Her Husband's Harlot (25 page)

"A problem?"

Exhaling, Nicholas hoped the gamble
he was about to take was worth the risk. "After I was shot, I heard a
voice. I am not certain it was Bragg's."

"You heard a voice that night?
Why did you not mention this earlier?" Kent frowned.

"Er, the wound must have addled
my memory until now." He had omitted any mention of the blackmailer's
threats because he did not want Kent nosing around his past. Yet he could not
allow Kent to follow a false trail, not when the true villain might pounce at
any moment. It was a tricky business to alert the investigator to the
possibility of another shooter, whilst at the same time keeping secrets hidden.
He felt like one of the acrobatic acts at Vauxhall, balancing three tea cups on
his nose whilst juggling apples and riding on horseback simultaneously.

"Can you be certain that the
voice you heard was not Bragg's, my lord?" Skepticism lined Kent's brow. "After
all, you had been injured, and there was loss of blood. And a man can disguise
his voice, if he chooses it."

"Why would Bragg alter his
voice? If anything, the man is a braggart and would happily announce to me and
all the world of his victory."

"What were the exact words you
heard, my lord?" Kent had taken out a small notebook and had a quill
poised above.

"Er, I cannot recall precisely,"
Nicholas hedged, "just that the voice was higher, thinner than Bragg's."

Kent snapped the notebook shut. "So
allow me to repeat what you have just said. You had forgotten that you heard a
voice until just now. But now that you recall it, you do not remember what it
was saying. Just that it sounded different from Isaac Bragg's."

Put that way, it sounded quite
idiotic. Nicholas nodded curtly.

"If not Bragg, then who?"
Kent's clear gold eyes bored into his. "My lord, you will forgive my
impertinence, but I must ask: do you have any enemies? Anyone who might wish to
do you harm?"

"No." Nicholas willed his
voice to remain steady and calm. "That is, yes, I am sure I have enemies
as any man of trade does
—
disgruntled
workers, angry clients, and the like. But no, there is no man I specifically know
of who would wish me dead."

"Hmm."

Nicholas did not like the other man's
speculative tone.

"And you are absolutely certain
there is nothing else that you have neglected to tell me?" Kent asked. "Nothing
that might have, ahem, slipped your mind due to blood loss?"

Nicholas gave him a withering stare
worthy of any marquess. "Of course not. But my gut tells me there is more
involved in this than petty theft."

"What do you mean?"

"At a meeting with the West
India merchants this week, I mentioned that prior to the warehouse being
ransacked, my steward had reported small amounts of goods being stolen. Paltry stuff.
A few crates of tobacco, several barrels of rum, that sort of thing."

"Yes?"

"That triggered other merchants
to review their ledgers with a fine tooth comb. As it turns out, similar
amounts of goods have gone missing from their warehouses as well."

"Interesting," Kent said, "but hardly surprising. The building of the walled docks has helped, but
not stymied completely the acts of theft. I doubt stealing can ever be fully
suppressed."

"I agree, but it is the timing
of it all that concerns me," Nicholas said. "Jibotts reports that
goods began to go missing in noticeable quantities only in the past four
months. The other merchants are now reporting losses during the same time
period."

"An intriguing coincidence,"
Kent admitted. His expression sharpened like a hawk's. "A new criminal
mastermind, then, at work on the docks."

"He is no ordinary criminal,"
Nicholas agreed, "for he eschews instant gratification for slow and subtle
skimming. It would take patience, control, and considerable skill to organize
such an endeavor. Furthermore, how is he smuggling the goods past the guards at
the dock gates?"

"Who would be capable of such a
deed?" Kent mused.

There was a knock, and Jibotts poked
his head in. "Mr. Fines is here to see you, sir. I told him you were in a
meeting."

"Send him up," Nicholas
said.

"As I was saying, I can imagine
only a select few with skills of this caliber." The police man's eyes were
narrowed, and his fingers drummed rhythmically against the arm of the chair. "Hodgkins?
No, he was recaptured after his last escape from Newgate. Richardson, perhaps,
or Gerrins, though last I heard the latter had been shipped to the Australian
colonies."

