“We offered fair terms for repaying this debt,Filgrave, but all you ever wanted was the two of us in your filthy clutches. How many other desperate women have you threatened in such a way? How many end up working on their backs for you?” She snatched her hand back. “We dislike your terms of business.”
A red hue saturated his cheeks. “Do yer now? Well, yer ain’t nothing but a sluttish skirt.” He leaned forward, stale perfume and sour juniper. “Debtors get wot they deserve and women ain’t worth tuppence.”
Rage surged through Evelyn, livid and knotted, and palming the gem, she grabbed the goose quill toothpick from his hand and snapped it in half.
Artemisia sniggered.
Filgrave’s fist ripped out and caught Evelyn’s sleeve, dragging her from the seat, the diamond spilling to the carriage floor. “You little whore, I’ll–”
“Release my sister this instant,” a firm rasp demanded. “Or I will shoot you.”
His fist stilled, the grip lessened and Evelyn wrenched away to dust her sleeve, smiling at her sister who held a small pistol levelled at the moneylender’s crotch. Evelyn bobbed her head aloft whilst hoisting her brows, and Artemisia winked, raising her aim to something a tad larger.
Filgrave’s empty fingers curled, eyes wary as he sprawled back, palm rubbing his thigh. “Well, you’ve got some pluck, little girl, ain’t yer? You’d be a delight to break in.” His lip snarled. “What is it yer want?”
“Two nights ago,” Evelyn began, “a fire was set in the Duke of Rothwell’s kitchens.”
With a nonchalant shrug, Filgrave scratched his cheek but his eyes flitted between the pistol and the two of them. “Nowt to do with me.”
Evelyn grabbed the roof strap once more as the carriage veered down a narrow lane, tall houses cheek by jowl, their shadow eclipsing the hazy light within.
“The duke is of a different opinion.”
“Opinions are just that, Missy.”
She arched one brow. “The morning of the fire, a most…wholesome and stalwart young man who happens to be a personal servant to His Grace spied a suspicious figure leaving the premises. Fearing something amiss, the upstanding Mr Horatio Bloggs followed the unknown to an establishment on Tudor Street. You know what goes on there, don’t you?”
Filgrave scrutinised his nails, the only sign of unease being a twitch in one pouched eye.
Occupying half that street,The Blue Duckbrothel had probably been where he’d intended to stuff herself and Artemisia – a place of illicit deals and little hope.
“You know because you own it,” continued Evelyn. “You were there, seen paying that villain with five guineas and a girl for the night. A known fire prigger who burns people’s houses and then under the pretence of helping them remove goods, robs them blind.”
The carriage shuddered, its pace unrelenting as muddied lane gave way to uneven cobble, but Artemisia’s hand neither wavered nor wobbled.
Filgrave spat on the floor. “Weren’t me.”
Evelyn shifted her skirts and tutted. “Your fire prigger even threw a plan of the duke’s basement to the cobbles outside, which our enterprising Mr Bloggs retrieved.” Evelyn tugged at her reticule and removed a square of paper. Unfolding it, she perused. “I recognise this scrawl, don’t I, Filgrave?”
Before she could draw breath, the paper was torn from her fingers, ripped to shreds, the window shoved open and the pieces flung to the wind.
Filgrave grinned, finger stabbing. “Think yer so bloody clever, eh, Missy? I wish he’d burned the lot of yer to ash. But yer forget one thing. I’ve got yer all alone.” He rapped on the ceiling with a fist and the small trapdoor crashed open.
An eye as black as the devil stared down. “Yes, Guv?”
“The Blue Duck,” he yelled, and the trapdoor slammed shut, carriage pitching as it sheared a kerbstone. “My boys will greet us there nice like.” He levelled his gaze at Artemisia and licked his top lip. “And you ain’t got the guts to shoot me, pretty wench.”
Lamentably, Evelyn knew he was right, yet the pistol had served its purpose.
The wheels at last slowed, then came to an abrupt halt, hefting them from their seats once more, and as the door was swung wide, light flooded to present a neat brick-fronted house upon a swept pavement.
The moneylender’s brow rucked. “Yer brains are in yer ballocks, coachman, this ain’t–”
Broad shoulders stepped across the rectangle of light.
“Mr Filgrave, I presume.” The Duke of Rothwell beckoned with gloved hand, eyes scorching in pitiless dislike. “Welcome to No. 4 Bow Street.”
Artemisia motioned the pistol barrel towards the door, and spluttering, the moneylender stumbled to the pavement. Evelyn followed, but as the coachman swung down from his lofty perch, Filgrave swung a fist. “Yer basta–”
