“Wakeham runs some sort of smuggling racket. Didn’t get a chance to learn more. I took a risk and moved closer, and they caught me. Stupid of me. That’s how we runners get killed.”
“Did you hear what they planned for you? Will it happen tonight?”
“No. Tomorrow. They made no bones about it. They plan to make me disappear somewhere, miles from here.”
“Then they are about to suffer a bitter disappointment.”
The twine fell away, and Boyle gingerly rubbed his wrists.
“I’ll have to douse this light,” Hart said. “Go carefully.”
Once Boyle was on his feet, he limped after Hart to the door. Another loud noise as the door creaked open. Outside, it remained quiet, apart from the hoot of an owl from a nearby tree. At the house, lights shone from several windows.
“We need to get closer. Are you up for it? Or do you want to wait here?”
“I’ll come, milord.”
“Move slowly and stay within the trees, and we’ll see if we can find out what’s going on there.”
It was slow going through the underbrush. Nettles caught at Hart’s breeches, and Boyle stumbled over a rock. He would have fallen had Hart not grabbed his arm.
They came level with the front windows, where candlelight shone behind the curtains. On the drive, braziers burned.
“Looks like Wakeham expects a visitor,” Hart said.
Ten minutes later, the jiggle of harnesses and the clatter of wheels broke the silence. A large coach lit by carriage lamps lumbered along the drive driven by six horses. Hart moved farther back into the shadows with Boyle.
The black vehicle loomed out of the darkness and stopped before the house. The front door opened and Wakeham and his two men emerged.
A big bruiser of a man jumped from the box to put down the steps, opening the coach door. A man bent his head in his tall beaver hat and stepped down. He wore an evening cape, the lining glowing red in the lantern light. Another big, broad-shouldered lackey followed him.
“Do come inside, milord. Warm yourself on this cool night.” Wakeham sounded obsequious, and Hart detected an underlying note of fear.
“What have you to tell me?” The peer had a strange, whispering voice. He shrugged up a shoulder and made no move to follow Wakeham inside.
“The last shipment has gone to London,” Wakeham said in an anxious voice, tripping over his words. “Won’t you come in and partake of some French brandy? I have a few bottles kept for you.”
The lord shrugged his shoulder up against his neck again, as if it hurt him. “I intend to have words with you first, Wakeham. You’ve foolishly put us all at risk by your reckless intention to kill your niece. One of your men sits in a jail cell ready to spill his guts and take us all down with him.”
“You can blame Montford’s interference, milord. It would have all gone smoothly but for him taking a fancy to my niece. The marquess, a neighbor of mine, stole my niece’s horse from under my nose, and sent a Bow Street Runner to prowl around my grounds.”
“A Bow Street Runner was here?” the lord hissed.
“No need to worry about him. We’ve dealt with him.” Wakeham gave a strained chuckle. “And Johns won’t talk. I’ve already made arrangements to have him silenced. I can get at him, and he knows it. But let us discuss the business. I have done what you requested and shifted all the goods. This is the last payment, milord. Just give me the agreed share of the bounty. And then we are done.”
The peer took a step forward. “Very well.”
When Wakeham turned away to enter the house with his henchmen, the lord gestured to his men. They drew their pistols. Three explosions rent the air, causing a shrieking flock of birds to fly from the woods. Wakeham and his tallow-faced thieves fell down like puppets with their strings cut.
The lord stepped up onto the porch and nudged each of them with his shoe. “Dead as doornails,” he said with a huff of satisfaction. “Bury the bodies in the woods. And don’t let the servants catch you at it. Make it fast. I am expected at a ball in Tunbridge Wells.”
Hart and Boyle backed away then turned and moved stealthily through the trees to hide.
“Wait here until they leave. I must search the house,” Hart murmured. Now that this murderous lord knew of him, Hart needed to learn who he was.
The men had taken shovels from the shed and buried Wakeham and his men. Then the coach trundled away down the drive.
Hart knocked on the front door. A terrified servant answered it. “What has happened, milord?” he cried, peering into the dark.
