Chapter One
“Damn and blastit, Beckett!” Anthony Ashton sheathed his dagger and glared at the man who stood in the middle of his bedroom in the early hours of the morning. “I could have killed you.”
A single candle illuminated a face carved deep with the scars of too many dark and dangerous missions. A thug’s face. “We both know that is unlikely, milord.” Beckett’s dark eyes showed no apology for waking him in such a manner, and Tony expected none.
Tony suppressed the urge to laugh. “I would have given you a run for your money, you old fox. How did you get in here? Warrington will be appalled to find his house so easily breached.”
The man’s lips twitched. “Through the duke’s back door, o’course. One or two of His Grace’s footmen may have a sore head come morning.”
Breaking and entering was but one of the man’s many talents. Tony raised a brow. “Right. Well, thank you for not killing them.”
The man nodded. Both understood what he was capable of if the need arose.
“Why are you here, Beckett?”
“A message for ye from Lord Stafford.”
Tony ran his fingers through his hair. Beckett remained standing in the halo of candlelight. Ever patient. Ever watching.
“This message, what is it?” Tony swung his legs over the edge of the bed, hesitant to put his feet on the cold floor.
“Captain Markham’s lost his finger.”
Tony blinked. “What do you mean he has lost his finger?”
“As in it were delivered in a box to Stafford last night. His lady nearly fainted upon seeing it, apparently.”
Tony felt the blood drain from his face. “Good God. Where is Markham now?”
Beckett shrugged. “That’s the thing. Nobody knows and Stafford fears the worst.”
Tony’s heart dropped as the heavy cloak of dread settled. Markham was not only his friend, but also a superior soldier and an integral member of The Ring. It was unfathomable to think he would lose his finger. Or any other part of him.
“Wait.” Tony stood and held the bed frame, his knuckles white, desperate to make sense of this news. He did not want to feel this mix of anger and grief and damn it, he would not give in to it without evidence. “How do we even know it is Markham’s finger?”
“His signet ring were still attached.”
“That’s not proof. Could be any poor fellow’s digit. Was there a ransom note, or any kind of demand?” He refused to think Markham had met his maker. Not yet. There must be a reasonable explanation for all this.
Beckett shook his head. “Nothin’ yet. Markham’s not reported for over two months.”
“That’s odd. I’ll find Markham’s last known location and bring him home.” Markham would do the same for him. They had saved each other’s hides more times than he dared to count. Whatever mess his friend had got himself into, it was Tony’s duty to get him out and bring him back to England.
Beckett held up a hand. “Er, before you go packin’ a bag, milord, there’s something else. Stafford told me to bring you a… package. It’s downstairs in the front parlor.”
“Why didn’t you bring it up?”
“No, milord, wouldn’t be right. Not a’tall.” Beckett scanned the room and found Tony’s banyan, breeches, and slippers. “Here, let me help you.”
Tony dressed quickly, concerned as to what might be in the parlor. Another one of Markham’s body parts?
He followed Beckett down the stairs, down the hall, into the parlor, and stopped short. A brace of candles lit the room, and on the sofa sat a young lady, hands clasped in her lap and fast asleep.
“Who is she?” Tony whispered.
“She’s yours,” Beckett whispered back, the stench of stale tobacco hitting Tony square in the face.
He winced and waved the man back into the hallway, a strange sensation of panic rising. “I’ve never seen this girl in my life. I do not know what she has told you but—”
