Page 29 of The Lady is Trouble

She unfolded the foolscap with care, the yellowed creases conveying age. When she got a good look, her pulse thumped so stridently it cut out the sound of rain pelting glass.

“It’s you,” Simon said as if she needed him to tell her this.

“Yes.” She pressed her fist to her chest to help her draw a breath. “Years ago.” The charcoal study was exceptionally detailed, a vivid representation of a young woman on the cusp of maturity. The sooty lines and smudged shadows softened features that should not have been as her expression was the penetrating one she recognized from the mirror. She brought the drawing closer. The dress she wore had unique trim at the sleeve, a double row of pearl buttons crawling up the bodice.

Buttons Julian had been unfastening, his lips pressed to hers, when they were interrupted by her grandfather’s murderer.

Chapter 9

In short, I will part with anything for you but you.

~Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

The storm continuedinto the next evening, a steady assault against the harness room’s slate roof and lone window, which was closed to keep the discussion within the building but allowed no respite from the scent of horse dung, beeswax, and leather overwhelming the space. Julian rested his elbow on a saddle tree, his hand clutching a bridle similar to the ones they’d used to bind the Mayfair intruder’s wrists and feet to the loft’s post.

Humphrey, his face marred by frustration, paced from the wooden block centering the room to the glass harness case, two tours there and back before he halted next to Julian.

Julian slapped the bridle against his thigh. “Finn, bring the lamp closer.”

Finn stepped in, the oil lamp casting a golden glow over the four men. Three in a tight ring around another rendered helpless in what was not only an undignified position but a painful one, his shoulders drawn to an unnatural angle to allow for his trussing to the post. The man, who had revealed the name Cookson and his position as a Bow Street Runner but little else, blinked a bloodshot eye. The other was swollen shut, currently caught in a mix of blues vivid enough to paint a summer sunset. The scar running from his temple to his chin provided insight into how hard they’d have to press to get information.

“You’re going to tell us who sent you.” Julian cocked his head toward Humphrey, adding a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The next drop of blood spilled will be yours. And my friend here is itching to spill it.” Cookson had gotten a swipe at him when they were hustling the man out of the carriage and into the harness room. A blade hidden in his blasted boot; one Julian wished they’d located when they searched him. His shoulder hurt like a beast and had bled quite copiously down the sleeve of a shirt newly arrived from his tailor.

Cookson’s anxious gaze shot to Humphrey. “Why say a deuced word when I’m headed for a shallow grave in the miles of forest surrounding this place?”

“Dead men don’t talk, true enough,” Julian replied.

“A Mayfair toff was all I was told you were.” Cookson yanked at his restraints, grimacing as leather cut into his skin.

“Regretfully”—Julian snapped the bridle with a crack—“you were misinformed.”

“I should have known from the lock on the door.” He knocked his head against the post. “None better guarding a bleeding vault.”

Humphrey stepped forward, fists clenched. It had been a struggle to keep him off the man when blood started running down Julian’s arm. “I’m done with this gentle line of questioning.”

“Jule,” Finn said, light dancing as he placed the lamp on the wooden block. “There are swifter ways to handle this.”

Julian turned on him, a flare of panic sliding through his belly. “No.” He didn’t want Finn involved any more than he already was.Damn Humphrey for even bringing him.

Finn’s gaze iced stark blue as he stepped around Julian. “Yes.”

Humphrey raised his arm, blocking Julian’s interference. “Let him,” he whispered, “nearly a man, he is.”

Finn moved to Cookson, who assessed him with a scathing glance—from the damp sweep of Finn’s hair to the tip of his polished boots. The mocking twist of Cookson’s lips told Julian the man had, for the second time in recent history, misjudged an adversary. The handsome face, the immaculate dress, the intelligence Finn stored in a portmanteau, and placed at his side during most encounters made people overlook him. It was a stout defense.

“Who sent you?” Finn asked, dusting lint from his sleeve in a veiled theatrical show. “All you have to do is think of who you’re trying so hard to protect. Imagine what they’d do to you if you revealed their name.” He cupped his chin in supposed thought, his thumb covering the dimple that had come to life with his slight smile. Julian had seen these moves before when Finn was trying to separate himself from a spot of trouble he’d landed in at Rugby.

Julian hid an inappropriate chuckle behind the raised bridle.

Finn leaned closer. “One name. And what you were looking for. It will save time and effort. On my part, I mean.”

Something in Finn’s countenance must have clashed with the witless, glossy exterior because Cookson’s eyes narrowed. “Bugger off.”

“You chose the road, my friend,” Finn replied and placed his palm on Cookson’s brow as if assessing for fever.

Finn’s lids fluttered as he staggered, and Julian stepped forward. Humphrey’s hand circled his arm, holding him back.

After a long moment of silence broken only by the shaken breaths coming from Cookson and the plink of raindrops against the windowpane, Finn’s hand dropped. His fingers flexed and closed in a tight fist before he spoke. “The Duke of Ashcroft,” he whispered on a rough exhalation. “He wants the chronology.”