Wren’s own throat went dry.
“I had assumed the body would be found before now,” Tolhurst continued, either not noticing how his words unnerved Wren, or not caring. “I suppose it sank beyond retrieval. Or floated away to meet the Thames. Picked over by mudlarks and sunk into the sediment.”
Returned to nature, Shrike had said. Wren could only imagine what manner of eels had gnawed upon the corpse until nothing remained.
“You needn’t fear I share my nephew’s spendthrift habits,” said Tolhurst, drawing Wren’s mind away from sepulchral thoughts. “Miss Fairfield’s fortune shall not go to waste under my care. As you can see by the rooms you stand in, I am a practical man and well accustomed to living within my means.”
Wren stared at him. Household economy could not have been further from his mind in that moment. If Tolhurst thought his financial standing, rather than his confessed murder, would prove the greatest impediment to Wren believing him a fit suitor for Daniel, then his conscience had twisted further than Wren could ever imagine.
Tolhurst raised his own brows at Wren’s disbelief. “You cannot deny Felix proved himself unworthy of Flora’s hand in marriage. He never deserved her.”
Wren could not deny it. He cleared his throat and assumed a tone of cool indifference. “And what does Miss Fairfield deserve?”
“A delicate flower such as she deserves the commanding presence of an older, wiser gentleman to guide her through the correct path in life.”
Wren’s gorge rose.
“Keep your silence regarding his fate,” Tolhurst continued, “and I’ll keep my silence regarding your sins—so long as you tell me where I will find Flora.”
His voice fell to a growl upon those last few words. He rose from his chair and advanced a step. Wren fell back in kind. Tolhurst had just confessed to one murder. Wren couldn’t assume he’d feel any reluctance to commit a second.
Yet, while Tolhurst had proved monstrous, Wren couldn’t help feeling his malice was nothing compared to the inhuman wrath of a faerie queen. And despite Tolhurst’s menace, blackmail could have little effect upon one who planned to either die or leave England forever on the twenty-first of June.
“I will find her,” Tolhurst went on. “Whether you tell me or no, I shall hunt her down. There is no covert she may run to that I will not sniff out. I’ll not rest until I have her. So you may as well tell me.”
Wren didn’t trust himself to lie without revealing more than he ought.
And so rather than speak, he darted for the desk.
The ambassador’s training regimen had done wonders in just a few short weeks. It had made Wren quick enough to snatch up his manuscripts before Tolhurst could do more than rock back on his heels in alarm.
But not quick enough to decide between dashing for the window or the door before Tolhurst set on him.
Hands like talons seized his shoulder. Wren whipped one arm out of his coat sleeve, ready to sacrifice it in his escape, but his compulsive hold on his manuscripts, while he swapped them from one hand to the other, lost him the vital moment required to fully elude Tolhurst’s grasp. The frock coat fell to the floor well after Tolhurst’s fists clenched Wren’s shirt-front.
Thrust back against the barrister shelves with enough force to crack the glass behind him, Wren dropped his manuscripts. They fluttered down around him like so many dying moths.
“Where is she?” Tolhurst snarled in his face.
Wren couldn’t summon any words, much less the ones Tolhurst wanted.
Tolhurst lifted him until his boots no longer touched the floor and slammed him against the bookshelves again. “Where!?”
Wren shook his head.
“Tell me!”
Wren, his vocal cords tight with fear, just managed to murmur, “Never.”
Tolhurst stared at him in frank disbelief. He removed one hand from Wren’s shirt-front.
And wrapped it around Wren’s throat.
Instinct drove Wren to grab at the wrist of the hand now crushing his windpipe. This changed nothing. Tolhurst, larger, stronger, and more practised in murder, had every advantage. Still, his lungs burning, Wren wrenched Tolhurst’s wrist again and again. He kicked out, his boot-heels breaking the glass behind him and proving just as futile against Tolhurst’s shins as his hand proved against Tolhurst’s arm. Dark spots clouded his vision like swarms of flies. He grit his teeth, and through them he whispered with the last of his breath.
“Shrike.”
Tolhurst didn’t seem to hear him any more than he noticed his kicks and blows. His snarling rage had turned to cold indifference. Eyes frozen in their hatred fixed on Wren’s face. He hoped it wouldn’t be the last thing he saw.