"I find it difficult picturing
Bragg among the list of possible suspects," Nicholas said.

"He has more brawn than brains,"
Kent said grudgingly, "and I checked with Bow Street. The magistrate's
records showed petty crimes. Nothing more organized than the drunken looting of
a pub in which he made off with a barrel of ale and a serving wench."

"Exactly." Nicholas raised
a brow. "You see why I suspect someone else was the shooter?"

"It could still be Bragg doing
the shooting, but someone else behind these robberies. It could be the two are
not at all connected." At the thump of approaching footsteps, Kent got to
his feet. "I will investigate further. In the meantime, my lord, if I may
be so bold as to offer a few words of advice?"

Nicholas gave a curt nod.

"Trust no one, not your
enemies, nor your closest friends. And I would urge you once again to consider
traveling under protection. My men are fully trained and equipped to
—
"

He would have Kent's men tagging his
heels when hell froze over. While he might risk his own safety, however, he'd
not compromise Helena's. At the very moment, the pair of Runners he'd hired was
shadowing her every movement. "I've attended to the matter already, thank
you."

"As you wish."

With a bow, the investigator headed
to the door. It opened before he could reach for the knob.

"Well, hello there," Paul
Fines said. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Not at all. Mr. Kent was just leaving," Nicholas said.

Paul shook the police man's hand. "I
do admire you fellows over at the Thames River Police."

"Have we met before?" Kent inquired, his eyes sharp.

"Wouldn't think so." Paul
tossed his hat between his hands. "Any leads on the nefarious persons
responsible for looting the warehouse and putting a dent in Morgan's hard
skull?"

"This gentleman, so obviously
concerned about my welfare, is Mr. Paul Fines," Nicholas inserted dryly. "He
is the son of the company's founder and my partner in the business."

"We are working on a list of
suspects, Mr. Fines," Kent said. His gaze roved over Paul's ensemble of
impeccable beige superfine. "I was just cautioning his lordship to watch
his back in the meantime."

"How exciting," Paul said.
"But don't worry about Morgan here. He can take care of himself. As a
matter of fact, I am here to help him practice. Ready for a few rounds in the
ring, old boy?"

Kent took his leave, and Nicholas
unlocked the door to the sparring room. Without another word, he and Paul Fines
readied themselves for a bout, removing their jackets and donning scarred
leather gloves. He felt charged with restlessness, like a stallion before the
storm. He had spent the week physically cooped up in his office, but more so
there was the sense of pent-up emotion. Avoiding Helena
—
not just her presence, but his thoughts and relentless desire for
her
—
required more energy than he had
imagined possible.

It was a relief to focus on his
opponent as he circled, arms held in defensive position. It felt good to shake
the stinging sweat from his eyes. He barely dodged a right hook, his feet
slipping on the mats as he sought to regain his balance. Swearing, he steadied
himself against the ropes and felt the burn of air in his lungs. There was no
time to rest, however, as Paul swooped in. He threw a left jab at the other man's
midriff and felt the frustrating sensation of his glove contacting empty air.

"Is that the best you've got,
my lord?" Bouncing lightly back and forth on his feet, Paul looked as
fresh as a damned spring daisy. "All that time with the nobs has made you
soft. Or perhaps the shot to the noggin has brought you down a notch."

Nicholas' eyes narrowed. "Even
if I were half the man I was, I could still pummel you."

Paul laughed, low and taunting. With
his glove, he beckoned Nicholas toward him. "Let's see what you've got
then."

The match continued with an exchange
of punches and parries that elevated Nicholas' heart beat and his mood. Having
sparred regularly with Paul in the past, Nicholas knew better than to allow this
particular opponent to take control of the match. Though Paul was shorter than
he and possessed a slimmer physique, Nicholas knew from past experience the
bruising power of the younger man's blows. The trick with Paul was not to be
distracted by his cheerfully disparaging comments and to focus instead on his
one weakness: a tendency to favor his right side.

