Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “Does he have a name?”
“No name,” Blackthorn said, a glint of satisfaction lighting his eyes, “but I can do even better. He’s here. Now. Sitting in the corner, drinking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.”
Dominic turned his head slightly, pretending to scan the room casually. His gaze landed on a shadowed figure at the far table, half-hidden by a wooden beam. The man held a tankard,his posture relaxed, but when their eyes met, recognition flared. It was him. The false footman.
Dominic stiffened, pulse quickening.Could it truly be this easy?
He began to rise, but Blackthorn’s hand shot out to stop him. “Don’t make a mess in my tavern,” he warned. “Take it outside if you must.”
Dominic gave a single nod. “Understood.”
As if sensing danger, the man in the corner abruptly stood. His eyes darted around, then locked on to Dominic again—this time filled with alarm. Without a word, he bolted for the door, nearly knocking over a barmaid in his haste.
Blackthorn sighed. “Oh, splendid. We’ve got a runner.”
Dominic was already moving, pushing through the crowd, ignoring shouted protests and overturned stools as he charged out the door. The cool night air hit his face as he spotted the man careening down the street, shoving past pedestrians and sending crates tumbling in his wake.
Dominic gave chase, his boots pounding against the cobblestones. The man ducked into a side alley, and Dominic followed without hesitation, drawing his pistol as the foul, narrow passage swallowed him whole.
Ahead, the man scrambled up a stack of broken crates, clearly aiming to scale the crumbling wall that marked the end of the alley.
“Stop right there,” Dominic barked.
The man hesitated, then froze at the top of the crates, but didn’t turn around. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice rough with exertion.
“Answers,” Dominic replied, raising his pistol.
Slowly, the man turned, revealing his own weapon—a flintlock, already cocked and aimed directly at Dominic’s chest. “I could just as easily kill you as talk,” he said.
“Then we’re at an impasse,” Dominic stated, his grip tightening on the handle of his pistol. “You hurt someone I care about.”
A bitter laugh escaped the man’s lips. “And you did the same to me.”
Dominic frowned. “I don’t even know you.”
“No, but you knew my sister,” the man spat out. “You had her transported for theft.”
Dominic’s mind quickly scanned years of arrests and cases. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve arrested dozens of thieves.”
“She was known as theMayfair Robber.”
Realization dawned on him. “Yes… I remember her. Clever, bold. I always suspected she had a partner.”
“She did,” the man growled. “Me. But she never gave me up. Not even when she was caught.”
Dominic felt no regret. “Your sister stole thousands of pounds worth of jewelry from some of the wealthiest households in London. She knew the risks. Her sentence was just.”
“She didn’t deserve to die,” he snapped, his voice cracking with raw emotion.
“She wasn’t hanged,” Dominic remarked. “She was only sentenced to being transported.”
“No,” the man breathed, his voice trembling with fury barely contained. “She died on the voyage. Fever took her. Starved. Forgotten in the belly of a rotting prison ship while rats gnawed the boards around her.”
The words hit Dominic like a blow. He tightened his jaw, his grip steady on the pistol, though a sliver of guilt threaded through his chest. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t!” the man snarled, his voice rising with each word. “Why would you? You never cared about her. She was just another name in your ledger. Another criminal to cart away.”
Dominic met his gaze without flinching. “That’s not true.”
