Page 52 of Provoked
David frowned. “I don’t want that,” he said, shaking his head. “Or need it.”
Balfour made an impatient noise. “Don’t be a fool. You’ve said you fear this confrontation may turn violent,ergoyou may need to defend yourself. I have one of my own and a pistol too.”
David’s gaze jerked up to Balfour’s face. The man looked grim but resolute. He was right, and David knew it, but the thought of violence sickened him.
“If you wish, you can wait here,” Balfour added. “I don’t mind going in there alone. I’d prefer it, actually.”
David flushed with shame. He reached out and took the knife. He hadn’t paused to find his gloves before he came out, and the steel hilt felt cold against his fingers. He weighed the blade in his hand. When he was a boy, he’d always had a knife on him. He used it every day in his work about the farm, for a hundred and one tasks. He’d never considered using it against another human being.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he bit out. “Of course I’m going in. If anything, you should be the one to wait in the carriage. This was my idea, after all.” He bent over and slid the knife into his boot.
“Be careful—” Balfour began.
“I know how to handle a knife!” David snapped, exasperated, jerking upright again.
Balfour stared at him for a moment, and the corner of his mouth slowly hitched. “I beg your pardon,” he said at last. “Shall we go, then?”
David nodded stiffly, and Balfour tapped the roof of the carriage with his cane. The coachman pulled back the grille, and Balfour instructed him to wait for them round the corner.
As the carriage rumbled away over the cobbled lane, the horses’ hooves clipping at a decorous and stately pace, David cast his eye over the building. The Imperial Hotel did not live up to its grand name. High and narrow, the grey walls boasted only a few small windows. The roof was topped with steep, crow-stepped gables, little staircases that led up to empty sky. This structure was a creature of the Old Town. No hint of classicism here. No columns, no arches, but all higgledy-piggledy steps and stairs, and the windows placed only where needed.
“Come on.” Balfour’s voice interrupted David’s reverie. The bigger man was already walking to the front door, and David had to hurry to catch him up.
Balfour rapped on the stout wood with his silver-topped cane in sharp staccato.
The door was finally opened, after a second round of rapping, by a bad-tempered-looking fellow whose demeanour transformed to one of obsequious good humour when Balfour gave him a coin and drew him aside. Balfour handed over several more coins during their murmured conversation, in return, David presumed, for information and, ultimately, the fellow’s departure through the very door he’d opened to them.
“He’s making himself scarce for half an hour,” Balfour explained at David’s look of enquiry. “Come on. I’m told Hugh’s room is on the third floor. Number twenty. Our friend doesn’t know if he’s in or not, so we’d better approach quietly. I’d like to have some idea of what I’m going to be walking in on, if possible.”
They climbed two sets of rickety stairs and found themselves in a cramped, poorly lit corridor. One candle flickered, ready to gutter out, by the look of it, in a sconce on the wall. The rooms up here were smaller and closer together than on the floors below, the ceilings lower. Balfour placed his forefinger against his lips, and David nodded, but despite their best efforts at silence, their booted feet inevitably made some noise on the worn floorboards.
Halfway down the corridor, they reached a room with the number twenty painted on the rough wood. From inside came the rumble of angry voices. Hugh was clearly not alone, but it was difficult to make out words. The building might look ramshackle, but the walls and doors were thick enough. Balfour pressed his ear against the wood and listened for a few moments, then pulled back, a concerned frown drawing his brows.
“We have to go in,” he whispered.
David’s heart raced faster, his breath growing short and shallow. He stepped forward and pressed his own ear to the door, straining to make out what had made Balfour look so worried. There was no talking, but he heard an unmistakable grunt of pain and reared back, as though burned, shooting an alarmed glance at Balfour.
“Our friend told me the locks are feeble,” Balfour murmured. “He suggested a determined assault on the door if we had to get in.”
“You can’t be serious,” David hissed. “The door looks very stout.”
“I was assured otherwise,” Balfour whispered back. “And what else can we do?”
David bit his lip. Balfour was right.
“Get ready to come in straight after me,” Balfour whispered, pressing himself up against the opposite wall to give himself as much of a run up as possible. It would only be a couple of strides, but Balfour was a big, burly man after all. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out his pistol, nodding at David’s boot. David reluctantly bent and pulled out the knife.
Ready?Balfour mouthed.
David swallowed and nodded, heart pounding.
Then Balfour charged.
Chapter Fifteen
Balfour’s shoulder struck the door, the heft of his big body slamming into it. With a loud splintering sound, the door gave way and flew inwards, smacking into the wall on the other side as Balfour rushed in, David on his heels.
The two occupants of the room jerked round to look at the invaders, the flash of shock across each face for a moment identical. There was half an instant of perfect stillness when David’s mind struggled to take in the picture before him. It was all wrong. Euan was no victim here. He was standing tall and aiming a pistol at the other man, who was kneeling some distance away. The kneeling man—as large and powerfully built as Balfour—wore only a nightshirt, his hands interlaced behind his head. There was a cut at his temple that oozed blood and the early bloom of several bruises on his face.