Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (2 page)

“Whiskey,” Richard said. He turned away from Jonathon, his eyes darting around the room to take in the crowd. His gaze lit upon a group of native sailors. “They say there’s more wealth in Liverpool than in London these days,” he remarked. “All the shipping business. Imports flowing in from India and China. You invest in foreign cargoes, Brooksbank?”

Jonathon shrugged. “On occasion.”

“Hmm. That’s all well and good, I suppose, if you’ve got the purse for it.”

The serving woman returned a moment later with two generous shots of whiskey. Richard downed his in one gulp, then motioned for another. He toyed with the empty glass, drumming his fingers against the rim. He seemed tightly coiled, his agitation nearly palpable.

“Something wrong?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m in a bit of a fix.” Richard attempted a smile, but it came out thin and stretched, a grimace that resembled pain more than humor. “You’re a gambling man, aren’t you, Brooksbank?”

“Every now and then.”

“You ever lose?”

“Naturally. Everyone does.”

“I don’t. Not usually, anyway.” He rapped his empty glass against the table, then motioned for another round. “It happened a week ago. I was on a winning streak. Enormous sums. Lucky Red, they called me.”

“You’re not a redhead.”

Richard waved that away. “It was brilliant.
I
was brilliant. I could almost see the cards before they were played.” His eyes took on a faraway gleam, as though reliving the thrill of the moment. Then his face fell. “I should have stopped, but I kept playing. One wager too many, I suppose.” He gave a gruff laugh and dragged one hand through his hair. “Five hundred pounds. That’s what I owe.”

“Ah.” Jonathon shifted in his seat. “An unfortunate sum.”

The woman set another round before them. Richard downed his second as quickly as he’d downed his first. “The problem is, the men I owe the money to are not patient types. The money’s come due.”

“I see.”

“Very well, Brooksbank. I’ll come right out and say it if I must. I’m asking you for a loan—
a temporary loan
—to cover my debt. You know I’m good for the money. I just need more time to get my hands on the funds.”

Jonathon hesitated. The issue wasn’t the money. He could easily cover the amount. But a gambling debt of that sum, coupled with the copious amounts of whisky Richard was drinking and the excitement in his eyes when he’d discussed the turning of the cards, indicated a problem of a more serious nature. While Jonathon didn’t particularly like his cousin, neither did he wish to see the man continue on a path that could only lead to ruin.

“I would think the best course would be to take the matter to your father.”

“My father.” Richard gave a snort of disgust. “Bring the debt to him. I’m sure you can imagine how well I would fare on that score.”

“That’s not my place to speculate.”

“Of course,” he sneered. “All very well for you to say. Nobody’s tying up your purse strings. But you didn’t earn it, did you? Just look at you. A viscount. Lord of the bloody realm. The title and the funds just handed to you by birthright. If my father had been the older brother it would all be—”

He stopped abruptly. Silence stretched over the table.

Jonathon regarded him coolly. “Yes? Do go on.”

Richard’s anger abruptly evaporated. His gaze darted around the room. He leaned across the table, saying in a voice edged with desperation, “Listen. Sweet Harry is expecting me
tonight.
He isn’t the sort of man one can put off. Trust me on that. There will be repercussions, horrible repercussions, if I don’t deliver the money.”

Oh, Christ
. If nothing else, Richard had certainly developed a flair for the dramatic. Still, Jonathon couldn’t help but feel sympathy for his plight. He’d been young, brash, and stupid once, too. Hopefully not
that
stupid. But he’d certainly made his share of mistakes. Presumably, Richard’s father had as well.

“How’s this,” Jonathon heard himself say. “Fifty pounds. You can visit this Sweet Henry person—”

“Harry. Sweet Harry.”

“—and make a payment, as it were. He’ll see that you’re good for the money, and that will buy you some time until you can speak to your father.”

Richard’s eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant!” he gushed.

Jonathon he removed a calling card from his pocket and scribbled a promissory note for the sum of fifty pounds. Richard eagerly reached for it, but Jonathon held it just out of reach. “On one condition,” he said.

“I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“That’s not my condition.” He fixed the younger man with a stern glare. “You will speak to your father the moment you return to London. Full confession. The whole sordid mess. I’ll have your word on it as a gentleman.”

Richard looked pained, but solemn. “Very well. You have my word.” He tucked the note into his breast pocket, then leapt up, returning moments later with two shot glasses brimming with amber liquid. He passed one glass to Jonathon, raising his own in a toast. “To family,” he said. “Bottoms up!”

