However, Drake had never expected the man himself to appear. But he did expectsomeoneto come. Someone always did, and that someone would be the key to the man’s identity. “Are you sure you don’t recall his name? His title, even?”
Deveraux shook his head. “Never needed to know.”
“Well, can you find out?” Reaper pressed.
“Of course,” Deveraux said. “If you let me in on your plan.”
Reaper snorted. “Why? Don’t you have better things to do?”
Deveraux shrugged. “I’ve been bored lately.”
“There’s nothing to let you in on,” Drake said before Reaper could retort to that spark of a statement. “The more the men, the muddier the water.”
Deveraux rested his chin in his hand. “I can be of benefit.”
Drake didn’t doubt that. But if this brother of theirs suddenly joined in, it would only be a matter of time before Maxen and the others scented his troubles out. Better they kept their eyes where they belonged—on their uncle, and whatever devilry he was brewing, and where. Exactly what Deveraux should be doing. “If you want to be of any help, keep your mouth shut and don’t let the others catch wind of this.”
“Two already did,” the arse taunted, then grinned. “I suppose we are the two smartest.”
Reaper snorted but still said, “I won’t argue against that. Also, I’m smarter than you.”
“The others have better things to do,” Drake muttered, rising to his feet and stalking to the door, leaving those two thick-headed fools behind.
He also had better things to do.
He needed to find that damn dog.
Chapter Three
What met Violetfirst was the smell. Having always loved flowers and even opened a botanical shop to follow her dream, her nose was more sensitive to foul odors than most. And this was bad. Not the expected flash of sweat and tobacco—though those were present in abundance—but something worse. Blood, she thought.
Old blood.
The sort that shouted of a bloody fight where no one had bothered to clean up after the spectacle.
Metallic. Rotting. Violent.
The odor struck the back of her throat, setting every instinct on edge and sparking the urge to flee.
This is your worst idea yet, Violet.
She swallowed hard and stepped farther into the abandoned building, the hood of her cloak drawn low over the cap that tugged tight over her pinned hair. The trousers she wore itched, but they were a necessary precaution. She tried to keep her walk loose, the way men did when they had nothing to hide.
However,thosemen didn’t wear cloaks, did they?
And she’d yet to spot a soul.
Where is everyone?
The building was dark, save for the faint tremor of a candle somewhere ahead. Its weak flame licked the wall, carving outbrief shapes before darkness swallowed them again. If she hadn’t seen the leaflet itself, she’d have thought this to be a cruel jest. But what exactly did she know? She’d never attended a fight before. All she knew was what her brother had always boasted about. But she was fairly certain it wasn’t supposed to be this eerily silent. She also shouldn’t be venturing farther into the building. What she should have been doing was running. Running far away. Every step cautioned her to turn, but the desire to confirm whether it was truly that blackguard pushed her forward despite the fact that not a soul stirred in sight within the shallow light.
Ah, dickens.
The beat of her heart pounded so blazingly loud in her ears, she was half certain the whole world could hear the drum. Still, she forced her feet forward, sticking close to the peeling walls.
Had she gotten the time wrong? Missed the fight? Had the fight perhaps been canceled? Those were all possibilities and the only things that made logical sense. Perhaps this was for the best. Knowledge was preferable to ignorance, though ignorance had its comforts. Even so, something seemed off.
She followed the light to an equally forsaken room. No, two rooms. The wall between them had been knocked through, leaving a ragged edge of plaster along the edges. The space was vast and empty now, stripped of furniture. A candle was set on the floor at the center, illuminating a big stain of dried blood.
