“That would imply I was doin’ things for ’im willingly. ’E’s not the sort of man ye refuse to do favors for—if ye want to keep breathin’.”
Marcus glanced around again, to ensure no one was lurking in shadows. He hadn’t expectedWillie to be so forthcoming in his responses, had thought he might have to persuade him. The room was barren except for the throne and the table beside it that held a glass and a bottle of gin. So why was the man being so cooperative? “Where will I find the eight of diamonds?”
“In the morgue, sadly.”
Had Marcus gotten things wrong? He took two steps forward and removed the card from his jacket. “A man was murdered last night, and this was found near his person.”
Willie nodded. “I sent ’im out to do Lucifer’s biddin’, but Eight was found this mornin’ dancin’ on the wind beneath Blackfriars Bridge.”
Hanged? Suicide or murder? If Marcus had money to wager, he’d wager on the latter. “Did you know that was how his night would end?”
A slow shake of his head. “I’d ’ave sent someone else. I liked Eight. ’E was a good man.”
Obviously, he and Willie had a different definition of the attributes that constituted agood man. “What else do you know about Lucifer?”
“’E suspected ye’d come ’ere tonight”—he slowly rose to his feet like a phoenix rising from the ashes and spread his arms wide—“and I’ve been charged with sending ye to ’ell.”
Reaching back, Marcus took hold of his knives, drew them forth, and held them at the ready. His first thought was that he was grateful Esme wasn’t with him, that he hadn’t told her that he’d planned to confront his old nemesis, that she wasn’t in harm’s way. His second thought wasthat it felt strange to be going into battle without her at his side. He recalled the night in the alleyway when she’d taken him by surprise. He adjusted his stance and said, “Give it your best.”
Willie cackled, very much reminding Marcus of a crow. “The advantage of sittin’ upon the throne is that I don’t ’ave to fight. I’s got others for that.” He dropped his head back. “Let’s play the devil’s ’and!”
The gang boss had always had a flair for the dramatic. Marcus swung around to meet the onslaught of attackers, with clubs and knives held at the ready, barging through the doorway. Six. Devil take him. He should have realized finding Willie alone had been far too easy a chore. He’d thought the men he and Esme had encountered in the alleyway had been following her from Podmore’s, that stopping her had been their objective. But recognizing one of the blighters from the alley, he realized he’d been their intended target, they’d been chasing him. He’d been certain no one was on his trail. So how had they found him?
Those questions were to be answered at another time, if he survived his current predicament, if he somehow managed to evade the circle of brutes surrounding him. They were an ugly, odorous lot with greasy hair and whiskered faces. Blackened teeth. Pockmarks. Grime beneath their fingernails, visible because of the holes in their gloves through which poked their fingers, the alteration of the hand coverings often deliberately made because it allowed for a firmer grip on knife handles.
He knew a moment’s regret that he hadn’t kissed Esme one more time, that he hadn’t taken her to his bed, had never brought her pleasure. That he didn’t have the memory of her sighs and moans and cries as ecstasy shimmered through her to take with him into hell. He was fairly certain heaven wasn’t his destination. At least he’d encounter his father and could ask him what the devil he’d been thinking.
Yelling like a banshee, a wildly enthusiastic lout came for him. Raising a leg, Marcus kicked him in the gut, sending him backward with enough force that he managed to take the fellow coming up behind him to the floor. Spinning around, Marcus wielded the knives with expert precision, slicing an upper arm and a cheek, bending down to get the thigh of another bloke. But they were coming too fast, too many. As he struck out at one man, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glistening blade coming for his throat, threw up an arm to deflect it, leaving his belly unprotected as another knife swiftly came in—
Thunder roared throughout the cavernous room. A high-pitched scream followed. The knife went flying. Blood sprayed in an arc as the attacker cradled his bleeding hand close against his midsection and backed away, sobbing. Everyone else had gone as still as stone statues.
Marcus turned his attention to the doorway, where a lone woman stood. Tall and glorious and confident. Holding what he recognized as a Beaumont-Adams revolver, a gun with a chamberthat held five bullets. He shouldn’t be surprised she had access to a weapon used by the army. He absurdly wondered if it had been disguised as a pearl comb for her hair or a flamboyant piece of jewelry. Or if, perhaps, it had even belonged to her father.
“I have four bullets remaining, and I’m a dead shot,” she said with unnerving cold disdain. “I would suggest—”
Letting loose a murderous howl, a ruffian raced toward her. She quickly leveled the gun and fired. The assailant screeched and clutched his shoulder as his knife clattered to the floor. “What portion of ‘I’m a dead shot’ was unclear?”
“Now, ye’ve got only three bullets,” Willie said.
“But I’ve evened the odds somewhat and one of them has your name on it—”
“’Ow’d ye do that?” the fellow from the alley asked. “’Ow’d ye write ’is name on it?”
She didn’t take her gaze off Willie. “It’s merely an expression. Call off your minions and tell them to drop their weapons.”
“Or wot?”
“You’ll die. And if not you, it’ll be the next man at whom I aim. I’ve been generous thus far, but my patience is wearing thin.”
“Who the devil are ye?” Willie barked.
“Satan’s mistress,” Esme stated calmly. “I’m known to make grown men weep.” She waved the barrel of the gun at him. “Order your men to disarm.”
“Drop yer weapons,” Willie grumbled.
Without her asking, Marcus holstered his own knives, gathered up those from the floor, and strode to her side. Lord help him but he’d never wanted to kiss a woman more.
“Did you get what you came for?” she asked, with an undercurrent of pique in her tone.
