Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

“Again?” Ashworth groaned.

“It’s not as though it’s complicated,” the duke said. “We enter the Warren. Before the two brutes can be released, we’ll intervene. Explain matters to the officer, take them into our custody. We arrange for transport to Newgate, where I see them charged with murder. End of plan.”

“Wrong,” Julian said. “The plan has changed.”

“Oh, really?” Ashworth asked. “How so?”

“We have to enter the armory on false pretenses. Then let them be released. I’ll follow them for a bit before taking them into custody. My custody.” He opened a satchel at his side and removed a pistol, a horn of powder, and a pouch of lead shot.

“Your custody? At gunpoint? Why?”

“Because I need to know who hired them.”

In matter-of-fact terms, Julian told them about the shoving incident in the street yesterday, and the card pressed into his hand. He didn’t repeat the words of the message, only the gist.

“It was a warning,” he said. “‘Don’t interfere, or you’ll be silenced.’” He paused for a moment, concentrating as he measured black powder. “It’s just as I’ve always suspected. That attack on Leo and Faraday was meant for me. If these two brutes go to the gallows, I’ll never know who put them up to it. Lily will never be safe. My only chance is to capture them and force them to lead me to their employer.”

“And you propose to do that alone?” the duke asked.

“It’s kidnapping,” Julian said. “And torture, if they need some convincing to talk. I wouldn’t ask you to be a part of that.”

Ashworth said, “You’ve asked me to do worse.”

“That was in the past. You both have wives now, responsibilities. Morland here has a child on the way.”

Morland countered, “And what about you?”

A swift pang caught him in the chest. He ached for Lily. Would she be awake yet, he wondered? Was she already cursing his name, ruing the day they wed?

“Just leave,” Julian told the others, “I’ll go it alone.”

Ashworth and Morland exchanged glances. Neither man moved to depart.

“We’re not going to leave you alone, man.” The duke kicked at a loose stone. “We think too highly of your wife, for one.”

“And we both owe you our assistance,” Ashworth added.

Julian shook his head. “Forget the Stud Club. It was nothing more than a joke on Leo’s part. I only puffed up that honor and fraternity and ‘Code of Good Breeding’ nonsense to prod you into action when he died. Neither of you owes me anything.”

Ashworth snorted. “I owe you my life. Or don’t you remember?”

Julian tilted his head, considering. Well, he supposed there was that. He’d hauled Ashworth up from a cliff in Cornwall. At the time, however, the man hadn’t treated it like a favor.

The duke added, “And I seem to recall your assistance in a midnight search for my runaway ward.”

“That hardly counts. I didn’t want to help.”

“For God’s sake, you stood up for me at my wedding,” Ashworth said. “We’re friends, Bellamy. And you’re stuck with us, whatever fool plan you’ve cooked up.”

“But at least give us some explanation first,” Morland said. “Why the devil does someone want so badly to kill you?”

Julian hesitated, unsure whether to tell them. Were they friends, truly? He looked from the stern, aristocratic duke to the formidable, battle-scarred warrior. Well, he supposed, these were two men he would rather have as friends than enemies.

“I know things,” he said. “Things I was never meant to know. I overheard secrets as a youth, working at a coffeehouse. I was an errand boy. My mother worked in the kitchen.”

“And your father …?” Ashworth prompted.

“Not in the picture,” he said tightly. Julian couldn’t imagine that news would come as a shock to either man.

It didn’t.

Morland frowned. “What do you mean, ‘you know things’? Such as …?”

“Such as that horse you’re so fond of? Osiris? You know, the reason for this whole club?” At Morland’s nod, Julian continued, “I happen to know the first race he ever won was fixed.”

Morland’s chin jerked in surprise. “His first win? That would have been …”

“At Doncaster. He was a three-year-old colt. His jockey had been purposely holding him back all year. The gaming lords kept increasing the odds. By Doncaster, they were twelve-to-one, and all bets were on—”

“Mariner,” Ashworth finished. “He’d been running strong all year. I remember it well, the general shock when he ran third.”