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It would be impossible to find anyone in the room without knowing exactly which direction to search. Abram knew he would have to walk around and look for the man. There were not many descriptors to go on.

Then Abram recalled what the man had said moments before. Easton was a gambler.

Abram looked around until he saw a group of men standing in a circle. Undoubtedly, they were where the action was occurring.

It took a moment for him to fight off the ladies vying for his attention—and his coin. They seemed to come from everywhere. Hands pulled at his clothes; some even ran wiggling fingers over his neck. They blew kisses and shook barely-covered breasts in his direction.

Abram hated that London, for all its wealth and affluence, had such a disparity in living conditions mere miles apart. For the wealthy, they could hide away behind their high gates, where others were limited with resources and scarcity that pushed them into peril—low wages, minimal access to better jobs, and no way to climb up from their conditions.

He did not blame the poor. He blamed the rich for ignoring how the vast majority of Londoners had to live.

Once he’d managed to escape the crush of women and their patrons, he found seven men in the corner tossing dice at the ground in lieu of a table. There was also a game of Whist being played on a wobbly barrel in the corner.

Abram meandered between the two throngs of men, some with accents denoting they were from some place abroad. Others had the familiar cadence of London’s lower class, less refined than the Mayfair and upper-class crowd whose company he frequented.

He watched for a moment, attempting to seem as if he belonged in the room. He was not dressed particularly fine, thankfully. He had removed his jacket earlier as the temperature had climbed. He still wore suspenders, trousers, and a cap instead of his standard bowler.

As he waited, he saw someone who looked close to the description, yet how could he be sure it was Easton?

“Oy, there ’e is. Come back for more work, did ’cha?”

The voice came from the dice game. He turned to find another man fitting the description staring at him. Abram glanced around to see if anyone was behind him before looking back at the man. “Are you referring to me?” he asked, sure his voice could not be heard over the noise or men cursing and cheering at the outcome of the dice roll.

The man pointed to the front of the establishment, then turned to head that way. Abram followed. This time, a few less ladies paid him attention, rightly thinking he was a waste of their time.

When he and the stranger made it out front, the large man let them out. “A crown to get back inside, just so you know,” he growled, pulling the door closed with a slam.

“I said, are ye’ looking for more work?” the man asked.

Abram was still not sure whether he knew the man. Still unsure of why on earth he would be speaking to him in such a manner. He was exactly as described by many of those Abram had encountered throughout the day. Medium build, olive skin, and while he did not have the patch, it was easy to see the missing eyeball. Instead of asking him his name, he said, “Do you know who I am?”

“Of course I do. I weren’t that drunk. When you mentioned you might return for another man, I didn’t think ye’ meant so soon.”

“And you handled the man? The one I asked you to dispose of,” he asked.

“Yeah, I did. Just like you asked. But this time, yol’ need to pay me more on account’a that one was a fighter. He snatched off me patch and it took me till yesterday to be able to chew.”

Abram bit back a smile. At least Rowan had given them hell or high water before they’d ended his life.

“I left the note you wrote. Just like you asked. Then I paid my brother at the apartments for collecting their whereabouts and what have ya.”

“Just like I asked,” he repeated.

“Look, McQueen…” Grady said. “I don’t have all night, huh? If you should want me to take out the other man, just give me the money. Plus two pounds more. I understand it was a hard bargain, but I canno’ take the risk.”

The bloom of understanding sharply took hold of Abram. Bitter, harsh rationale that threatened to take his breath away. “Tell you what, I will think on it and be back tomorrow,” Abram said. “Just remind me when I come back again of the cost to kill my brother.” With that statement, he turned away, the burn of tears in his eyes as he considered how evil an act it was to have a brother killed.

He knew then, Dahl was in London. He had been for some time, and for whatever reason, he’d paid this villain to murder Rowan.

How would he reconcile the heartache? He needed the reason. What could have driven Dahl to such an act?

Abram went back to the Dove and Hound, and the moment he’d walked into his room, he grabbed the stack of letters from the woman, Leandra.

So many moments rushed into his mind, when the landlord had said he had spoken with him before, dismissing him under the assumption he’d spoken instead with Rowan. He considered the handwriting on the note found on Rowan’s dead body, the list of places Rowan had been, which was the reason Abram knew who Easton was. The whole time, the handwriting had belonged to Dahl.

Dahl and Abram were remarkably similar despite being two years apart. They had the same height and build, and their facial structure was quite similar. They weren’t twins, but to someone who had never seen them together, they could be confused for one another.

Dahl had tried to have him killed—had killed Rowan, a good man who had been nothing but loyal to the McQueens. A rage simmered just beneath the veneer he attempted to maintain. There was no world where he would have believed a family member would try to end his life. Even after years of teasing, even after Dahl had manipulated the women Abram had been interested in to sleep with him. The lies he had told his father about Abram’s actions when they had actually been Dahl’s. He had turned the man against him, causing him to harbor even more resentment when the death of his mother had been enough.