Page 7 of The Duke Who Stole Me (Stolen by the Duke #4)

Chapter Seven

“ W hat have you found, Somerton?” Vincent asked as he puffed on a cigar.

The two men were sitting in his study, where they’d always met whenever they needed to report to one another about a thing or two.

It was late into the night, around the time Lady Juliana had snuck into the house days ago.

Even days later, the memory was still so fresh in Vincent’s mind that he could still smell her rose perfume in his study.

If he squinted his eyes just a little, he would see her standing there, up against the mahogany door, with her eyes closed in anticipation of the feel of his body against hers.

Goodness gracious .

“That Norfield was not as ‘clean’ as he led the ton to believe. He frequently visited brothels,” Somerton said with a bored sigh, pulling him back to reality.

When Vincent registered the Marquess’s words, he felt glad for Lady Juliana. She deserved far better than that bastard.

“So, a rake with an innocent face is what he is.”

Somerton nodded in agreement.

“And nothing of importance was found?” Vincent asked with a raised eyebrow.

“It seems so,” Somerton answered. “I shall give it to him. The man knows how to hide his tracks if it’s taking you this long to locate him.”

The statement was meant as praise for Norfield’s ability, but it was a double-edged sword that suggested Vincent was losing his touch. It was the same as saying he was no longer as thorough as he was when he’d first started spying for the Crown.

He’d been given a sobriquet by his colleagues—Drainer—because of his skills in draining information from people regardless of their gender and status. He had traveled to different countries and continents, successfully draining information from men much tougher than him, so it was quite a blow to his name and years of service to hear that someone as infinitesimal as Norfield could give him a tough time.

Norfield wasn’t just worth it. And he would prove it.

Vincent rose from his wingback chair and grabbed the half-filled glass of brandy he’d poured himself before walking over to the large window that overlooked the grounds of his estate.

“You seem to be deep in thought,” Somerton noted, rising as well to join Vincent by the window.

“I have just realized that I have given this mission too many chances.” Vincent paused, lifting the glass to his lips and taking a sip. “And in light of that, I shall wrap it up and lay it to rest.”

Somerton’s head whipped in his direction. “Whatever do you mean by that?” he asked.

“I am over sniffing information from the lords and ladies of the ton. It is unfruitful.”

“But we have only attended one event, in which the guests were handpicked ,” Somerton argued.

Vincent scoffed, the sound as bitter as the amber liquid in his glass. “Would you rather we attend all these balls and question everyone to get information on Norfield? If so, then I might as well pick a bride and a mistress while we’re at it.”

“Quite vulgar of you to mention a wife and a mistress in the same sentence, but I understand your plight. However, you must remember that this mission requires the utmost meticulousness,” Somerton pressed.

“You might enjoy working like that, but I do not. I won’t endure another ridiculous ball. Just the thought of mingling at such an event is revolting.”

“So, Your Grace , what do you have planned?”

One of the most enjoyable parts of his job was donning a disguise and doing whatever he liked as long as he got the job done. Although, most times when he donned a disguise, he didn’t go around pressing his body against innocent ladies and thinking about them for days.

Vincent stepped before Day and Knight, a notorious gambling hell. And it wasn’t that he’d gone there for the sheer pleasure of it. He never liked gambling much, as he gambled with his life enough already with the missions he took on.

The night was young, and dozens of people were on the street just outside the gambling hell, bathed in the lights that poured from its entrance. At first glance, it looked like any other gambling hell, but below the ground level was an inn that housed criminals on the run.

Carriages rattled down the cobbled street as Vincent crossed to the front steps, adjusting the worn hat he’d borrowed from his butler, Lincoln, to hide his eyes properly.

“Excuse me, good sir, do you need some company?” A scarcely dressed courtesan who had obviously had too much to drink snaked her arm around his.

“No,” he said simply, peeling her arm from his as he made his way inside.

Inside the building, he walked down the dimly lit, narrow corridor, his shoes thumping against the thick runner that led to an open space covered in a cloud of smoke, which revealed mostly men in every corner, yelling their bets, crying for their losses and celebrating their wins.

“Good evening, sir.” A petite woman with a small voice approached him. “Might I assist you to a table? Or do you have company?”

Vincent shook his head. “I’d like to see the owner of this establishment. I am an old friend,” he said with a charming smile. It always worked.

The woman studied him for a moment, then she nodded, a small smile forming on her lips as she asked him to follow her.

Vincent wasted no time, walking behind her politely until they arrived at the back of the room, where a wooden door stood behind a curtain.

“When you go in, you walk straight and take the left turn. Fourth door.”

Vincent thanked her and opened the door, but not before reaching into his pocket and handing her a few coins for her trouble.

The corridor behind the door was narrow and carpeted, just like the entrance, and Vincent followed the directions he was given until he found himself outside the fourth wooden door.

His instinct urged him to barge into the room, merely for an element of surprise, but tonight he wasn’t in the mood, so he knocked twice.

The response took a few seconds to come, and when it did, he opened the door to let himself in. A tall, slim woman rushed out, winking at him, but he couldn’t care less about her.

