London had failed to do such a thing, despite the relentless crimes committed in the city. Of course, there was talk. There was always talk. But Londoners were leery of spending capital on such a venture. They liked even less the idea of delivering such power into the hands of only a few men.
A light breeze, warmer than the recent days, stirred the trees lining the path, carrying a hint of lilac and lavender to him. It reminded him of Kendra—though nearly every damn thing these days reminded him of Kendra. She was becoming an obsession.
A soft laugh escaped him. There was rich irony in that. He’d spent his life avoiding matchmaking mamas and their dewy-faced daughters. He’d known that one day he’d be forced to set up his nursery. His lineage demanded it of him. And, at thirty-one, he was also aware that marriage was no longer a far-off notion. It had never once occurred to him that he’d have a difficult time securing a match with the woman of his choice. Such security wasn’t vanity, but practicality. He was the Duke of Aldridge’s heir, with estates that were far from impoverished. What woman would say no?
Kendra Donovan, that was who—the one woman in all of England who cared naught for her standing in society or Alec’s titles, who seemed to view the very things that women in this world coveted with complete contempt.
No, contempt was too strong a word. Disinterest. In fact, the only thing she seemed to be interested in was returning to her own timeline.
And catching the killer.
His hands involuntarily tensed on the reins, causing Chance to pull up sharply and dance to the side. Alec expelled a breath and forced himself to relax. He lightly clicked his heels, propelling the horse to continue forward again.
Her courage awed him and terrified him. She wasn’t the only brave woman he’d known, but she was the only woman he knew who could calmly stare down a crime lord and a crowd of angry men with four lead balls—three, he amended, since she’d fired a warning shot—knowing that if her bluff didn’t work, she’d be torn to pieces.
His blood turned cold when he thought of how close he’d come to losing her. Not just to Bear and his mob, but also to that damn vortex. He still didn’t understand the concept of a wormhole, a passageway between two time periods. He only knew that Kendra Donovan could disappear from his life as quickly as she’d arrived—if she didn’t get herself killed first.
His mind returned to yesterday, when he’d stepped into Dr. Munroe’s autopsy room. Bloody hell. He’d nearly fallen to his knees, the strength in his legs deserting him when his gaze had fallen on that damn cloak. Even now he could feel the rage and terror rise up inside him, just as they had when he’d realized that the woman lying torn and broken on Dr. Munroe’s table could easily have been Kendra.
She was meant to be Kendra.
He’d had a small role in the war waged against Napoleon. As the Marquis of Sutcliffe and the Duke’s heir, he was supposed to stay safely in England, protecting his blood rather than spilling it on the battlefield. But Napoleon’s forces had occupied his mother’s native Italy, and the War Department had viewed him as an asset to slip behind enemy lines. The work had been exhilarating and dangerous—and grinding. He’d witnesses atrocities that still had the power to sneak into his dreams and steal his peace of mind. Yet for everything he’d seen and done during the war, he’d never felt so helpless as he had yesterday morning, when his gaze had landed on the green cloak and he’d understood what it had meant.
How can you protect a woman who refuses to be protected?
Two horseback riders were trotting around the curve in the road. Alec wheeled Chance around so quickly that the Arabian kicked up gravel on the road and earned censorious scowls from the other gentlemen. He didn’t care. Enough with this brown study. It was time he found out about Dawson’s finances.
Luckily, he knew where to begin.
The Red Devil was a gaming hell in Pall Mall. Alec supposed that the appellation had something to do with its hideous scarlet décor. Even the traditional green baize on the tables had been replaced with a crimson material. But a darker part of him wondered if the name might have been derived from the blood that had been spilled by the punters who had frequented the establishment. It was not unheard of for young bucks to kill themselves after losing their inheritances at the gaming tables.
Unlike the thin veneer of respectability that Mrs. Allen’s gambling establishment boasted, drawing in men and women from the Ton, the Red Devil was a serious hell. Men of all ages were hunched around the tables or playing games of chance. Without a lady’s presence, alcohol could be freely dispensed and the men were able to blow a cloud, creating a grayish haze that hung in the room like fog on the Thames. The atmosphere was hushed. The only noise was the soft shuffle and slap of cards as they were dealt and discarded. Even the tossing of chips or dice was muted by the material covering the tables.
Heavy red velvet, gold-tasseled curtains were drawn tight cross the windows, forcing candles and oil lamps to be lit and constantly replenished by the servants. It was an unexpected extravagance—the cost of candles, especially with the hefty tax, could add up. However, Alec knew from experience that it was more important for the proprietor of the hell to create an illusion of timelessness. Nothing ruined the mood more than the morning sun hitting a gambler in the eyes, reminding him of the world beyond these four walls.
Alec saw the man he was searching for immediately. Captain Craig Lawlor, formerly of the Fifth Cavalry Brigade and current proprietor of the Red Devil, was leaning with his shoulder against the doorjamb at the far end of the room. He was tall, with a head of curly dark hair and an attractive countenance. As Alec approached, Lawlor straightened and offered a crooked half smile.
“Sutcliffe. It’s been a while since you’ve graced the Devil with your presence.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not here to play, Captain. May we speak in private?”
Lawlor raised bushy black eyebrows, his dark blue eyes assessing the other man. Then he gestured toward the room behind him with his right hand. It was the only one he had. His left was gone, shredded by shrapnel and taken off by an army sawbones on the Continent. Lawlor had pinned his sleeve up rather than let it dangle empty.
“Of course,” he said. “Come into my office. Would you like a whiskey?”
“No, thank you.”
“You don’t mind if I have one, do you?” He shut the door, and sauntered over to a sideboard to splash whiskey into a stout glass.