The larger of the two crossed his arms. “No one sees Blackthorn unless he says so.”
A low voice cut through the noise behind them. “Let him through.”
The brutes hesitated, then parted.
Blackthorn hadn’t changed much. Average height, lean frame, black hair slicked back from a sharply angled face. But it was his eyes that truly distinguished him—black as pitch and perpetually assessing, as if dissecting a man’s thoughts before they were spoken.
He didn’t rise, merely gestured to the vacant chair across from him. “I’ll admit, I never expected to see Dominic Stevensagain. Word was you’d died somewhere on the Continent. Nice scar, by the way.”
Dominic sat. “Not dead. Just changed. I left Bow Street and took up a different fight.”
Blackthorn’s lip curled. “The war? A pointless venture.”
Dominic met his gaze. “I disagree.”
Blackthorn snapped his fingers towards a passing barmaid. “Well, you look awful. A drink, at least?”
“This isn’t a social call,” Dominic said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard over all the noise. “I need information.”
“Ah, so that’s why you’ve graced me with your presence.” Blackthorn leaned forward, his voice curt. “You disappear for years, no word, and now you come to make use of me?”
Dominic reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small velvet pouch. He dropped it onto the table with a dull thud.
Blackthorn’s eyes sharpened. He pulled the pouch closer and opened it, the glint of silver catching the low light. “Well,” he said, his smile returning, “now you have my attention.”
The barmaid returned and set down two tankards. Dominic took a sip and grimaced. “Still serving watered-down ale, I see.”
“Have a few and you won’t mind so much,” Blackthorn replied with a chuckle.
Dominic set the drink down and folded his hands on the table. “Do we have a deal?”
Blackthorn’s smile faded. “We do. What is it you need?”
“I’m looking for a man. He posed as a footman in my household. Tall. Dark hair. Passed himself off well enough to get past my staff.”
Blackthorn leaned back and surveyed the hall. “That describes half the men in this room. You’ll have to do better.”
“I know it isn’t much. But you’ve found people with less to go on.”
“True,” Blackthorn responded. “What’s he done to earn your ire?”
Dominic’s expression hardened. “He threatened someone under my protection.”
Blackthorn raised a brow. “A woman, I presume.”
“Yes,” he replied. “My wife, in fact.”
Blackthorn let out a low chuckle, his voice laced with amused disbelief. “What unlucky woman married you?”
Dominic didn’t dignify that with a response.
Blackthorn smirked, but rose to his feet with a languid stretch. “Give me a moment,” he said, strolling towards the bar with the ease of a man who had no enemies—or who had already dealt with them.
Dominic watched as Blackthorn leaned in to murmur something to the barman, a wiry man with a thinning hairline and a permanent scowl etched across his face. They spoke in hushed tones, their exchange swift and efficient. At one point, Blackthorn gestured subtly over his shoulder, and the barman nodded in reply.
Finally, Blackthorn returned to the table, resuming his seat with a more serious expression. He leaned forward, his voice lowered.
“Blake—my man behind the counter—mentioned someone who came in here a few nights ago, asking dangerous questions. Tall fellow, dark hair. Spoke of revenge. Matches your description of the impostor.”
