He leaned forward. “I prefer pleasure before business.”
“Pleasure?” Mayhap she’d misjudged him. If he wanted a tumble before they got down to business, well, she’d simply add the cost of whoring to the bill that she’d worked out to pay for Lydia’s untimely demise. Not that she didn’t expect to do a little negotiating. Catching the gleam in his eye, she smiled and lifted her gloved hand to stroke his thigh with practiced familiarity. “I’m not adverse to pleasure. What do you have in mind, sir?”
His voice was low and throaty. “I want you to . . .”
She tilted her head and smiled encouragingly. “Yes? You want me to . . . ?”
“Run.”
April stilled, uncertain that she heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want you to run.” As she stared at him, trying to comprehend the unusual request, he extracted a large knife from the folds of his caped redingote. She only had a moment of surprise, to observe the blade that gleamed wickedly in the gloomy light of the forest, before he slashed it down, splicing open the back of her gloved hand, still resting on his thigh.
The action was so sudden, so unexpected, that it took a moment to feel the sting. Then she fell back with a gasp, snatching her hand away and watching in disbelief as blood welled up, soaking the kid glove crimson. Clutching the wounded hand to her chest, she met the man’s eyes. A chill raced through her at what she read in his gaze.
“Run,” he whispered.
April Duprey ran.
33
Sam Kelly stepped into the King’s Head. As he headed toward the bar, he did a quick scan of the shadowy interior. There was a low-timbered ceiling, and whitewashed walls tinged gray from the oil lamps, the customers’ clouds of smoke, and probably from the fireplace, too. But today, the kindling in the hearth was yet unlit.
The tavern was only one-third occupied, a fact that Sam attributed to it still being early enough in the day. Still, he deliberately chose a corner spot at the bar, where he could keep his back to the wall and an eye on everyone else. The clientele veered toward farmers, mill workers, blacksmiths, not the rogues he was used to dealing with in the rookeries and flash houses of London. Yet it was never a good idea to let down one’s guard, which was why he kept his back to the wall, and his Sheffield four-inch blade in his boot.
A big man with bushy red hair and mustache approached. “W’ot can Oi get fer ye, guv’ner?”
Sam produced two shillings. “A pint . . . and some information.”
The man’s blue eyes narrowed. “W’ot kinda information?”
“Heard tell you had a cockfight last Sunday.”
“Aye.” Hawkings eyed him warily. “Every Sunday, after sundown. Doesn’t stop folks from goin’ ter church.”
“I’m not concerned with anyone’s salvation. I wanna know if Captain Harcourt and Lord Gabriel attended the fight.”
“’Oo are ye ter be askin’?”
Sam reached into the deep pocket of his coat and brought out the baton with its infamous gilt crown. He saw Hawkings’s eyes widen as he recognized it.
“Ye’re the thief-taker ’is Grace ’ired.” He licked his lips nervously. “Lemme get yer drink.”
Sam watched the publican shuffle over to the bar pull, filling a pewter tankard until it overflowed and foam ran down the side. He returned with the mug, slid it toward Sam. The two shillings disappeared beneath the man’s beefy paw.
“This ’as ter do with the ’ore in the lake?”
Casually, Sam dropped a couple more shillings onto the bar. In his experience, three things loosened a man’s tongue—women, ale, and money. He picked up the tankard, admired the head before taking a swallow. “I want ter know about your cockfight that night.”
“Hmm.” Hawkings eyed the shillings, rubbing his chin. “’Twas a bang-up night. We h’ad more’n two ’undred blokes wagerin’. Mr. Dorin’ brung ’is bird—a bloomin’ big bastard. Undefeatable, ’e is. ’Tis a problem, that. No one wants ter bet against ’im.”
“Aye, I can see how that would be a problem. But I’m not interested in the outcome, Mr. Hawkings. I want ter know if Lord Gabriel and Captain Harcourt was there.”
“Lemme think. Seems ter me that both gents came in. Oi think I saw ’em for the first fight.” He rolled his massive shoulders. “Don’t remember ’em after that.”
“What time did the first fight start?”
“’Alf past nine. Starts the same time every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday.”
“How long have you been in Aldridge Village, Mr. Hawkings?”
“Since Oi got caught in the parson’s mousetrap—nigh on fifteen years ago, Mr. Kelly.”
“Ever hear of any lasses gone missing or cockin’ up their toes like the one in the lake?”
Uneasiness flashed across the publican’s face. “Nay, not like thata one, Mr. Kelly.”