Beck lost his balance in the surprise attack.Strong arms pulled him deeper into a passageway that smelled of rot and urine before throwing him against a brick wall. A heavy body that smelled of chipped wood, sweat, and sour ale slammed into him. The gravelly voice that Beck had never forgotten said, “What did I tell you about asking questions?”
Olin Winstead.
Suddenly Beck’s mind reeled, and he was that small child riding in the close confines of a coach with the one man he feared above all others. The one who had threatened to cut out his tongue.
Except Beck was no longer a child. “I’m not making a claim against the marquess,” Beck bit out. “I don’t care about him. I’m searching for my mother—”
A fist punched him hard in his abdomen. His air left in a whoosh... but Beck had anticipated just such a move. He’d braced himself. The blow had hurt, but it hadn’t done the damage that had been intended.
Or that could disable him from fighting back.
Winstead was beefy and strong, but he didn’t have Beck’s youth. Or agility.
Beck ducked as Winstead’s fist came at his head for a lethal blow. Instead of hitting his intended target, Winstead smashed his hand into the brick wall. He screamed in rage and pain, grabbing his hand as if crippled. Beck moved quickly. He lowered his shoulder and plowed into the older man as hard as he could.
Winstead lost his balance. He fell back. Beck followed. The passageway’s ground was stillslick from the day’s rain. Both of them fell into the mud.
There was a mad scramble to see who could regain his feet quickest. Winstead won and tried to bring his fists down hard on Beck’s back, but he missed his mark. His aim was off enough that Beck was able to grapple him around the middle. Then, using all his strength, he lifted Winstead up and flipped him over his shoulder.
Winstead went down hard, and there was the sickening sound of bone snapping.
Beck whirled, ready for Winstead to attack again. Instead, the man lay where he had landed.
Long minutes passed. Beck did not let down his guard, and yet Winstead did not rise.
At that moment, the clouds covering what little there was of the moon shifted. Its wan light caught and was reflected in Winstead’s glassy, unseeing eyes. His head was at an awkward angle. He was dead.
The moonlight also bounced off the long, thin blade of a knife in Winstead’s hand. Only then did Beck realize he’d been struck. He put a hand up to his shoulder. His fingers came back wet, but the wound was not serious. He also had a tear in his coat. He was not happy. He liked this jacket.
And then he realized he couldn’t let anyone find him with a dead man, especially a man in the employ of the Marquess of Middlebury.
Beck whirled and, keeping his head down, walked out of the passageway. The street was still not busy. He found his hat where it had fallen off his head when Winstead had grabbedhim. He picked it up and, with unhurried movements, set it on his head.
He didn’t bother visiting the other brothel. The Marquess of Middlebury had sent Winstead after Beck. He wanted to stop Beck. It didn’t make sense. The two of them had never met. More than that, until Beck had started his search, he had never once said his father’s name. He’d kept his part of the bargain.
His father had not kept his.
He’d also been actively spying on Beck. He’d known of his search—and he’d not wanted Beck to learn the identity of his mother. So much so, he’d sent Winstead on a murderous errand. Beck walked through London toward his quarters down by the docks. His mind was busy as he mulled over this turn of events and realized he’d been searching in the wrong direction. He might not know whom his mother was, but he did know his father. Middlebury was the link. Middlebury had all the knowledge. And Middlebury was willing to kill him.
Once the marquess realized his man was dead, he would attack harder. Beck reasoned he had two choices: he could live continuously on guard, or he could take the battle to the notoriously reclusive Middlebury.
It was said he rarely left his estate, Colemore. People thought it was because he was famously eccentric.
Beck now wondered if there was another reason for his infamous isolation. Why did he want to prevent Beck from searching for his mother? And, if he wished his illegitimate son dead,why hadn’t he had Winstead kill him years ago instead of sending him to school? Or paying for his commission? The marquess could have even left Beck in the evergreen brothel instead of searching him out. The streets would have done what Winstead had just attempted and with no effort on the marquess’s part.
Nothing made sense.
Except now, Beck was more determined than before to find answers.
Chapter Two
Late August 1817
London
“Morley plans to make an offer,” Dara Brogan exclaimed as she burst into the sitting room overlooking the back garden. She’d just returned from a luncheon with some of her new friends who were other wives of Members of Parliament. She hadn’t even bothered to remove her hat. She sank down on the settee beside her older sister, Gwendolyn Lanscarr. “That is all anyone could talk about. They say he is besotted with you.” Both Lanscarrs spoke with the slightest hint of Ireland to their voices, although their English and their manners were properly genteel—to a point.
Gwendolyn looked up from the book she had been enjoying until her sister’s interruption and frowned.
