“No, I suppose not. Why don’t you report me to the authorities? I’ll be happy to explain why I did it. You have until the count of five to make a decision. One... two... three...”
“My personal account book.” Brundage’s voice was a tortured rasp.
“Why is that one the most incriminating?”
“I think you already know why, Hawkes,” he said coldly. “I think you know one can’t get a Ming vase for five pounds fifty. Why the theatrics?”
Brundage’s head jerked up and fixed on the door at the sound of scuffling footsteps, low voices, and a sharply muttered command.
Hawkes didn’t turn.
But Brundage’s face reflected a cold, ugly triumph and relief.
“Do you hear that, Hawkes? My footman has been instructed to hail the soldiers in St. James Square if you should dare show your face here. He must have heard our voices. It’s a shame, but you won’t leave here alive. You can go ahead and shoot me now, but if they find you like this, they’ll splatter your guts all over my Axminster. It’s my word over yours over what’s happening here, and you’re the one aiming a gun at an earl.”
“Brundage,” Hawkes said gently. “Who do you think invited me into your house? A man who was once knocked to the floor because he accidentally poured cognac instead of brandy. Cognac which he obtained from Guthrie’s Antiquities, owned by one Florian Vasseur, also known as Cafard, who is even now in custody and willing to talk all about your association. A man whose brother, as it so happens... was killed at Dos Montañas. In other words, your footman.”
Horror slowly flooded into Brundage’s expression.
“But yes,” Hawkes continued. “You have the right of it. Soldiers have converged upon your house. I believe one in particular would like to speak to you.”
Brundage tracked his motions as Hawkes stood. Slowly, slowly. His gun remained trained on the earl as he crossed the Axminster to open the door.
To reveal General James Duncan Blackmore, the Duke of Valkirk, who had been listening all along.
Behind him were a half dozen grim-faced soldiers.
They were efficient, as always. They already had a warrant.
Hawkes’s handprint was still faintly visible onBrundage’s cheek when they took him away. Per Hawkes’s request, both of his wrists were bound.
Dinner hour came and went, and though Captain Hardy had returned that afternoon after getting a message to the Duke of Valkirk, Hawkes had not.
The meal was devoured by most and picked at by Aurelie. Conversation was desultory.
And now everyone—Delilah and Angelique and Dot, Captain Hardy and Lord Bolt, Mr. Delacorte and Mrs. Pariseau and Mr. Bellingham, had convened in the sitting room, and attempts at discourse seemed to be swallowed in the void of tension, as the clock softly bonged out seven, then eight o’clock.
“Do you want us to see if I can learn anything, Aurelie?” Lord Bolt offered quietly. “I will go to White’s in—”
Rap rap rap rap.
A knock sounded at the door.
They all froze. Hearts and breathing and knitting and reading stopped.
“Well, that was a very ordinary knock, wasn’t it?” Dot said presently, with cautious cheer. “Which makes itoutof the ordinary this week. Isn’t that rather funny?”
They all knew that Hawkes would only go to the front door if it was now safe for him.
“Funny indeed,” Delilah said carefully, noting Aurelie’s still hands, her white face. Her voice was taut. “Why don’t you go and see who it might be, Dot?”
Every eye tracked Dot to the door.
Aurelie didn’t breathe. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer.
The tiny little latch of the peep hatch echoed like a mausoleum door when Dot swung it open.
“Mr. Hawkes!” she exclaimed happily, and flung open the door.
