Crispin scrambled backward, clearly startled. “What in blazes…? Who the hell are you?”
Someone else groaned. “Shut up, will ye? I’m tryin’ to sleep.”
Adrian ignored the fellow and kept his attention trained on the man he’d come to collect. “You’re Mark Crispin, yes?”
“No.” Crispin scratched his head. “I’ve no idea who that is.”
“Are you sure about that?” Adrian knocked back the hammer on his pistol. It clicked into place. “Lying will just get you killed. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not.” Crispin held up both hands as if in surrender.
“God’s sake,” someone muttered. “Go have yer chat elsewhere, will ye?”
Adrian smirked. “An excellent idea. Get dressed Crispin. We’ve much to discuss.”
Crispin hesitated, until Adrian lowered his pistol toward the man’s shoulder and told him bluntly “You don’t need that arm in order to speak.”
“Damn it all,” Crispin muttered. “I’m coming. Just give me a minute.”
“Shush,” someone hissed.
Adrian stepped back, giving Crispin room to climb from the bed and collect his clothes. He pulled on his shirt and trousers then shoved his feet into a pair of hose. A length of fabric was hurriedly wrapped around his neck before he grabbed his jacket and cap.
Even in the darkness, he looked like a rumpled mess. Not that Adrian cared. All that mattered was information and how much of it Crispin could be encouraged to provide.
Keeping his pistol on Crispin, he gestured toward the door. “Let’s go.”
The man moved, one slow step at a time. Adrian pressed the pistol against his spine and nudged him forward.
A floorboard creaked. One of the other occupants in the room muttered a curse and began climbing out of bed. Instantly on alert, Adrian glanced in his direction, just to be sure the man wasn’t a threat.
It only took a second, if that. All Adrian knew was that Crispin must have sensed the distraction for he suddenly turned, his hands gripping Adrian’s arm and shoving it sideways. It connected with the doorframe with a loud ‘thwack’ and Adrian lost his hold on the pistol. The gun went flying and landed somewhere in the hallway beyond.
Then came the door, which Crispin smashed against Adrian’s body, trapping his arm between it and the doorframe and pushing down hard. The pain was fierce, but quickly let up as Crispin took off.
“Bloody bastard,” Adrian muttered. He shook out his arm and flexed his fingers, pausing briefly in response to the cry that came from below.
Smug satisfaction filled his chest. He squared his shoulders and ambled toward the spot where his pistol lay. Once he’d retrieved it, he descended the stairs to the entryway where Ratcher still stood.
Adrian gave him a pound for the trouble, then stepped into the alley where Murry waited, his pistol pressed against Crispin’s skull. A gash was now present upon Crispin’s brow and one eye appeared to be swelling. Despite Crispin being the same size as Murry, he visibly cowered before him.
“Good man,” Adrian said, the compliment directed at his valet. To Crispin he said, “Try that again and I’ll put your head through the nearest wall. Got it?”
Crispin muttered something incomprehensible. A curse, no doubt. Adrian grabbed his upper arm and shoved him into a walk while Murry kept the pistol carefully trained upon him.
Together, they got O’Leary’s man back to their carriage and set off for home. Despite the late hour, their work for the night was just beginning.
“Tell us about your dealings with Finn O’Leary,” Adrian said once Crispin had been confined to the room that had always been used for these types of discussions.
Personally, he hated the space. It was where he’d been whipped for failing to do as his father asked, where the memory of what snapping bone sounded like still made him flinch. Yet despite these things, or possibly because of them, this was where he’d chosen to end Clive Newton’s miserable existence last year.
More than anything, he’d brought Newton here for the same reason he’d now brought Crispin. Because it was private. None of the sounds produced in the room would filter outside. No one would guess that a man was being held captive beneath the otherwise prestigious Portman Square home.
An advantage that gave Adrian as much time as he needed to dig and probe and discover the truth.
He considered Crispin, who’d been placed in the same chair Newton had been made to stand on before it was knocked away, snapping the rope tight around his neck. No regret there. Not for the murderous scoundrel who’d slit Evie’s throat.
His poor, sweet sister…
