Page 101 of The Duke With the Dragon Tattoo

Because of his cowl, no one had seen the Rook up close when he’d murdered Mortimer, and very few other souls over the years had borne account of his visage and lived to tell about it.

Dorian Blackwell had accompanied them in part to assist with just such a situation. He had unprecedented influence with Scotland Yard, Parliament, in all the right social circles, and—more importantly—all the wrong ones. To have such a man call him brother was a boon in more ways than Ash could begin to define at this juncture.

“Scotland Yard?” An apprehensive frown tilted Lorelai’s lips as she echoed his thoughts. “I assumed we’d only have to endure the local magistrate.”

“We never should have left the ship,” Moncrieff grumbled, already doctoring his tea with spirits from a nearby decanter. “Why would someone call all the way from Scotland Yard unless they already found the holes poked into our criminally thin fiction?”

“Is he always like this?” Blackwell nudged a thumb at the scowling first mate.

“No.” Ash smirked. “He’s usually much more opinionated.”

“God help you.”

“If only she would.”

“She?” Blackwell queried.

“I’ve always been of the opinion that storms, ships, and God are a strictly female trifecta.”

“It would explain a great deal—”

“Now hardly seems like the time for jest.” Lorelai interrupted their smile of collusion, stepping in front of a red-faced Moncrieff, her own features pinched with anxious disapproval. “You could be in profound danger from the law.”

Ash traced the line of her jaw, yearning to kiss those lips back into a smile. “Darling, men like us are perpetually in profound danger from the law… or so the law likes to imagine.”

“Do you think they mean to threaten us with Newgate?” Dorian casually speculated, picking at an invisible piece of dust from his cuff.

“Perish the thought,” Ash volleyed with equal dispassion. “Maybe it’s the gallows for us this time.”

“Or the firing squad.”

“I suppose they could resurrect the practice of drawing and quartering.” Ash cocked an unrepentant brow at Lorelai. “I should hazard that my nether quarters are the most desirable.”

“Our heads would look altogether sinister next to each other on the vacant pikes at London Bridge,” Blackwell suggested.

“You make an excellent point. Do you suppose they’d leave the eyepatch on?”

“It’ll be my final request.”

“As it should be. It’s rather iconic, if you ask me.”

With a startlingly animalian sound, Lorelai seized his lapels. “Do you not understand what this means?” She tugged at him frantically. “They could take you from here in chains! I could lose you again. Forever, this time. How can you act as if your execution would be nothing more than a lark?”

Sufficiently chastised by the threat of hysterics, Ash sobered immediately. “I jest because the idea of anyone taking me from your side is laughable.” He covered her hands with his own, touched and feeling guilt because of the tremors of panic he sensed in her elegant fingers.

“An entire contingent of Scotland Yard bruisers couldn’t overwhelm us,” Dorian soothed from over his shoulder. “They’d have to bring an army.”

“And we’d see the army coming and make our getaway,” Ash amended, pressing a kiss to the wrinkles of worry on her forehead. “Come now, all is well. Let us rid ourselves of this nuisance and be about our day, shall we? We’ve treasure to hunt.”

“Count me out,” Moncrieff growled, swiping the entire decanter from the sideboard. “I’d rather lick bog mud from the devil’s twat than share a room with a member of the London Metropolitan Police.”

“Can’t say as I blame you,” Blackwell told his retreating back before turning to Ash. “I don’t think he’s overfond of me.”

“He loves none so much as himself.” Ash stared after Moncrieff until he disappeared up the back stairs. “Though I suppose I should remind him of his place.”

“Perhaps you should, instead, assure him that hisplaceat your side isn’t threatened,” Lorelai suggested, casting a surreptitious glance at his new coconspirator.

“A wise woman, your wife,” Blackwell approved.