"but that Draven bitch is bloody 'ard to kill. She shot me—right in the arm!"
The big brute held up his left arm, which did indeed have a dirty-looking bandage wrapped around the jacket sleeve. A nasty crust had formed along the edges of the crude dressing. A shudder ran through the gentleman. Not so much at the other's festering wound, but at the failure.
You'll never amount to anything. You're just like your Papa—a disappointment through and through!
Though his pulse skittered, the gentleman shut out his mother's voice. The harridan was dead, Praise God. Now he answered to no one but himself.
"How unfortunate," he said. "When will you try again?"
With a sudden show of bravado, Murdoch slammed his bottle of blue ruin on the table. "When I get paid eno' for the job, that's when. I ain't riskin' my neck for naught, your lordship."
"I paid you fifty pounds."
"Ain't nothin' compared to what I suffered."
Seeing the greed in Murdoch's beady gaze, the gentleman stifled a sigh. He'd suspected it would come to this. He'd had to deal with a similar situation with Murdoch's predecessor; cutthroats were an unreliable bunch.
From his leather satchel, he removed a bottle of whiskey. He placed it upon the table along with two glasses he'd had the foresight to bring along. Murdoch's eyes widened, and the disgusting fellow actually licked his lips.
"What would be adequate recompense then?" the gentleman inquired as he poured out the fine spirits.
Murdoch's gaze remained glued to the stream of liquor. "One 'undred quid."
"Done. Shall we drink to it?" the gentlemen held out a glass.
A feral expression sharpened the cutthroat's face. "Answered that a might quickly, didn't you, guv? Know what that tells me?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"That you'd be willin' to pay a whole lot more. That maybe you've been sellin' me short all this time," Murdoch sneered. "Well, I'll 'ave my due."
"Fine. How much do you want?"
The cutthroat's forehead lined in concentration. Likely the brute had difficulty counting as high as his greed demanded. "A thousand quid," Murdoch said triumphantly.
"That's ridiculous," the gentleman snapped. "I'd never pay you such a sum."
"You will if you don't want it bandied 'bout that you 'ired me to kill Lady Draven," Murdoch said, chortling.
The gentleman's teeth ground together. He told himself to relax, that such strain was not good for his delicate stomach. Exhaling, he said, "So you mean to blackmail me?"
"Not if you pay as you should. A thousand quid an' not a penny less."
The gentleman considered his options. Sighing, he said, "Alright, you win. I'll have the money to you on the morrow."
A leering grin spread across Murdoch's face, and he reached for the glass. "I'll drink to that."
The gentleman raised his own cup. He had to wait less than a minute before Murdoch gasped, the latter's empty glass falling to the ground and shattering. The cutthroat's body followed, accompanied by gasps and gurgles. When all was silent, the gentleman crossed over to peer down at Murdoch's unseeing eyes. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot.
No movement—not ever again.
As the gentleman collected the whiskey and the remaining glass, he sighed again. Why was good help so difficult to find? In the end, one could trust no one but oneself, and he could only be grateful that the Lord had blessed him with an abundance of problem-solving abilities. He'd already worked out a new solution. To protect what was his, he would have to rid himself of Lady Marianne Draven once and for all ... and the blade was not the only answer.
To the contrary, there were weapons far more deadly.
Smiling with relief, he closed the door behind him and strolled out into the night.
TWELVE
"God's blood, those thievin' buggers 'ad more brains than I gave 'em credit for." Standing on the dock, the captain shook his head in disbelief at the pile of stolen goods that Ambrose's team of watermen had unloaded from the rowboat. "They fit
The big brute held up his left arm, which did indeed have a dirty-looking bandage wrapped around the jacket sleeve. A nasty crust had formed along the edges of the crude dressing. A shudder ran through the gentleman. Not so much at the other's festering wound, but at the failure.
You'll never amount to anything. You're just like your Papa—a disappointment through and through!
Though his pulse skittered, the gentleman shut out his mother's voice. The harridan was dead, Praise God. Now he answered to no one but himself.
"How unfortunate," he said. "When will you try again?"
With a sudden show of bravado, Murdoch slammed his bottle of blue ruin on the table. "When I get paid eno' for the job, that's when. I ain't riskin' my neck for naught, your lordship."
"I paid you fifty pounds."
"Ain't nothin' compared to what I suffered."
Seeing the greed in Murdoch's beady gaze, the gentleman stifled a sigh. He'd suspected it would come to this. He'd had to deal with a similar situation with Murdoch's predecessor; cutthroats were an unreliable bunch.
From his leather satchel, he removed a bottle of whiskey. He placed it upon the table along with two glasses he'd had the foresight to bring along. Murdoch's eyes widened, and the disgusting fellow actually licked his lips.
"What would be adequate recompense then?" the gentleman inquired as he poured out the fine spirits.
Murdoch's gaze remained glued to the stream of liquor. "One 'undred quid."
"Done. Shall we drink to it?" the gentlemen held out a glass.
A feral expression sharpened the cutthroat's face. "Answered that a might quickly, didn't you, guv? Know what that tells me?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"That you'd be willin' to pay a whole lot more. That maybe you've been sellin' me short all this time," Murdoch sneered. "Well, I'll 'ave my due."
"Fine. How much do you want?"
The cutthroat's forehead lined in concentration. Likely the brute had difficulty counting as high as his greed demanded. "A thousand quid," Murdoch said triumphantly.
"That's ridiculous," the gentleman snapped. "I'd never pay you such a sum."
"You will if you don't want it bandied 'bout that you 'ired me to kill Lady Draven," Murdoch said, chortling.
The gentleman's teeth ground together. He told himself to relax, that such strain was not good for his delicate stomach. Exhaling, he said, "So you mean to blackmail me?"
"Not if you pay as you should. A thousand quid an' not a penny less."
The gentleman considered his options. Sighing, he said, "Alright, you win. I'll have the money to you on the morrow."
A leering grin spread across Murdoch's face, and he reached for the glass. "I'll drink to that."
The gentleman raised his own cup. He had to wait less than a minute before Murdoch gasped, the latter's empty glass falling to the ground and shattering. The cutthroat's body followed, accompanied by gasps and gurgles. When all was silent, the gentleman crossed over to peer down at Murdoch's unseeing eyes. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot.
No movement—not ever again.
As the gentleman collected the whiskey and the remaining glass, he sighed again. Why was good help so difficult to find? In the end, one could trust no one but oneself, and he could only be grateful that the Lord had blessed him with an abundance of problem-solving abilities. He'd already worked out a new solution. To protect what was his, he would have to rid himself of Lady Marianne Draven once and for all ... and the blade was not the only answer.
To the contrary, there were weapons far more deadly.
Smiling with relief, he closed the door behind him and strolled out into the night.
TWELVE
"God's blood, those thievin' buggers 'ad more brains than I gave 'em credit for." Standing on the dock, the captain shook his head in disbelief at the pile of stolen goods that Ambrose's team of watermen had unloaded from the rowboat. "They fit
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