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"The coward’s way." Reeve smirked.

"The safe way. Arsenic. Small doses over a fortnight. Physician would call it a fever."

"How did it feel to kill a woman?"

"I felt nothing. It was quick."

Reeve studied him. The silence was practised. Kit had seen him use it on customs agents and harbour masters and boys who'd lied about the take. The silence said: I know more than you're telling me.

"Did she suffer?" The blackguard asked.

"No."

Reeve nodded slowly. "Good. I ain’t not a monster, Kit. I wanted her managed. She wouldn't be managed."

Kit said nothing.

"She brought it on herself," Reeve said.

Kit's hand tightened on the knife.

"And how was keeping house with the old woman?" His eyes danced, teasing. "She kept you soft for over a decade. Let you pretend you were a gentleman's son instead of what you are." He shook his head. "She thought you were a boy," Reeve said. "But you were never a boy. You were a blade I put an edge on. She just kept you in a drawer, let you rust."

"Are you finished?"

"Nearly." Reeve looked up at the ceiling. "Where exactly is the body? I want her confirmed before we move the cargo through."

"Drawing room."

Reeve turned to the warrior. "Go up. Check the body. Stab her if necessary and confirm she is dead." He looked at the boy. "You too. Go with him. See how it's done."

The warrior turned and walked up the passage towards the house. The boy followed, his boots unsteady on the packed earth.

Kit waited three heartbeats. Then he moved.

The tunnel was narrow. Spit stood between Kit and Reeve, and the passage left no room to go around. Kit drove his boot into the back of Spit's knee. The Irishman buckled forward and his weight carried him into Reeve, shoulder to chest, and the two men went down in a tangle of limbs and oaths in the dark.

Kit was already past them. The ladder was ten paces ahead. He covered it in four strides and took the rungs two at a time, his boots hitting the wood hard, his hands pulling his weight upward.

Below, Spit was on his feet. Fast. The Irishman reached the base of the ladder and gripped the rung and Kit kicked downward with everything he had. His boot connected with the crown of Spit's head and the man dropped away with a grunt. Reeve was behind him, shouting, and Kit hauled himself through the opening into the scullery and rolled sideways off the lip.

He was on his feet before the cold air of the kitchen had reached his lungs. He crossed the passage in six strides, drawing the pistol from his waistband. Through the kitchen. Past the stairs. His boots hit the flagstones hard, and the sound echoed through the sealed house.

From above, a scream. High, raw, animal. The warrior.

Then a crash.

Kit took the stairs. At the top of the landing, he turned the corner and stopped.

Chapter nineteen

Jem

Audrey

She heard them before she saw them.

Two sets of footsteps on the stairs. Not one. Two. The steps were heavy and uneven — one pair confident, the other tentative, scuffing.