What Darkness Brings

Chapter 20



“W

hat the ’ell!”

Jerking a large, curving knife loose from the sheath at his side, the ruffian rushed at Sebastian, the blade held over his head in a backhanded grip.

Seizing a heavy brass walking stick from the clutter atop the bureau beside him, Sebastian swung it up to block the blade’s vicious downward slash. Metal clanged against metal. But the power behind the blow was so intense that the impact reverberated down Sebastian’s left arm, and he staggered.

The housebreaker recovered instantly, his lips curling away from his teeth in a fierce rictus, his grip on the knife shifting. “Shoot ’im!” he yelled to the younger man by the door.

“I can’t! Yer in the way,” he screeched, the gun held straight out in front of him in a trembling grip, his voice rising an octave as he fumbled to set down the lantern.

“Bloody bastard,” growled the thick-necked man. He lunged again, driving the knife straight toward Sebastian’s heart.

Dancing sideways an instant too late, Sebastian felt the blade slice through the flesh of his ribs as he pivoted and drove his own dagger deep into the ruffian’s chest.

“Morgan!” cried the man from the doorway.

For one suspended moment, the ruffian froze, his heavy features a study in astonishment. Then he crumpled.

Sebastian tried to wrench his dagger free and felt it catch on the man’s ribs as he fell.

“You killed my brother!” screamed the young man at the door, the pistol held before him, his left hand coming up to steady his grip. His finger was just tightening on the trigger when the black cat stretched up and sank the claws of both front paws into his leg.

The man let out a sharp yelp. Belching flame, the pistol exploded in a deafening roar that filled the corridor with pungent smoke and a shower of pulverized plaster as the shot buried itself in the ceiling.

His jaw sagging in fear and fresh horror, the younger man threw away the now useless pistol and bolted out the door.

Sebastian wrenched his dagger free from the dead man’s chest with a violent shove that sent the body tumbling and thumping down the stairs. He could hear the younger man crashing through the overgrown wreck of a garden, frantic, stumbling blindly. By the time Sebastian erupted out the door into the wet, windblown night, the housebreaker was nearly to the ruined stables.

Gripping the gory dagger in his fist, Sebastian dashed across the terrace and leapt down the steps. A sharp branch snagged his coat; he jerked and heard the cloth rip as he pushed on. He could see the young housebreaker’s slim frame silhouetted against the night sky as he scrambled up the pile of fallen bricks that marked the crumbling wall at the base of the garden.

“What do ye want from me?” he screamed, pausing to grab one of the loose bricks and chuck it at Sebastian’s head.

Sebastian ducked. “I want to know who sent you.”

“Go to ’ell.”

Collecting his feet beneath him, the lad jumped. Sebastian heard his body hit the other side with a splat, then the plopping squish of running feet flailing through mud.

Sebastian climbed after him, the half-collapsed wall shifting ominously beneath him as he dropped lightly onto the far side.

He found himself in a muddy, rubbish-strewn alley hemmed in by high walls on either side. He could see the lad dashing frantically for the distant street, his feet slipping and sliding in the muck as he ran.

Sebastian pelted after him, then drew up sharply as the dark outline of a carriage loomed at the end of the alley. The near door flew open, the long, dark barrel of a rifle poking out into the night.

“Shit,” he swore, instinctively ducking his head as he dove into the shadows of the wall beside him. He hit the cold mud and said, “Shit,” again as he slid face-first through what smelled like a heap of rotting cabbage leaves mingled with a pile of fresh horse dung. Looking up, he saw a spurt of flame, heard the crack of a rifle shot cut through the night.

But the unseen man in the carriage was not shooting at Sebastian.

Some twenty feet from the end of the alley, the young housebreaker stumbled, his body jerking, his torso twisting, his knees buckling beneath him. The carriage’s driver whipped up his horses; the vehicle lurched into the night, trace chains jangling, wheels clattering over the cobbles.

Swiping at the mud and muck on his face, Sebastian went to hunker down beside the boy and draw his trembling, bloody body into his arms. “Who hired you?” Sebastian asked, lifting him.

The lad shook his head and coughed, his eyes scared, one clawlike hand digging into Sebastian’s arm.

“Tell me, damn it! Don’t you understand? Whoever they are, they just killed you.”

But the light was already fading from the boy’s eyes, the tension in his body easing, the fierce grip on Sebastian’s arm loosening, falling.

