Page 17

Damn and blast.

The man dressed with the careless elegance of someone who understood wealth but didn’t flaunt it. The brass buttons of his navy superfine coat gleamed in the lantern light. A burgundy waistcoat in a subtly embroidered pattern, hinting at refinement, covered his pristine white lawn shirt.

Desmond rolled the no doubt expensive cigar between his fingers, studying Shelby with dark, unreadable eyes.

The measured assessment sent heat prickling along the back of Shelby’s neck.

Had he underestimated the danger Desmond presented?

Shelby released a measured breath, every sense keenly alert.

It did not surprise him that Desmond regarded him with thinly disguised disdain. The salt-stained coat he wore had seen too many years at sea, the fabric stiff from exposure to wind and brine. The rough linen of his shirt, once white, had faded to a tired gray. Every thread of his attire marked him as a man beneath Desmond’s notice.

But that was exactly the point.

So why had Desmond noticed Shelby?

What about his demeanor gave him away?

Desmond let the cigar linger near his mouth, then cut his attention toward the stable entrance. “You had best put any thoughts of robbing me aside. You would not make it two steps before my men have you on the ground.”

Shelby stiffened, muscles coiling as unease slithered through him.

Behind him, straw rustled, and a boot scuffed against a stone.

Hell’s bells.

Had he walked straight into a trap?

He shifted, angling his stance just enough to glimpse two figures emerging from the darkness.

The taller man wore a mud-crusted greatcoat, its hem stiff from years of neglect. A battered tricorn slouched low over his forehead, casting deep shadows over sharp, assessing eyes. A thin scar lashed his face, and a belt at his waist sagged beneath the weight of a long, wicked-looking knife.

Beside him, a broader man adjusted the sleeves of a soiled and faded green waistcoat. The fabric strained over a thickly muscled frame, the mismatched buttons barely holding it closed. He flexed his battle-scarred hands, his knuckles cracking in the hush.

Shelby tightened his jaw.

Careless idiot.

Years spent tracking criminals, collecting bounties, anticipating every move—and yet, he had walked into this snare.

The ruffians inched forward, their presence an ominous warning.

Producing a slow, affable grin, Shelby raised his hands slightly, palms outward. “I’m not here to rob you. I merely seek information.”

Desmond’s brows slashed together, skepticism carving deeper lines into his sharp, angular face.

“You present an enigma, my shabby friend.” He raked his menacing gaze over Shelby’s attire before settling on his face, curiosity darkening his expression. “You appear to be a common tippler, yet your speech hints at refinement.”

Shelby met Desmond’s flinty regard head-on. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Indeed.” Desmond shifted his weight, crossing one ankle over the other as if he had all the time in the world. Every inch of the Bloodoak Brotherhood’s leader exuded confidence, as though he controlled this encounter.

In truth, he did.

Trusting him would be imprudent. However, a sliver of honesty might shift the balance in Shelby’s favor.

“I believe we’ve both been swindled by the same man.” A shallow breath slipped through his teeth as he gestured at himself, at the rough disguise necessity had forced upon him. “He stole my identity, obtained a loan using it, and left me hiding from a rather blood-thirsty moneylender until I can clear my name.”