" T hink Lord High and Mighty is finally rejoining the living," a slightly familiar voice with an Irish lilt announced.
Either he was still asleep and having the same nightmare, or Ethan had actually been kidnapped and had passed the night in some cutthroat's lair.
He blinked until his eyes cleared and raised his head from a lumpy pillow to take in his surroundings.
The room did not improve under the glare of the light of day.
"I didn't think you hit him hard enough to take him down for the night," the Irishman continued.
"I didn't." The rich, dark voice from last night caught Ethan's attention at once.
He was fully awake now, some parts of him more than others.
He pushed himself up in the bed and moved his jaw back and forth in the hope of alleviating the bone-deep ache and the taste of dried blood in his mouth.
Once he'd perused the room in one long, slow pass, he took note of several things most definitely out of place.
The windows were set along one wall and stretched from the high ceiling less than halfway down.
No hope of escape there. Not to mention the windows all appeared to have bars across them.
The walls were white-washed, which gave the room the appearance of being larger than the small chamber it truly was.
The furnishings--a bed, a wardrobe, a screen in the far corner, and a table with two chairs before the hearth of a modest fireplace--though worn appeared well-made.
The carpets scattered about the plain wooden floors had a slightly faded appearance.
He supposed, though he'd had little experience of gaols, the accommodations could be worse.
"Is he going to lie abed all damned day like most of Mayfair, or does he want to go without breakfast?
" The dark-haired man, Dyer...Fam Dyer, was seated at the table which appeared to be covered in a veritable feast. "He needs to learn this isn't Grosvenor Street.
We have to dress ourselves and wipe our own arses here. "
" He can hear perfectly well, thank you.
" Ethan swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Someone, probably the big Irishman, had tossed him onto the counterpane fully-clothed and still wearing his boots.
Ethan tried to set his clothes to rights, but after removing his neckcloth and shrugging out of his evening jacket he gave up.
He stepped toward the chair across from Dyer.
The Irishman grabbed his elbow in a crushing grip.
"Let him go, Sullivan. If his fists are as soft as his jaw, he stands little chance of doing much damage to me.
" Dyer speared a large beefsteak from a platter and slapped it onto a plate filled with scrambled eggs swimming in butter, what appeared to be crabcakes, and some sort of roasted potatoes.
Ethan's mouth watered as he pulled free of the man Sullivan and dropped into the chair across from Mister Dyer who had apparently been at his breakfast for a while.
The serving dishes looked as if several men had been emptying them instead of the tall, lithe, sculpted specimen cutting into the steak with a dagger in one hand and a fork in the other.
"Best help yerself, lad, if you hope to eat at all," Sullivan said.
"I've seen Himself clear a table bigger than this and send down to the kitchens for more.
" Ethan piled his plate with eggs, bacon, and a few pieces of toast. There were three jam pots on the table, each filled with a different flavored jam.
He set to work buttering his toast, all the while casting surreptitious glances at his breakfast companion.
"Tea, Sullivan," Dyer managed to mumble around a mouth full of steak.
The Irishman took up the covered teapot from a little table set close to the fire and poured first his master and then Ethan a cup.
The food was perfectly cooked and the tea was of the finest quality, not what he expected at the table of a man like Fam Dyer.
The name sounded familiar, but Ethan could not remember why.
In the morning light the cutthroat's features appeared no less sharp and ruthless, but his clothes fitted him well enough to have been tailored and emphasized the tautly muscled thighs of a horseman.
His shoulders were broad and his arms rivaled those of many of the bare-knuckle boxers Ethan had wagered on when he'd ventured to the rural locations where such bouts were less likely to be raided by the authorities.
Dressed in a fine lawn shirt, open at the throat, and rather expensive looking buckskin breeches, he might have been a country squire or member of the gentry save for his prodigious appetite and atrocious table manners.
Not to mention the whole criminal enterprises aspect of this mysterious character.
Ethan reached for the small plate of crab cakes only to have his hand slapped by the flat side of Dyer's dagger.
"Those are mine. Anything else you can have," he said without looking up from his steak.
"They look and smell like Charpentier's," Ethan observed.
"He made them, and now they are mine." Dyer finally raised his head and paused in his locust-like assault on the food. "Why does your brother hate you so much?"
Ethan took his time to chew the bite of toast he'd bitten off in order to hide how taken aback he was by the question. Though one look at Dyer and he knew he had not fooled him for a moment. "How much time do you have, Mister Dyer?" He deliberately took a bite of his eggs.
Dyer gave a brief, dark chuckle. "That bad?"
"I assume he has paid you to hold me captive, so what do you think?" Ethan had no intention of providing a man like this with the least bit of information that might be useful to him.
"He's not the addlepate he looks, is he?" Sullivan said, with a smile that was almost affable.
"Time will tell," Dyer replied. "Your brother has paid me to snatch you up and to keep you until your father posts the coal to ransom you.
