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“I know, Reuben,” she said. “But I needed to talk to you. Please, help me.”

She sat down with him at the table, and he leaned towards her, some sense returning to his slightly glazed eyes as he frowned with concern. “What is the matter, dearie?”

“I need to know what happened that night when you and the others were supposed to rough up the Duke of Grandhampton.”

“Oh,” Reuben said, straightening up, his frown deepening. He turned to the brandy in the decanter and poured more into his glass. “I cannot help you with that.”

“Please, Reuben,” said Jane. “You went with me to the Seatons’. You saw they’re good people. He was their brother, you know. They deserve a chance to find out what happened to him and, if he’s in trouble, to help him.”

Reuben sighed, his mouth a straight line in his beard.

“I won’t tell Thorne you told me,” pressed Jane. “Please. For me.”

Reuben sighed again and shook his head. “You know it’s not fair to ask that. I’d do anything for you.”

Jane felt Reuben’s resolve weakening, and her hands clutched together under the tabletop. This was her way out. Once they knew, Richard would be able to release her from the obligation. And she’d release him from his misery.

And even if that meant the little glimpse of happiness she’d experienced the past week would forever be gone from her life, so be it.

“Please,” she urged.

Reuben gave out a small grunt, sighed for the third time, and released a sharp breath. His small brown eyes met hers.

“I shouldn’t say anything. But I will tell you, anyway,” said Reuben. “When you read us stories about the adventures of Robinson Crusoe and the Three Musketeers, as well as Gulliver’s Travels…and others…I feel bad for the poor, rich duke. And having seen his family…perhaps he is somewhere where he needs help. Like that poor, old bastard, Robinson Crusoe, lost alone on an island with not a soul in sight…”

Jane held her breath, unable to believe her ears.

“You’re right. He might be.”

As Reuben drank another glass of brandy, Jane noticed Richard silently approaching from behind Reuben’s back.

“That night,” said Reuben slowly, staring at his hands lying on the table. “Me and the lads had to rough up the good duke. Apparently, he liked to box in Portside, the boxing ring in the port. I know it well. It’s known for its good gin…a man from the Caribbean owns it and adds West Indies spices to it. It’s delicious, Janie,” he said with a passion and a sudden grin.

“Oh,” said Jane, impatiently tapping her foot against the floor. “Good to know. And then what happened?”

“Well,” said Reuben as he stared into his glass like it was a mirror into his past. “When we got to the ring, there were very few people there. It was strange. The place is always packed with people. Every night they have fights and folks love to gamble on them. Good way to make some money if you’re lucky. And the place looked already roughed up. Broken chairs lying around, tables tipped over, blood on the floor.”

Jane nodded and leaned closer to him. “Do you know why?”

“Yes. When I asked, they told me there was a press-gang just half an hour prior. I asked if the duke was still here.”

Press-gang… Jane threw a quick glance at Richard, who by now hung over the unsuspecting Reuben like the shadow of death. His face was so intense, his eyes bulged.

“And was he?” Jane prodded.

“Yes. Someone pointed at a man in rich clothes sitting with his face in his hands at one of the few tables that still stood. I didn’t think anything of it. We came to do our work, and our work was clear. So I told Atticus and he told us men to grasp the good lord and to rough him up, as instructed. We did. I grasped the man by the breast of his white shirt, yanked him up from his chair and smashed his face into the table. I didn’t look into his face then. It was quite dark, with candles scattered around the floor and gas lamps broken and unlit. I thought it was strange he barely showed any resistance. He was quite limp and stayed down on the table. Too drunk, I supposed. Which would make my work easier. I only had to give him a black eye and a split lip. Perhaps break the lord’s handsome nose. It was when Atticus told the men to grab him by the shoulders and hold him that we saw his face was beaten so much, it was unrecognizable. I’ve seen my share of beaten-up men, but that sight had bile rise up in my stomach.”

Jane glanced up and saw that Richard’s eyes were wide and his face tense, his jaw muscles showing.

“His head didn’t even stand upright, just hung on his chest. One of his eyes was completely swollen shut, and his lip was like a balloon. His nose was so crooked you might think his bones didn’t grow right. His forehead and eyebrows were cut, with blood covering his whole face. The cheekbone was cut to the bone.”

Jane’s own stomach quivered when she heard it. She considered asking Reuben to skip the gory details but was afraid he’d change his mind and wouldn’t finish his story.

“So Atticus said,” Reuben continued, “‘the lord doesn’t look right.’ We men agreed. Atticus lifted the man’s chin and looked at his face. Nothing. He told the men to lay him on the floor, but they just let him go, and he dropped like a sack of dead meat. We all knew it then. Even as Atticus crouched and listened to the man’s chest for the beat of his heart…we all knew there wouldn’t be any.”

Reuben stared at his empty glass for a moment, then poured more brandy and drank it all.

“I said then, ‘I hit him too hard.’ None of them said anything. We just stood around the body and stared at the dead lord, knowing it went too far. That we caused Mr. Blackmore problems. But then I noticed something strange. The man’s hands were so dirty—the kind of dirty, with black under the fingernails, that doesn’t go away. I leaned to Atticus and asked him if he saw the same thing I see. He said, yes. ‘That is odd,’ he said.