For the next three rounds, they
remained evenly matched, trading blow for blow. In the fifth round, Nicholas
advanced, keeping watch on Paul's footwork. A side to side movement usually
preceded a lunge forward, and sure enough Nicholas found himself parrying a
swift series of jabs to his upper body. He feigned left, and when Paul
responded with a right-sided uppercut, Nicholas swayed to the right and
answered with a cross-cut. Adrenaline surged when his glove connected
resoundingly with flesh and bone.

Paul stumbled back a few steps,
steadying himself against the rough hemp ropes. He shook his head as if to clear
it.

"Haven't lost your touch then,
eh?" Stripping off his gloves, Paul lowered himself to the ground. He
rubbed a manicured hand tentatively against his jaw. "I do believe that is
going to leave a mark."

Nicholas shot him an unrepentant
grin. "Care to go a few more rounds?"

"Thank you, no," Paul
said, scowling. "I will be in the suds with my valet as it is. Trust you
to land a facer when a jab to the stomach would have sufficed. And, might I
add, the latter would have been a great deal more civilized."

"Civility is not my strong
point." Picking up a towel, Nicholas mopped it over his face and chest.
His muscles vibrated pleasantly from the exercise, and he felt more limber and
relaxed than he had in days. "Join me for a drink?"

Eyes brightening, Paul got to his
feet. "Mayhap your finest whiskey will ease the pain. I have a few minutes
to spare before my next appointment."

Nicholas led the way back into his
office. He poured two glasses of whiskey before joining Paul in the chairs by
the fire. Drink in hand, he sank against the cushions.

"You were sparring like the
devil himself was after you." Paul swallowed the amber beverage and
smacked his lips in pleasure. "Bashing out the demons, eh?"

Nicholas slanted a look beneath his
lashes. "In a manner of speaking."

"So, still no leads on the
theft or the man who shot at you?"

"Kent is pursuing the matter.
He believes the main suspect to be Isaac Bragg."

"The rather hostile fellow, red
face, currants for eyes?"

Nicholas smiled dryly at the
description. "That's the man. I have my own doubts, of course. Why would
Bragg want to see me killed?"

Slouched comfortably in the chair,
Paul imbibed his whiskey in contemplative sips. "Why would anyone want to
see you dead? Have you any enemies, Morgan, who might wish you harm?"

Nicholas stared into the fire and
said nothing.

"It has crossed my mind,"
Paul said with uncharacteristic hesitation, "that the shooting took place
in St. Giles. You were living there before you came to work for Father, were
you not? Could there possibly be a connection?"

Nicholas closed his eyes briefly.
Despite all that the Fines family had done for him, he had never found the
courage to expose his past in its sordid entirety. Jeremiah had seen the place
that birthed him, met the woman who called herself his aunt; it would have been
no great stretch for Jeremiah to ascertain how a boy of fourteen years with no
skills and little schooling had made a living upon the streets. Yet Jeremiah
had never held it against him. He had merely looked him in the eye and said, "Are
you ready for a new life, lad? One that will put the past behind?"

He had not believed such a thing was
possible.

But with Jeremiah's guidance it had
been. For sixteen blessed years, it had.

"I did not mean to pry,"
Paul said quietly. "I know you have always valued your privacy."

"Paul, do you believe it
possible that a man can leave his past behind?" Nicholas' voice felt thick
in his throat. "That if he works hard enough, changes his ways, changes
himself
—
he might escape the sins he once committed?"

"It would depend on the man and
the sins, I suppose." Paul was looking at him closely, his blue eyes
steady. "And if the man repented and his actions showed he had chosen a
new path. I am no clergyman, Morgan, but I believe redemption is possible."

"Is it?" Nicholas looked
into his empty glass. "Or is that, too, a dream?"

Paul sat up in his chair, his face
earnest. "Morgan, whatever your past holds, if it poses a danger to you
currently, you must face it. If you cannot tell me, tell Kent. Have him take precautionary measures for your safety."

"I cannot tell Kent." When Paul made to speak, Nicholas met his eyes very deliberately. "There
are reasons for it. I would not launch myself out of the pot and into the
flames."

"Ah. Because he is a member of
the policing force," Paul said slowly, "and you wish to avoid
detection of certain aspects of your past."