“My Lord, it seems you have missed the turn that leads to the restroom,” the round-bellied man in the small room said.

He was sitting behind a wooden desk at the center of the room. A large wardrobe took up most of the space, and a solitary couch sat in the left corner.

“I am certain I have not. Unless you’re trying to say that you run your operations from there?” Vincent asked with a raised eyebrow.

The man sucked in a breath, his hat sitting lopsided on his head—clear evidence of what he’d been doing with the woman who had just left.

“Who in the devil are you, to come in here and speak to me in such a manner?” he thundered.

However, Vincent was undeterred. He moved to the couch and sat down.

“I never said you could sit! Leave this instant, for I have a very busy night tonight!” the man yelled, yet he remained seated.

Vincent chuckled darkly. “Aren’t you curious as to why I came here?”

The man narrowed his eyes at him, as though doing so could help him discern what it was that Vincent wanted. Then, he relaxed in his chair and clasped his hands together.

“State your purpose. Although you must make it quick because I am a busy man.”

Vincent nodded and rose from the couch, before approaching the desk.

“I’m searching for something only you can provide at this time,” he began.

Upon hearing that, a slight smile spread across the man’s face.

“And what might that be?” he asked, suddenly brimming with self-confidence.

Vincent leaned in, a slight smile on his lips too. “Your ledgers.”

“Have you gone mad?” the man thundered once again, this time his face reddening.

“I haven’t, but there’s no telling what I might do when I go mad,” Vincent answered matter-of-factly, shrugging.

“Leave here this instant, and I will forgive this insolence as an effect of liquor.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that, and I am sure you are clever enough to know when someone is under the influence and when someone isn’t.” Vincent’s voice turned cold, every word dripping venom.

“I have a pistol.”

“And I will hate to use it on you. The ledgers. Now.”

“What makes you think I’ll hand over my ledgers to you simply because you asked?” the man scoffed, his eyes twitching as he reached for something beneath the table.

In one swift move, Vincent swatted the hat off the man’s balding head, grabbed it, and slammed it against the wooden surface. “Because I asked nicely. Now, give me the ledgers.”

The man groaned in pain, covering his nose as blood spurted from it, fear evident in his eyes.

Vincent smiled. He had the man where he wanted him.

“Did you think you were so thorough in hiding evidence of tax evasion and money laundering?” he growled.

The man stilled at that.

“I believe the magistrate would be delighted to get a hold of the information I possess about this establishment,” Vincent added.

“Wait!” The man stretched out one bloody arm. “I’ll give it to you. Please don’t!” he cried and scampered to his feet.

Vincent sighed and shook his head as he watched the man cross to the wardrobe, where he took a key out of his pocket and unlocked it. He pulled out about ten books and brought them to the desk, displaying them for Vincent.

“Which one is the most recent?” Vincent asked.

The poor, bloodied man pointed at a deep crimson book in the center.

Vincent took it and opened it, leafing through the pages until he stopped at one. He smiled.

Perfect .

He closed the book, dropped it back on the desk, and stood up.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you,” he said with a tip of his hat, and then he disappeared from the room and outside, into the shadowy London streets.

“The bastard was staying at the inn beneath the gambling hell,” Vincent told Somerton, who balled his fists in frustration.

They had met up the morning after to discuss the next course of action.

“We almost had him,” Somerton hissed.

Vincent nodded, letting out an exasperated sigh. “On his last night there, he had gambled and won quite the amount.”

A light appeared in Somerton’s eyes. “That means he’s moved to a different hiding place,” he deduced.

Vincent nodded. “He’s in desperate need of money and information. He knows he doesn’t have much time left,” he scoffed, looking out the window to the bright sun.

“If what you say is true, then it is safe to say that the only reason why he has not left London is heavily dependent on those two,” Somerton murmured as he paced around the study.

Suddenly, he clicked his fingers and turned to the desk.

“One peculiar thing about Norfield’s case is his obsession with the military,” he began.

“I am listening.” Vincent leaned forward in his chair.

“If I am right, it makes sense that he might not have left Ridgewell House that night. Possibly, he went scouting around the mansion, seeing as the late Lord Ridgewell died while serving the country. It is mere speculation, but it is plausible.”

Vincent nodded his head.

Somerton was right; Norfield’s preferred source of information was indeed army officers, and the late earl possessed a high rank. Which meant he possessed very sensitive information. Or rather, very expensive information, which Norfield could sell.

“If he is infiltrating the houses of army officers, it means his next target would be…”

“Lord Montford,” Vincent finished.

Somerton clicked his fingers. “Exactly! He doesn’t have the manpower to infiltrate residences as he’d like, so he’d only go for those who are willing to open their doors.”

Vincent nodded.

This was their best bet. Norfield was panicking. He had to throw caution to the wind and go for the most obvious target.

“But,” Somerton continued, drawing Vincent’s attention once again, “since you have repeatedly declared your dislike for balls, I shall have to ask for?—”

“We shall attend this ball, Somerton.”

And they’d finally catch the slippery bastard.