Page 33

Peregrine tried to turn on his heel, but the clerk shoved him forward and slammed the door shut behind him. He spun at once back towards the heavy door, but there was no handle on this side. Just solid wood and the muffled sounds of the banking hall beyond.

As his eyes struggled to adjust to the dim, narrow space, a man’s arm unexpectedly snaked around his neck from behind and began to tighten, like a noose.

Before the arm could close the loop, Peregrine thrust his left hand upward, catching his attacker’s wrist in a desperate grip. But with the man’s left hand pressing his neck hard into the crook of his elbow, Peregrine had no leverage to strike the ribs. There was no room, no angle.

Anger and fear gave him the desperate strength to keep the man’s forearm from crushing his windpipe, but the pressure was enough to constrict the flow of blood.

Peregrine’s ears began to ring, and sparkles began to appear at the edges of his vision.

With a great heave, he shoved backwards with all his might.

With any luck, he would crack his attacker’s skull against the brick wall, or at least knock the wind out of him.

He failed to land the blow, but that capricious witch, Fate, decided to spare him all the same. The attacker’s elbow cracked against the brick, and the hold loosened just enough for Peregrine to twist free.

Peregrine staggered forward, collapsing to his hands and knees, dragging in air with harsh, ragged gasps. He tried to crawl, just far enough to recover, out of reach.

Behind him, the thug moved, silent and sure.

He was wiry and strong, with the muscle of a man accustomed to labour.

Peregrine spared only one glance over his shoulder, certain he had the pleasure now of dancing with Edmunds’ bogeyman.

A killer who—if he was responsible for his mother’s housekeeping—might have a rather fearsome body count .

That glance did nothing to solve any mystery. The man was perhaps an inch shorter than Peregrine stood, and more thickly built. But little else could he tell. He was dressed in a heavy brown cloak with a deep hood, only a darkly stubbled chin and nose protruding from the shadows.

And he calmly he stepped forward, gloved hands outstretched, to wrap his fingers around Peregrine’s neck to finish the job. Peregrine clawed at his attacker’s grip, but there was no give this time. The fingers were like iron.

“I have got you now,” the man said, his gravelly voice rasping through the cotton that dulled Peregrine’s ears. “Ought to thank me, really. This is kinder than what the boss had in mind. But I have others to see to, y’know? Already behind schedule. And June will be here soon.”

Peregrine was going to die. And unfortunately, his last coherent imaginings were not actually about the duchess or even about his mother.

No, he was currently occupied by the thought that he was a stupid, stupid man, assuming that there would be no harm to be found in a bank.

His vision narrowed to the point of blackness, and Peregrine felt himself begin to swoon. From a great distance, sound reached him. Boots striking cobbles, and what sounded like a muzzy shout.

With a snarl, the killer shoved him, choking, to the ground, and Peregrine lay face down with his cheek in the wet muck for a long moment, trying to suck enough air through his bruised throat to make the sparkling darkness recede again.

“My lord!”

Owen? Peregrine’s mouth shaped the name, but he couldn’t seem to make his voice work quite right.

The footman hauled Peregrine onto his back and began patting his shoulders and cheeks with nervous urgency. “My God. Are you all right, my lord?”

Peregrine blinked. It took too long to make his eyes focus on Owen’s face.

A shouted command cracked along the walls of the narrow alley. Familiar. Furious. Running steps preceded Hodges’s arrival, too.

“What the hell happened!” Hodges barked, looking between Owen and Peregrine.

“I was circling the building like you said,” Owen answered, pale and shaken. “Found a man in a cloak trying to strangle Lord Fitzroy. Damned lucky you told me to go ‘round. Wish I had got there a little sooner.”

Hodges dropped to one knee beside Peregrine, offering him a hand to help him into a sitting position. “Christ alive. You breathin’?”

“Bare-ly.” Peregrine’s voice rasped, and Hodges gripped his shoulder, steadying him.

“That wasn’t a bloody pickpocket,” Owen said, still rattled. “Didn’t even take your watch.”

“Mother’s... bogey… man.” His throat ached like fury, but if he spoke slowly, he could get the words out. And so he related the story of the clerk as briefly as possible.

Hodges cursed more. “’Course I can’t get him.”

Peregrine said nothing. He agreed. There was no action they could take now that would not cost more than it gained.

The bank would have security. Trying to question the clerk—or drag him out—would create more problems than it solved, not least of which would be exposing the account tied to Peregrine’s name.

“It’s Goldbourne,” he said shortly. “I have… to let people know.”

“Aye. Her Grace, if nothin’ else,” Hodges added, eyeing the red welts already blooming beneath Peregrine’s cravat. “Let’s scarper before the bastard comes back with a proper weapon and starts shootin’ fish in a barrel.”

How had the clerk known to expect him? He did not imagine that the cloaked man had lingered there for days on end on the off chance Peregrine showed up. It must have been Lincoln’s request for more information that had caught Goldbourne’s attention.

Or Edmunds knew which of us is more fearsome to cross and decided to lure you into a trap, his mother’s voice offered.

If there was only some way to be sure.

Hodges gripped one arm and Owens the other, helping Peregrine to his feet. Fortunately, by the time he was standing, his legs were steady enough that he could walk his own way to the carriage. But he clapped Owens on the shoulder in the privacy of the alley nonetheless, in silent thanks.

And as he let Hodges drive them back to the estate at a fast trot, he reviewed the list of correspondence to send immediately. Charity, of course—she had to stay within the safety of Atholl House. Just in case his attempted murderer decided to get revenge on him another way.

But he also badly needed to talk with Selina. To let her know about Goldbourne. And given that the Queen had been disinclined to do him any favours while being accompanied by Charity suggested that this card wouldn’t be well-played thrice.

Who else could make Her Majesty capitulate? The sole person who had any hope of it was her son, the Regent.

He would have to write to Ravenscroft. If he was lucky, the magpie would do this favour for him as recompense for saving his arse about Sidmouth. But Peregrine had a sneaking feeling that he was going to end up in deep debt at this rate.