“Son of a bitch,” swore Sebastian. Heedless of the mud, he sank back on his haunches, the dead boy still gripped in his arms. “Son of a bitch,” he said again.

And then he said it a third time. “Son of a bitch.”



Hero was dressed and seated beside the fire in her bedchamber, the ancient Hebrew manuscript open on her lap, when Devlin walked in, bringing with him a pungent odor of rotten cabbage, horse manure, and mud. He’d already stripped off his coat and boots, but his face, waistcoat, and breeches were liberally smeared with muck, and he held a longhaired black cat tucked up under one arm.

The manuscript slid to the floor, forgotten, as she started at him. “Devlin. Good God. Are you all right?”

“What are you doing up?” he asked as the cat gave a disgruntled howl and leapt from his arms.

“I couldn’t sleep. What happened? And what are you doing with that cat?”

“He claims I owe him since he saved my life, although I maintain he was only returning the favor.”

She started to laugh. Then she noticed the dark red sheen mingled with the muck on his waistcoat and the laughter died on her lips. “Is that your blood?”

“Only some of it.” He headed for his dressing room, stripping off clothes as he went.

She followed him. “How much of it?”

He yanked off his ruined waistcoat, his nose wrinkling as he tossed it aside. “My apologies for the aroma. I fear I slid through someone’s garbage pile. Calhoun isn’t going to be happy. I think that waistcoat was his favorite.”

“How much of it?” she demanded again, helping him ease his ripped shirt over his head. He tried to turn away, but she saw the long purple slit that cut across his ribs and caught his arm. “Devlin—”

He squinted down at it. “It’s not deep.”

“Why didn’t you go to Gibson and get it sewn up?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“You could get lockjaw from it!”

“Sewing it up wouldn’t prevent that, now, would it?”

She gave him a look that needed no accompanying words and turned toward the bellpull. “If nothing else, you need to wash it well with hot water. I’m ringing for Calhoun.”

“Good God, no; it’s nearly four in the morning.”

She let her hand fall to her side and turned toward the door. “Very well. I’ll go down into the kitchen and heat some water myself.”

He let her ring for Calhoun.

Afterward, she curled up on the rug beside his chair while he sat before the fire, a glass of brandy in his hand, and told her what had happened.

“What do you think those men were looking for?” she asked when he had finished. “The blue diamond Collot told you about?”

He took a long, slow sip of his brandy. “I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. I think whatever is going on here is far more serious than some diamond—however big it might be.”

“Are you certain the rifleman in that carriage was shooting at the young housebreaker and not you?”

“If he was aiming at me, he’s an appalling shot.”

“Most people are.”

“Not this one. He hit the lad square in the chest, killing him almost instantly.”

She kept her gaze on the cat, who was giving himself a long, fastidious bath beside the hearth. “You think he was killed to keep him from revealing who hired him?”

“I think it likely, yes.”

“But . . . why? Why not simply haul the lad into the carriage and whisk him safely away?”

“He said the man I killed in the house was his brother. I suppose that once we learned the identity of the dead man, it wouldn’t have been hard to track down the lad and find whoever was behind the attempted burglary.”

“But the man in the carriage had no way of knowing the older man was dead.”

“They could have heard the shot. And they knew that only one of their men came out of that house, chased by me.”

“True,” she conceded. “You didn’t see anyone around before you went inside?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”

“Do you think they recognized you?”

“Well enough to know that I wasn’t their hireling, obviously. But probably not so well as to know who I was. Most people don’t see well in the dark.”

“Some do.”

He met her gaze, and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. He said, “The lad was no more than twenty feet away from the rifleman when he was hit. It wasn’t a difficult shot.”

“True.” She watched the cat curl itself into a ball, sigh, and close its eyes. The milk bowl and plate of minced beef beside it—provided by Calhoun—were now empty. She said, “Did you go to the authorities?”

“I did not. I took to my heels and fled.”

“With the cat.”

“He was insistent.”

“Is it a he?”

“It is. I checked.” Bending forward, he picked up the manuscript from beside her. “If you were looking at this, no wonder you couldn’t sleep.”

“It is . . . bizarre. I’m anxious to hear what Abigail McBean can tell me about it in the morning.” She leaned back against his chair, felt his fingers brush her flesh as he played with the curls at the nape of her neck.

He said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Her gaze met his, her expression solemn. “So do I.”