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Page 23 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

22

“To be sane in a world of madmen is in itself madness.”

—Jean-Jacques Rousseau

“ S ounds like a fool thing,” Hodges said disapprovingly after Peregrine explained the bones of the plan. “Hope I don’t need to be tellin’ you this.”

“You do not,” Peregrine said dryly. “But better, more expedient ideas seem to be in short supply.”

Hodges grunted. His face was a colourful motley of bruises from fighting hand to hand with the man on the bridge, but at least the swelling was down over his right eye now. Hodges’s rooms, in a cottage next to the stables, were only slightly less spartan than the man himself, and he leaned against one of the bare stone walls with his arms crossed, mulling it over.

“If he’s greedy, you might buy off Cameron,” he finally agreed reluctantly. “Stayin’ alive long enough to do it…”

“Will be the trick, yes.”

Ravenscroft stood near the window, his expression one of disdainful detachment, as if the mere act of breathing in air so close to the stables offended him. He tugged at the lace cuffs of his shirt with a delicacy that bordered on theatrical, his nose wrinkled against the ever-present stench of horse dung. “We could start by writing him a letter—” he began.

“Not Cameron,” Hodges interrupted flatly. “Send a message to his right hand. McGrath.”

Ravenscroft blinked, incredulous. “You want to write a letter to someone who is an illiterate thug?” he asked.

“Messenger.” Hodges transferred his look to Peregrine, one that patently said, God help us both . “Neutral ground?”

Peregrine considered the past. So much of his information from this side of things was out of date. “The Hart and Dagger, if it is still standing.”

So it was that they sent the other stableman by horse with a very short list of what old haunts Cameron’s men frequented that Peregrine could remember.

“Do you regularly consult your carriage driver on matters of strategy, Fitzroy?” Ravenscroft asked him curiously when they returned outdoors, leaving Hodges to the business of getting the horses together, anticipating success.

“It has been a bit of an odd year, Maggie,” Peregrine said shortly. “And I know he knows what end of a blade to stick people with.”

Peregrine didn’t know how Hodges had found himself at the front, but he had long ago guessed that the man’s past before the war was checkered with brutality. It didn’t matter what the past had been. Over the months they had been stationed with Hill and Wellington, they had gradually gained just enough respect for one another to watch each other’s backs.

After Napoleon’s abdication, Peregrine had asked him what business he might be returning to, Hodges had shrugged, saying that there was always work for thief takers and enforcers. The businesslike way he conducted his violence certainly suggested he might be familiar with such work.

On a hunch, Peregrine had decided to offer for him as a trusty, before they even returned to England. Hodges, in the infernally patient way he did nearly everything, gave it about thirty seconds of consideration and then accepted.

And this had been good, because Peregrine needed to clean house upon his return. Not a single person who had been employed there by his mother would he tolerate remaining. He had dismissed the remaining few staff members who had kept the Fitzroy estate from deteriorating after its abandonment—and with recommendations, because he wasn’t a monster—and he was still in the long process of replacing them, starting with the barest minimum of essential staff. Which mostly involved caring for the horses.

Finally, Dawson returned as the afternoon was waning. “He’ll meet you where you said,” he called. “The hour before sundown.”

Hodges nodded, checking the position of the sun before rearranging the pistol in his coat pocket. “Get ready, Dawson. We’ll take you with us.”

Dawson was a big bruiser of a man he had ‘stolen’ from Lord Tremayne, actually—a prizefighter who had been forcibly retired to more menial work after he lost most of the sight in one eye.

Like Hodges, he worked as a bit of a general hand in addition to the stables for Peregrine now, but he was a good choice for a bruiser in a fight. Hopefully this would remain what Peregrine wanted—just a bit of a careful talk with McGrath. But it would be unwise to not make a small show of force.

Ravenscroft looked uneasy and out of place beside the two servants as Peregrine tested the heft of his stoutest walking stick. “I will come too.”

Hodges let out a quiet huff. “Best not. Your clothes might get a little dirty.”

“He can come. After all, he promised His Highness he would come running back if I got killed,” Peregrine said over his shoulder at the old rake, and Hodges grunted his acknowledgement.

