huntley’s man attends me in town,” he said. “He’ll meet us at your residence—”
“Ten Manchester Square,” Emerson barked.
Ryleigh gave a sharp nod. “Your man—”
“Amir,” Emerson supplied.
From the shadows, Amir stepped forward, lean as a whip, his eyes bright. “Your Grace?”
“Go with Whitmore,” Ryleigh ordered. “Take a pistol. Two.”
With a sharp incline of his head, the pistols vanished deftly beneath his coat.
Emerson moved back to the duke’s carriage. He reached inside the open door and took Oscar’s slack hand in his own,with a careful press. Don’t even think of dying on me, damn you—us, Ben and I.
Us. He and Ben were an “us.” Just like he and Rose.Us.