Your brother is to deliver ￡8,000, according to the note I had sent round this morning.
When Elbridge shows up with the blunt, he keeps half and the other half comes to me for my trouble. Any questions?"
Ethan laughed. "Elbridge actually convinced you my father would pay ￡8000 for my return?
I'm surprised someone like you let my leather-headed brother get the best of him.
" He stabbed a beefsteak and dragged it from the platter onto his plate.
"My father won't pay eight pence for my return let alone ￡8,000. "
Dyer shrugged. "He will if I send you back a piece at the time and send those pieces to the The Morning Chronicle with a letter explaining the particulars.
All of those lovely aristocrats reading the lurid details at their breakfast tables.
" Ethan stopped carving the slab of meat so quickly the knife screeched across his pewter plate.
Dyer evinced not a hint of a smile or even a small indication he was not in earnest. Ethan took a sip of his tea to open his throat which had suddenly closed up on him.
Looking into those black eyes, his stomach did a somersault.
"He may not give a damn about you, but he won't want his precious reputation harmed when all of London finds out he let his son die rather than spend some coin he can well afford.
Especially when his heir is courting a wealthy duke's daughter.
Your brother needs his half of the ransom, but he also needs you out of the way so he can court some cow-eyed wench for the purse that comes with her. Or so he says."
"You're assuming my father has that sort of money to waste on a son like me," Ethan said as evenly as he could manage. He went back to cutting his steak which helped to hide the shaking of his hands. The Irishman chuckled softly.
"I never assume anything," Dyer said. "Your brother came to me with this offer weeks ago.
Your father has nearly ￡200,000 in Rothchild's Bank.
His rents average ￡15,000 a year alone." He picked up one of the crab cakes on his plate and bit into it, closing his eyes as he savored the taste.
At the knock at the door, Sullivan went to answer.
He held a brief conversation with someone and then turned back to address Dyer.
"Dickie's here from...our Rose Street friend."
"See to it," Dyer ordered. When Sullivan glanced at Ethan, Dyer rolled his eyes. "Off with you."
"How did you...I don't want to know." What Ethan actually did not want to admit was how impressed he was with the thoroughness of a common thief.
Then again, he suspected there was nothing common about Fam Dyer.
"Not to put too fine a point on what I am certain is a well-hatched scheme between you and my brother, how long do you intend to hold me prisoner? "
"As long as it takes or until I grow weary of waiting and kill you, whichever comes first. Tea?
" Dyer poured himself another cup of tea and picked up another crab cake.
His mind suddenly blank, Ethan shook his head.
The events of last night and this morning had seemed a bad dream to him, or perhaps a farce.
Suddenly he was assaulted by a bone-chilling calm.
He glanced about the room in search of a weapon or. ..a way to escape.
Sullivan had left the door open. Ethan looked down and took a deep breath.
He drew his body tight as a bow string. In one fluid motion he flipped the table toward Dyer and sprinted for the door.
Before the clatter of falling dishes had ceased, he was hit from behind and slammed into the wall beside Ethan's only hope of freedom.
Dyer spun him around and pinned his arms to his sides.
Ethan kicked at the cutthroat's legs. He fought to free his arms. He butted his head into Dyer's sternum as hard as he could.
"Stop," Dyer grunted. "Stop." He managed to kick shut the door next to them.
Ethan opened his mouth to scream.
"Stop." Dyer's voice was half growl and half rasp, seductive and hypnotizing. They froze, stared into each other's face, chests heaving from the intensity of their struggles against each other. Dyer's dark eyes widened. Ethan gasped.
"Damn," Dyer whispered right before he kissed Ethan.
Kissed him? Hell, he devoured him. Ethan couldn't breathe, didn't want to struggle, and never wanted this man to stop.
His lips were hot, seeking, and without mercy.
He invaded with his tongue and Ethan drew on that devilish flesh like the most succulent of fruits.
He sucked and swirled his own tongue meeting Dyer thrust for thrust. A moan crawled up Ethan's chest and rattled his teeth.
When Dyer released his arms he wrapped them around him, dragging his hands down the other man's powerful shoulders and back.
As if burned by his touch, Dyer shoved Ethan away. His face was a mask of rage, almost feral. For some reason, Ethan was no longer afraid.
"What manner of creature are you?" His captor rasped and pinned him against the wall with his body so tightly Ethan could feel every sinew, every deliciously carved inch of him.
"What manner of creature am I?" Ethan replied his lips so close he could taste the raspberry jam the man had eaten for breakfast. "Look in the mirror, Mister Dyer, that's what manner of creature I am.
" He leaned even closer, close enough to whisper against Dyer's lush bottom lip. "I watched you at Missus Greene's."
Dyer raised and drew back his fist. Ethan closed his eyes and braced himself.
"Fuck."
The blow never came. When he opened his eyes, Dyer was gone. He tried the door. Locked. Ethan slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He tapped his head against the wall a few times. He needed to find a way out of this muddle, and quick.