quickly before I lose my patience. It has been a long night and I am not in the best of moods. You interfered with my own plans for the evening. I do not take that sort of thing well.”
Euston looked nervously out into the waiting darkness. “I’m not familiar with this neighborhood. It is obviously dangerous. How will I get back to my lodgings?”
“There is a tavern on the far side of that warehouse. I expect there will be one or two cabs waiting in the street. But you might want to take care to walk quickly. You are correct. This neighborhood is home to all sorts of thieves and cutthroats.”
Euston did not move.
“Go,” Joshua said. He spoke very, very softly. “Now.”
Euston jerked as if he had been struck by the lash of a whip. He lurched out the door and half stumbled, half jumped down to the pavement. Turning, he paused to look back into the cab.
“I do not know who you are, you bastard,” he said, “but I will make you pay if it is the last thing I do.”
“I’m afraid you will have to stand at the end of a very long queue.”
Joshua pulled the door closed and rapped the roof of the carriage twice.
Henry opened the trapdoor. “Where to, sir?”
“Saint James.”
“Aye.”
Henry closed the door, slapped the reins and drove off into the fog.
Joshua pushed aside one of the curtains and looked out into the night. The sharp pain in his thigh had subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there was some excellent brandy waiting for him when he got back to the town house.
Nothing had gone right tonight.
It would be more accurate to state that nothing had gone right since the start of this affair, he reminded himself. And that was precisely what made it all so interesting.
A fortnight ago he had been at his country house sinking ever deeper into the quicksand of the excruciatingly dull routine that he had established for himself. His mind-numbing days started with morning meditation followed by what limited martial arts exercises he could still manage with his bad leg. The exercises were followed by a few hours devoted to overseeing business matters. He managed the family fortune for his sister, his nephew and himself. Late in the afternoon he took his daily halting, often painful, walk along the cliffs above the restless sea.
His nights were more often sleepless than not. When he did sleep his dreams were all variations on the same recurring nightmare. He relived the explosion, saw Emma’s body lying on the stone floor and heard Clement Lancing shouting at him from the other side of the wall of flames.
You did this, you bastard. She’s dead because of you.
All the dreams ended the same way, with Victor Hazelton watching him from the shadows, silently accusing him of failing to save Emma.
He was well aware that recently in the course of his afternoon walks he had begun to spend far too much time standing precariously close to the edge of the cliffs contemplating the mesmerizing chaos of the wild surf far below. It would be so very easy for a man with a weak leg to lose his balance.
But he had responsibilities that he could not escape. It was the knowledge that his sister, Hannah, and his nephew, Nelson, depended on him that made him turn away from the sight of the swirling waters at the foot of the cliffs every afternoon.
His carefully orchestrated life had come to a crashing halt, however, when he had received the telegram from Nelson.
Please come to London immediately. Mother needs you.
There was only one force still powerful enough to pry him from his own private hell, Joshua thought, the same force that made it impossible for him to seek oblivion in opium or the sea—his responsibility to his family. For the first time in nearly a year he had a mission to carry out.
He had planned to spend a week or two in London dealing with the problem and then retreat once again into seclusion. But the case, which had appeared simple and straightforward at
Euston looked nervously out into the waiting darkness. “I’m not familiar with this neighborhood. It is obviously dangerous. How will I get back to my lodgings?”
“There is a tavern on the far side of that warehouse. I expect there will be one or two cabs waiting in the street. But you might want to take care to walk quickly. You are correct. This neighborhood is home to all sorts of thieves and cutthroats.”
Euston did not move.
“Go,” Joshua said. He spoke very, very softly. “Now.”
Euston jerked as if he had been struck by the lash of a whip. He lurched out the door and half stumbled, half jumped down to the pavement. Turning, he paused to look back into the cab.
“I do not know who you are, you bastard,” he said, “but I will make you pay if it is the last thing I do.”
“I’m afraid you will have to stand at the end of a very long queue.”
Joshua pulled the door closed and rapped the roof of the carriage twice.
Henry opened the trapdoor. “Where to, sir?”
“Saint James.”
“Aye.”
Henry closed the door, slapped the reins and drove off into the fog.
Joshua pushed aside one of the curtains and looked out into the night. The sharp pain in his thigh had subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there was some excellent brandy waiting for him when he got back to the town house.
Nothing had gone right tonight.
It would be more accurate to state that nothing had gone right since the start of this affair, he reminded himself. And that was precisely what made it all so interesting.
A fortnight ago he had been at his country house sinking ever deeper into the quicksand of the excruciatingly dull routine that he had established for himself. His mind-numbing days started with morning meditation followed by what limited martial arts exercises he could still manage with his bad leg. The exercises were followed by a few hours devoted to overseeing business matters. He managed the family fortune for his sister, his nephew and himself. Late in the afternoon he took his daily halting, often painful, walk along the cliffs above the restless sea.
His nights were more often sleepless than not. When he did sleep his dreams were all variations on the same recurring nightmare. He relived the explosion, saw Emma’s body lying on the stone floor and heard Clement Lancing shouting at him from the other side of the wall of flames.
You did this, you bastard. She’s dead because of you.
All the dreams ended the same way, with Victor Hazelton watching him from the shadows, silently accusing him of failing to save Emma.
He was well aware that recently in the course of his afternoon walks he had begun to spend far too much time standing precariously close to the edge of the cliffs contemplating the mesmerizing chaos of the wild surf far below. It would be so very easy for a man with a weak leg to lose his balance.
But he had responsibilities that he could not escape. It was the knowledge that his sister, Hannah, and his nephew, Nelson, depended on him that made him turn away from the sight of the swirling waters at the foot of the cliffs every afternoon.
His carefully orchestrated life had come to a crashing halt, however, when he had received the telegram from Nelson.
Please come to London immediately. Mother needs you.
There was only one force still powerful enough to pry him from his own private hell, Joshua thought, the same force that made it impossible for him to seek oblivion in opium or the sea—his responsibility to his family. For the first time in nearly a year he had a mission to carry out.
He had planned to spend a week or two in London dealing with the problem and then retreat once again into seclusion. But the case, which had appeared simple and straightforward at
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