Page 92 of An Unexpected Earl

Amelia. Pearce hadn’t seen her yet, but he was certain she’d been at the prison attempting to free her brother or at the Inns of Court hiring lawyers. He’d wanted to talk to Charles Varnham before he talked to her so that he would have good news for her when he did. But that didn’t happen.

“What boy?” Pearce broke the wax seal and opened the note.

McTavish shrugged. “Just a messenger. Said a man paid him a coin to bring it to the house, then promised a second coin when he brought back proof that he’d delivered it.”

Dread spilled through him. Street urchins were often used as anonymous messengers in the city. Their ubiquitous presence meant they largely went unnoticed, even in Mayfair. But Amelia would never have used them, instead sending her maid as she’d done that morning.

He scanned over the masculine handwriting. And his heart stopped.

Miss Howard is in my care. She’ll be released unharmed when Parliament passes the trust. I advise you to hurry as it’s rather difficult to feed her in her current position.

“He’s got Amelia,” he rasped out.

“Who?” Marcus took the note and read it.

The message was unsigned, but Pearce knew… “Arthur Varnham.”

Clayton read the note over Marcus’s shoulder. “Sir Charles’s brother? Why would he kidnap her?”

“Because he still has three men from Scepter to place into government positions, and Howard can’t do it.” A murderous anger rose inside him that he had never felt before, not even in the heat of battle. “So he’s using Amelia to force me into pushing the trust through.”

“Parliament’s session ends in less than a fortnight. The chance of passing that act now with Howard in gaol is slim at best. If it doesn’t pass—”

“Then he’ll let her starve to death.” He took back the note and read it again, looking for any clues that would lead him to Amelia. “So we rescue her. Tonight.”

Merritt shook his head. “Where do we start? Varnham could be holding her anywhere.”

“I know exactly where she is.” He crumpled the note in his fist. “And when she’s safe, I’m going to kill the bastard.”

Twenty-five

As he waited in the dark street, Pearce hunched his shoulders against the cold drizzle that fell over London. Around him, the City slept, the ward unusually dark and quiet beneath a layer of fog that had crept up from the Thames only a few streets to the south. So dark and quiet that he could hear the steady drip of rainwater falling every few seconds off the building behind him.

A figure dressed all in black emerged from the shadows and moved silently toward him, reminding Pearce of a panther on the prowl…Merritt.

“All set then?” Pearce tugged at his white gloves.

Merritt gave a curt nod, but his attention lay on the dark City, listening intently to the night around them. “Everyone’s in place.”

“Are you certain this will work?”

“Let’s find out.” Merritt pulled a pistol from beneath his greatcoat, pointed it into the air, and fired.

The shot split the silence of the night like cannon fire and echoed off the old brick buildings and walls lining the narrow street. A stunned silence followed. And then the streets around them came alive.

Out of the shadows of the narrow streets and back alleys emerged two dozen men and women carrying sticks, clubs, pikes, and torches. As they moved in the direction of Clerkenwell, only a mile or so away, they shouted into the night and swung their clubs at doors, at barrels and crates left in the streets—at anything that would make noise and rouse the city around them. More men came out of the buildings and joined in.

“Well, would you look at that?” Merritt grinned and tossed Pearce the spent pistol, not wanting it on him if the authorities caught him. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a riot.”

He slapped Pearce on the back. Then he jogged off in pursuit of the mob.

Pearce headed in the opposite direction. His boots scuffed over the uneven pavement as he headed northeast toward the edge of the City. The noise of the riot grew dimmer the further he moved away, until he was once more wrapped in the eerie quiet of the midnight fog.

The derelict church of All Souls-on-the-Wall emerged like a ghost from the drizzle and darkness. A blanket of fog lay over its medieval churchyard, cocooning the graves and giving no sense of life anywhere nearby.

“The entrance to hell, all right,” he muttered to himself as he started across the forgotten graveyard toward the door.

He paused outside the front portal to make certain no one had followed him. Then he rapped his knuckles on the wooden panel.