Page 97 of Go, Rogue

Probably ought to have thought this through better. Another reason why trousers are superior. They have pockets. Her fingers grope and probe, looking for the dratted thing, and behind her someone lets out a cough. Oh, for heaven’s sake.

But her fingers finally grasp the hard ridges of the key and she pulls it out with a triumphant little flourish.

“Here!” she says and turns, reaching for the box.

Barclay, unable or unwilling to acknowledge he’s been beaten, breaks free from the constable and lunges once again, this time for Catherine. She doesn’t have time to react except to look up, startled, as he barrels toward her and knocks her onto her bottom. She hits the floor with a hard thud.

The fall knocks the breath out of her and the key tumbles from her hand, bouncing off the hardwood floor with a clank before burying itself in the soft carpet that overlays the middle of the room. It’s Persian in style, Catherine notes in her daze, the same as is fashionable in London. She shakes her head and comes back to herself as Barclay grasps the key and McGann launches himself at his brother.

“Andrew!” she calls, but he’s already grabbing Barclay by the lapels and lifting the man off the floor. Barclay is nearly his brother’s height, but soft and round through the middle. His waistcoat strains against his buttons as McGann heaves him up until his feet leave the floor.

“Chief,” Barclay manages to get out, “a little help, please.”

But the chief and Sir Cleveland have already moved to Catherine’s side to help her off the floor. She watches McGann aggressively shake his brother until Barclay drops the key. Rogers picks it up again, fits it neatly into the lockbox, and opens it.

“Andrew,” Catherine says again, now back on her feet and dusting off her skirts. She moves to his side. “You probably ought not to kill him.”

McGann has moved one bear-paw-sized hand from Barclay’s lapel and placed it firmly around his throat. The duke’s eyes bulge from his head.

“Are you alright?” McGann asks her while the duke struggles in his grip.

“I’m fine. I’d have kept my balance if it weren’t for these dratted slippers.”

“And planted him one?” Andrew asks, his eyes leaving his brother’s face to momentarily gleam down at hers.

“Certainly.” She glances up at Barclay and then back to Andrew. “You might loosen your grip a bit,” she says. “Unless you do intend to kill him.”

McGann only shrugs at that, as if he hasn’t yet decided. “Your call, Menace. Mercy or no?”

“Hardly my decision. He’s your brother.” But then she thinks of all the damage this man has inflicted. On Andrew and her and Rogers and Esmee and heavens only knows how many other people. “Although, if you’re asking my opinion, I say no mercy.”

“Ahem,” Rogers interrupts from the other side of the room. “Probably best to release him into custody now, Captain. I’m going to have enough explaining to do as it is without a ducal death on my hands.”

“You’ll swing for this,” Barclay sneers as McGann reluctantly loosens his grip and sets the man on the ground. “All of you will.”

“I won’t,” Catherine says, and plants her feet, swivels her hips, and hits him square in the nose with a jab. “There are some plusses to the aristocracy, you know.”

Then she turns to Rogers and smiles sweetly. “He’s all yours,” she says. “But do keep a hold of him this time, will you?”

“Yes, my lady,” the constable replies and moves to take Barclay back into his custody. The duke’s nose is beginning to bleed but no one offers him a handkerchief, so the blood puddles and dries on his upper lip.

“Excellent hand position,” McGann says to her quietly before turning back to Rogers, who is rifling through the contents of the lockbox.

“Keep the daguerreotype,” he says, “but I’ll have the rest of that box back now.”

“Of course,” Rogers says and tucks the photograph into his pocket. “This will be helpful. But, Captain, it’s the diary we really need. You’ve recorded everything here: names, dates, ledger numbers, accounts. Prices of goods bought and sold, most at a suspicious disadvantage to the Crown. The public will outcry the photograph, certainly, but it’s the theft that the Crown will punish.”

“The diary is the smoking pistol?” Catherine asks, incredulous.

“It is. And with your permission, Captain, we’ll use it to finally put those bastards out of business.”

“Aye, granted. Now give me the box. It’s got my mother’s things in it.”

Catherine puts her hand on his arm. She knows how much his mother means to him. “What do you have of hers?” she asks him quietly.

“Not much. Hairpins. A ring. Marriage papers.”

“I beg your pardon?” Catherine stares at him. He can’t have just said what she thinks he said.