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Chapter Seventeen
“Unfortunately, I do have some business to attend to in town that I cannot put off at the last minute,” Gerard told Thomas as they both made their way out of the apartment. “I suggest that you return to Elvington Manor and begin gathering the records that I keep in my own study there, and I shall meet you henceforth.”
Thomas was glad to have finally convinced Gerard to assist him in getting to the bottom of the situation between their father and the Duke of Alderleaf. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Thomas nearly embraced him, but settled for a strong clasp on the shoulder instead.
Thomas owed his brother a great deal, after all. Gerard had kept the company afloat in the immediate aftermath Father’s death. He had continued to maintain them when Thomas gave into his immature antics and fled to grieve in the country. And now, despite his instincts, he had agreed to help Thomas get to the bottom of the mystery of Father’s death, despite his fears that to do so might prove dangerous to their safety.
“Thank you, Gerard.” Thomas tried to convey everything he was feeling through the tone of his voice, but couldn’t help but believe he had fallen short. “Truly.”
Something flickered in Gerard’s eyes, but he looked away before Thomas could make sense of it. “Come, then. Let us make haste and get our respective business over with.”
Outside of the building, Thomas’ carriage was waiting right on time. After Thomas had boarded, Gerard took a moment to discuss something with the footman, and then offered a small wave toward his brother before setting in the direction of his own endeavors.
On the return trip to Elvington Manor, Thomas sat back and took a moment to bask in his relief. Everything was far from settled, but this was a start. When he and Gerard worked together, there was little they could not accomplish.
Thomas also couldn’t help but tentatively believe his father would be impressed—if he was able to settle the feud between their family and the Duke of Alderleaf, that could only be good for business, especially if he and Lady Evelina were to eventually wed.
The carriage lurched.
Thomas was thrown forward from his seat; he had to brace himself on the bench across from him not to fall flat on his face. “Is everything quite all right up there?” he called to the footman once he’d regained his balance. He assumed they had hit an unruly pothole.
No answer came. Moments later, the carriage stopped altogether.
A hot, sickly sensation lodged itself in Thomas’ throat. Muscles tense, he craned his neck to look out the tiny window cut into the door.
His breath caught at the sight that awaited him. They were not in London’s downtown proper, but in some unknown, shadowed alleyway. Two men in dark clothing, their faces concealed, had backed the footman up against the grimy alley wall.
One of them held a knife to his throat.
“You there,” Thomas called, thrusting open the door and practically falling out of the carriage. “Unhand him!”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than an agonizing pain burst from his side. It knocked the wind right out of him, and a second later, he was on the ground, his back wet against the cobblestone, staring up at a spinning blue sky.
He opened his mouth to protest, but a foot stomped hard over his jaw. He spluttered, nearly choking, bloody spittle sliding down his chin.
The kicks came harder after that. Against his face, his sides, his stomach. Thomas couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He had no idea what had happened to the footman, and could only hope that he’d somehow escaped to safety.
Was this how Father had felt in his final moments?
The thought was synonymous with the sharp, unmistakable sound of a knife being unsheathed. Thomas knew if he did not do something immediately, it would not just be kicks lodging into his stomach. This was no mere robbery; they meant to take his life.
“Get back!” he screamed, and thrashed with all of his might
It must have been enough to catch at least one of his assailants off guard, because what had been a steady onslaught of kicks and punches lost its rhythm. Thomas was able to scramble to his feet. He used the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his face; a cut over his forehead had sent a cascade of the dark liquid into his eyes. He managed to stumble almost all the way to the edge of the alley before one of the assailants made a running dive for the back of his legs, tackling him to the ground once more.
Thomas’ head knocked hard against the cobblestone. His vision swam, filling with dark splotches. “Help,” he called, or thought he called. He wasn’t sure whether or not the words had actually left his mouth.
Someone swore overhead, followed by the sound of scrambling footsteps. Nausea rolled Thomas’ gut; the pain was too much.
The memory of Evelina, bright eyed in the darkness of the gazebo, flashed once through his mind, just before the world went black.