Will Hodges shrugged as if he couldn’t care less. “Stay out of the way then.”

But Peregrine did give Ravenscroft the walking stick, even though the other man looked like he would be more likely to hit a friend with it than a foe. Hopefully, he would never need to use it for defence.

Like Peregrine’s townhouse, The Hart and Dagger sat near the border between two worlds, just far enough away from the rookeries that it could attract men who fancied a taste of danger without actively courting it. It was a dingy thing, poorly lit and ale-stained, perfect for doing business with less savoury elements.

It was a few minutes before seven when they arrived, and the tavern was still relatively quiet; most workers were still finishing out their days. Peregrine’s thoughts had kept wandering in the most useless directions for the entire ride, still seeking the duchess out like a moth to a flame. Finally he shoved the whole mass of them away.

The moment they stepped inside, he spotted the men sitting near the front, nursing their drinks and pretending indifference. The stripling he had sent running from Atholl House, however, was among them, and the way his gaze darted toward Peregrine before quickly skittering away confirmed the reason they were there.

McGrath and his giant friend, however, had taken position at the back, lounging with the kind of deliberate ease that suggested they weren’t worried about being disturbed.

Fine, McGrath hadn’t come alone but neither had they. A brawl wasn’t necessarily in the cards, but it did say something about the enforcer’s expectations for the meeting. And in the worst case scenario, six on four—or perhaps three, if Ravenscroft was truly useless—wasn’t the worst odds he had lived through.

McGrath looked like hell. One side of his face was swollen, his lower lip split, and there was a stiffness in the way he held himself, like every movement had a price.

But what Peregrine wasn’t expecting was the way the man tilted his head, taking them all in with a sour expression before his gaze landed squarely on Hodges. Hodges didn’t shift, but Fitzroy felt a rising tension radiating from his driver.

“Well, lookie here, Abe,” McGrath said to his giant friend. His sudden grin was almost frightening. “If it isn’t ol’ Will Hodges. I thought I recognized you. How long has it been? A year, I think? Didn’t expect to see you licking that one’s boots.”

Hodges slouched casually, resting both hands on his hips.

A spike of fear and doubt iced through Peregrine, and he flicked his eyes over his driver. He strove to keep his expressions in check as he did so. “I take it you two know each other.”

“This old sellsword? Oh, aye,” McGrath grunted dismissively. “Did some work now and again for Cameron, he did.”

“Don’t work for the cove now,” Hodges said simply to Peregrine.

Peregrine ground his teeth together, wondering if he dared take that on faith, even if he had little choice but to at the moment.

“Oh we know it, and you’re not likely to find more such work ever again. Cameron is none too happy about what you cost him with Red Hand’s men, and some of the others have thoughts about your lapse of decorum.

“You didn’t know, did you?” McGrath smirked at him. “That your man here has been paid to watch out for your sorry arse since before you left London? He’s been dipping both hands in the pot since you brought him on. Sorry, Fitzroy.”

Hodges kept still, his eyes forward, and Peregrine knew then that it was true.

Peregrine felt mildly sick to his stomach, wondering who held Hodges’s purse strings—besides him, that was. However furious the idea made him, McGrath was deliberately sowing discord now to weaken him, and he didn’t dare lose sight of that fact.

“If you are going to change your side, Hodges, I would kindly ask you to do it now,” Peregrine said, his hands fisted at his sides.

Hodges exhaled sharply through his nose, finally shifting his gaze to Peregrine. His expression didn’t change, steady as granite. "You ever do something because it was the right thing, my lord? What was an honourable choice—now isn’t."

Good enough, for this moment anyway. Assuming that the matter of Hodges didn’t complicate his plan.

“I did not come here to talk about Will Hodges, McGrath. I came to discuss our business and discover what might settle things between me and Cameron.”

McGrath chuckled. “Knew it. We had a bet that you were far too soft for this sort of thing, no matter what you did with the lords. And that’s why you let little Johnny go.” Cameron’s enforcer jerked his thumb at the stripling.

