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Barrow’s eyes widened. “I see.” He nodded, realizing there was so much more he didn’t know. “What does her plot with the baron involve then?”
Tinderwell shook his head. “It’s not for me to share.”
“I understand but…” Barrow raised one finger. “I think the way to draw Emily out is to use Baron Robinson as bait. He’s saved her, she might come to his rescue.”
Tinderwell shook his head, giving Barrow a dark grimace. “She’s too fragile for that. You, Barrow, have no understanding of human nature.”
His brows drew down into a confused slash. “I beg your pardon?”
But rather than answer, Tinderwell stubbed out his cheroot and then rose up, circling the desk. “You’re also not particularly good at your job. You’ve bungled this entire affair.”
He stood, his chin notching up, even as unease settled in his belly. “That isn’t true. I successfully negotiated many deals—”
“Any solicitor can do that,” Tinderwell said and then, without warning, Tinderwell’s large, vice like hands shot out and wrapped about his neck.
The other man was taller, stronger, harder, and his fingers squeezed, cutting off the air to his lungs. Her scratched at the other man’s hands, attempting to free himself but Tinderwell was stronger in every way.
“You know too much,” Tinderwell growled as spots began to appear in front of Barrow’s eyes. “And you’re too stupid to do anything useful with all that information.”
He was sinking. Sinking.
And then the world went black.
The trip back to London was less eventful and somehow more exhausting than the trip north had been.
Jacob hadn’t slept properly in days, didn’t have Emily tucked into his side while he travelled. Tired and irritable, he arrived in London making his way directly to Barrow’s office.
He’d have to clean out his room at Madame Chamberlain’s establishment eventually. He couldn’t live there. Not anymore.
Which was absurd. He didn’t even know how Emily felt about him. They’d only kissed once, but something inside him had shifted.
He didn’t want some surface exchange, didn’t wish to be on the fringe. He realized that he’d distanced himself from everyone, formed no attachments. He had an excellent outer skin. It deflected nearly any barb, but he’d stopped allowing people close.
And he didn’t want to be that man anymore.
Hell, the rest of the world could hang but there was one person that he wanted to bare himself to…Emily.
If she’d have him. He’d prove to her that he was worth her trouble.
With that in mind, he swung down from his horse, tying it to the post outside of Barrow’s office.
Jacob’s plan was to tell Barrow that he knew he’d lied. And that he knew the solicitor had been in contact with his mother. Jacob would squeeze the truth out of the man one way or the other.
It was early yet, but testing the door, he found it unlocked.
Stepping inside the waiting room, he paused. The air felt…wrong.
Stale. Heavy. He blew out through his nose, pulling a pistol from his waistband. Slowly, he moved deeper into the space, noting that the door to the small office was open. But he didn’t even have to step into the room to know what was wrong. From out behind the desk, he saw a pair of legs spread out at odd angles.
His eyes briefly closed as he realized that Mr. Barrow was dead.
The man would provide no answers and a whole lot more problems. He didn’t go in any further, didn’t look at a single detail.
Instead, he turned about and left, heading straight to Scotland Yard.
It took several hours to finish speaking with constables, and by the time he returned to Emily’s home, he was exhausted. But another inspector came to the house to ask him specific details about his cheroots of all things.
He opened his case, holding it out to the investigator. The other man, Inspector Tromley, studied the contents of the case for several seconds before pulled a stud of a cheroot from his pocket, holding it up to Jacob’s. “Different,” he grunted.
