Chapter Twenty-Eight
Flynn was pacingthe carpet in his drawing room when his butler knocked and entered.
“A Mr. Wrightsbridge to see you, my lord.”
Flynn’s breath bottled in his chest and he sucked in air. “Send him up, Bellamy.”
The Bow Street runner, a whippet-thin man with a narrow, intelligent face, entered the room, hat in hand, his short sword at his side. A flintlock pistol was thrust into his belt. “I bring news, your lordship.”
Tense, Flynn nodded. “Sit down and let’s have it, Mr. Wrightsbridge.”
Wrightsbridge lowered himself carefully onto the brocade seat, his face grave. “I discovered your quarry was ’eading north. The trail led me to Liverpool.”
Flynn clutched the arms of his chair. “Bloody hell! Did you get him?”
“No, milord. Set sail ’ours before I got there.”
Flynn raked his fingers through his hair. “Where was the boat bound for? France? America?” Might that be the last of Crowthorne? He wished he could be sure of that.
“Dublin Port.”
“What!” Flynn leapt to his feet. “Why didn’t you send me word?”
“I sent a note before I left Liverpool, milord.”
“Dash it all. It’s yet to arrive,” Flynn cried.
Wrightsbridge scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’ve been on the road for days, milord, but as Crowthorne ’as left the country, I didn’t see the urgency.”
Flynn eyed the exhausted man. “Are you up to following him to Ireland?”
“I don’t work out of England, milord. Can’t speak for other runners, but it will take you precious time to find someone prepared to go.”
“You’re right, it will. I shall have to go myself.”
Wrightsbridge’s chin dropped. “Sorry, milord. I would have liked to deal with the excrement, snuff ’im out like a candle. If it’s any ’elp, ’e was easy to follow. Left a trail of destruction behind ’im.”
“Like what?”
“Abused ostlers and unpaid inn keepers, exhausted ’orses, ’im, and some rutterkin with ’im, said to be mean enough to rob God. Given a wide berth. Scared of ’im everyone was.”
When the man had left, Flynn sat at his desk. He penned two hasty letters to John and Guy, sanded them and sealed them with wax. Then he rang for his butler.
Bellamy came in holding a silver salver.
“Send a footman to deliver these immediately. Direct my valet to pack me a portmanteau. I shall be returning to Ireland directly.”
“Yes, my lord. Your mail.”
“Thank you. I rely on you and the housekeeper to keep the home fires burning. I’m not sure when I shall return. Have my valet throw those letters into the bag. I’ll attend to them later.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Bellamy left with nary a question. He was used to Flynn taking off for parts unknown, sometimes for half a year or more.
Flynn leaned back and stroked his jaw where a muscle jumped. Had Crowthorne run to Ireland to avoid Bow Street? He would face the rope for Churton’s death and the murder of his colleagues. Was it possible that he’d somehow learned that Althea was at Greystones? Flynn went cold at the thought.
*
