Page 83

You made her cry, you oaf.

Goddamn it!

“Are you well?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, the chill in her voice sending a shiver through him. “How’s Violet?”

“She’s fine.”

Calliope didn’t ask about him.

He could feel the thug’s frowning gaze upon him. He didn’t care.

“How did you get here?” he demanded. “When?”

“I bought a gig and a horse and hired two men who guarded me, and I drove myself here. Abigail is already on her way to Roxburgh Place.”

“Drove yourself?” His chest was so tight it felt about to burst. He pulled over a third chair and dropped himself onto it. Around them, a wall of onlookers bellowed at the boxers, shook their fists in the air, drank, and chatted. The noise was overwhelming. “Are you out of your mind?”

Calliope gave the thug a smile so charming, she could be speaking to the prince regent himself at a ball. “Forgive my husband, Mr. Rawkins. Please continue. You were saying?”

“Um…” The man looked unconvinced. “Mayhap it’s better to meet another time.”

“No,” she said and put a purse full of money on the table. “Please. It’s a matter of life and death.”

Nathaniel’s stomach was churning. His gaze darted around the crowd, looking for someone who may be watching her, someone with a knife, someone who might fall upon them and take his wife away. Hell, Mr. Rawkins could be the biggest danger.

“Calliope—” said Nathaniel and stood up. “Come. I’ll drive you home.”

“In a minute,” said Calliope without looking up at him. “We need to finish our conversation with Mr. Rawkins. He only just got to the good parts. So, you were paid by a man with a walking stick that had a handle made of walrus ivory, and it had an emblem. But you can’t remember what emblem.”

“Yea. He was one o’ them fancy blokes. Some baron or duke or summat.”

Nathaniel sat back on the chair, listening, but his eyes continued to scan the people nearby, his senses so alert he could feel every thread in the fabric of his shirt against his skin.

“But you don’t know the name?” Calliope asked.

“No.”

“And what were you asked to do, exactly?” she asked.

“Give the duke a good thump. Paid us to deck ’im and stash ’im on that ship. Thought we’d nick ’is posh rags, too. Worth a few bob, those. But one o’ the lads got big ideas, put ’em on when the rest of us was chinwaggin’. So we gave ’im what for. By the time we was tryin’ to get them clothes off ’im, we ’ad to leg it.”

So that was why a different man was buried instead of Spencer.

Nathaniel watched his wife now. He could see how nervous and excited she was underneath her perfectly collected mask of a well-bred lady. This was the most information they’d gotten in weeks. He admired how she could get Rawkins to talk, her calm demeanor not making the man nervous, even though he had harmed her brother and she could want retribution.

She was neutral. She was polite. She was attentive. She made him feel at ease and provided the right motivation—plenty of coin.

Calliope nodded. “And you’re sure the duke was still alive?”

Rawkins nodded. “Me mate checked ’im out. Bloke was still takin’ breaths. Chucked ’im in the ship’s ’old with the other lads.”

Calliope’s face went very, very pale, her lower lip trembling for a mere moment. Her eyes watered slightly, destroying Nathaniel’s reserve. He found her hand under the table and squeezed it—so cold and small. He thought she’d retrieved it from his grasp, but she squeezed back.

This information was important. Vital.

This was the first time they had heard good news.