Peregrine’s eyes flickered. “Of course you knew. My mother’s business was always her own, and I never tried to be a part of it.”

“So that’s your plan? You tell Cameron you’re not looking to take over your dear mum’s legacy, and you think then we both go our merry way,” McGrath asked idly.

“I did not imagine it would be so easily settled. But negotiation requires discussion.”

“Reckon that makes some sense. Just what did you come here to offer, Fitzroy? Money? The works?”

Peregrine forced himself to spread his hands in query. “I could offer some of those things. What does he want? Maybe I have it.”

The tavern keeper was scowling at them, but clearly didn’t want to interfere. And behind him he could hear his stableman and Ravenscroft shifting uneasily.

McGrath gave a laughing sigh. “Ah, Fitzroy. You might be a man now, but you still got the heart of a boy in there, don’t you, lad? You think you’ve got power o’er your life. A few words and your pocket change are the only resources you need. You keep your fists tight around every move, every scheme, every person, thinking that you learned your important lesson—if you trust no one but yourself, then you can be your own master. Maybe that would work if you’re content to be nothing special. But somehow I don’t think that’s you, is it?”

The words struck home. “I did not come for a debate in philosophy,” Peregrine replied. “I wanted to see what Cameron might want to end this quarrel between us.”

“Your morals bought you nothing, and you forgot the truth,” McGrath said contemptuously. “That if you really want to be your own person, you have to be ruthless enough to beat the wheat from the chaff. All your fearfulness has made you weak. Backed up by a silk-stocking, a tired old boxer, and a hired blade with two masters who serves neither well. We don’t need your money, or your interference.”

It was going to be a brawl.

The men at the far table surged forward, upending stools and scattering their drinks as they moved to block the front door. Behind him, the barkeep cursed loudly and shouted at them to take it outside, but wisely made no other move to interfere. The few other patrons either ducked for cover or scrambled away, sensing what was about to unfold.

Hodges and Peregrine moved first. With a single, sharp motion, Hodges upended the nearest chair, sending it crashing into the legs of one of McGrath’s men. The man stumbled, and Hodges didn’t hesitate to drive his fist hard into the cutthroat’s gut before throwing him headfirst into a nearby table. Then he spun back towards Abel and McGrath.

Peregrine had never developed a taste for the ruthless violence his mother’s darker enterprises needed. But what he had needed to do to survive returning to England had already stained his hands.

So McGrath was wrong about one thing—his morals didn’t make him weak. And meeting their violence with his own couldn’t cause him to lose his soul, especially if it was already gone.

As the giant charged in, Peregrine seized Abel's wrist, and twisted it brutally backwards, sending his knife clattering to the floor.

Dawson, his stableman, threw himself into the fray with the reckless enthusiasm of a man who had sorely missed a good fight. He poleaxed the first man from the far table with a hard right hook to the jaw and swiped at the next one with his left. The second man pushed the boy in front of him like a coward. But Dawson just shoved the youngster at Ravenscroft and kept moving forward. Ravenscroft yelped as the stripling collided with him, and both went sprawling.

Peregrine had only just managed to kick Abel’s knife away before someone tackled him hard from behind, nearly sending him falling forward onto his hands and knees. Seeing Peregrine go down, Hodges shoved Abel backwards with a shoulder, keeping the man from crushing Perry with one of his heavy boots as he began to draw the pistol from his coat.

The giant grabbed a bottle to use as a weapon from a nearby table and swung it at Hodge’s head like a cricket bat, forcing him to retreat.

Then McGrath himself finally joined the fight. The enforcer pushed forward towards Peregrine, who by this point had been hauled upright by the attacker at his back. The man had an arm looped around Peregrine’s neck and was tightening it slowly, constricting his air.

McGrath’s face was mocking as he peered at Peregrine. “By the way—your mother sends her love,” he murmured, low and amused.

Everything happened at once. He dimly registered the rush of movement—the sound of the flintlock firing, someone tackling McGrath, someone else shouting his name—but it all blurred together.

The pain came a split second later. The sharp, hot agony of a knife sinking into his side.