My head nodded, and I started away.
It was better that the fool didn’t recognize me. That’s what I told myself, but I clutched the knife in my pocket, wondering if I was finally ready to strike.
Standing a few feet away from the man I’d hoped was Sullivan, I saw that meeting unfold in my head.
Shouting, long and angry. I came waddling down the stairs, away from the marble gods sweeping under the shadow of the chandelier. I posted outside the drawing room and heard the boasts, the threats.
Fearing for Colin’s life, I went inside.
The one called Sullivan had his hands about Colin’s neck.
The fiend had a mole on his nose, close-set eyes, veiny hands.
I squinted and blinked. This man in the corner with the mole, with those eyes was him. It was A. Sullivan.
The man stared back at me, and I panicked. I was sure my face was awash with perspiration.
“Sir,” he said. “Are you looking for credit? Have you been sent to meet a man for credit?”
“Yes, Sullivan. An old friend, Jordan, said you were good for it.”
My words were bold, and I hoped they would get me choked.
His veiny hands balled. “The welch is dead and with him my IOUs. Get new friends if you expect any money to be lent. Him and that slick Markham are not good references.”
I put my damp palms to my sides. “You’re angry, almost like they took your personal money. IOUs would be for the club, no?”
He lowered his voice. “Like I said—”
“LaCroy.”
“Like I said, LaCroy, get new friends. The convenient death of the blackguard doesn’t solve everything. Excuse me.”
The man pushed past me and headed straight for Markham.
My voice died in my throat. If he told him I’d mentioned Colin, Markham would confront me. He’d recognize my face and expose me in this club.
Crossing my arms, I felt sticky. My nerves had done it. My milk would soak through the bandaging to my chest.
Tugging on my jacket, I wanted to leave, but my gaze was caught by the man entering the club.
The Duke of Repington had come to Piccadilly with my bread basket in his hands, one covered with a blanket that kicked as if it carried my son.
CHAPTER 24
LESSONS OF ARAKE
Busick glared at Patience.
No disguise could hide her from his anger.
He scooped up the handle of the bread basket with his sleeping ward and marched toward her.
She didn’t retreat. She didn’t hide.
He liked that she was bold.
Her daring nature was something he hoped Lionel inherited, but that he’d learn good sense from him.