Jonathon accepted the glass and reluctantly tossed it back. God awful Bitter as hell. The drink burned his throat as it went down.

Richard watched him, his eyes once again overly bright, filled with agitated excitement. “Excellent. This’ll be the last time I ever come to you for money, Brooksbank, I can promise you that.” Turning, he grabbed his hat and coat and pushed his way through the crowd, disappearing through a back room.

Jonathon watched him go, unable to quell a sudden surge of misgivings. Richard was only a few years younger, but ridiculously green. If something happened to him… Perhaps he should have accompanied him and insisted on seeing this Sweet Harry person.

“All alone now, are ye, luv?” the serving woman cooed, interrupting his thoughts. “Want a little company? Someone to keep you warm on this cold night?” She leaned low, her full breasts nearly spilling out of her gown.

“Another time, perhaps.” 

He paid for their drinks and stood. As he did, the crowded room seemed to tilt. His stomach clenched and his vision blurred. The temperature abruptly spiked, sending a flush of warmth coursing through him. He grabbed the back of his chair to steady himself.

“You all right, luv?”

Jonathon drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Yes, fine.” 

“One too many, eh?” she said with a chuckle.

Actually, no. He’d only had the one drink. Not bothering to correct her, he reached for his coat, only to realize that Richard, in his hurry to leave, had taken Jonathon’s belongings by mistake. Well, no matter. His valet could collect his things once they returned to London. He slipped on the younger man’s coat and hat and exited the pub.

A welcome blast of cool air and raucous noise greeted him as he stepped outside. The crowds had swelled, becoming even rowdier. Incredibly, the missionary group had not yet been chased off. They remained firmly stationed on their corner, filling the night with strident hymns. Jonathon took that all in with a glance, along with a far more important detail: no hacks. He hunched low, drew up the collar of Richard’s coat and pulled down the brim of his hat, resigning himself to walking the few blocks necessary to take him to Driver’s Lane, a busier and more aptly named thoroughfare where he would be sure to engage a cab.

The problem was getting there. As he walked, the ground seemed to shift beneath his feet. His vision swam and he staggered drunkenly. He came to a stop and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. The motion sent a spike of pain shooting through his skull. He grabbed the alley wall for support as disbelief shot through him.

Bloody hell, had he been drugged?
Sal’s. His instinct to stay clear of the place had been correct. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He clenched his teeth and moved doggedly forward.

“Hey, Red.”

A shadow disengaged itself from the alleyway. The man put himself in Jonathon’s path, blocking his way. Before Jonathon could react, two more men stepped from the shadows, stationing themselves around him in a loose circle. They were hulking, brutish sorts, the type of men whose very presence radiated menace.

A shot of adrenaline coursed through Jonathon, slamming into him like a kick from a mule. But even that did little to combat the effects of whatever drug had laced his drink. His vision blurred and his knees seemed to want to fold.

“I think you got something for us, don’t ye?” the first man said.

Another night, another place, Jonathon would have gladly taken on the three brutes. But not now. The drug coursing through his veins weakened him to the point where he could barely stand, let alone engage in fisticuffs. Biting back a note of impotent rage, he reached into his vest pocket, withdrew a leather purse, and tossed it over.

“All yours, gentlemen. Well done. Now if you’ll allow me to pass—”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me.” The first man, the largest of the group, stepped closer. “I said, ‘Hey, Red.’”

“What? I’m not—” Jonathon began, then stopped abruptly. Richard’s coat and hat. The red carnation and the crimson ribbon.

“What’s that?” The man put a grubby hand to his ear. “Go on, then. Tell us you’re not Lucky Red. You’re not the man who owes five hundred pounds to Sweet Harry?”

One of his men stepped up from behind Jonathon and knocked off his hat. Jonathon swung at him, only to miss and stumble short. The two men caught him by his upper arms, holding him still.  

“That’s you, all right,” one of the men said. “Fair hair, light eyes, pretty face. Fancy clothes and that red flower tucked in your lapel. A regular dandy. Make the girls swoon, don’t ye?”

“Forget the damned flower,” their leader said, his dark eyes glinting with satisfaction. “He’s the one we want, all right.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Jonathon grit out. “Arrangements have been made to pay Harry his money.”

“Is that right?” The man attempted a smile, but the effect was gruesome—a grotesque baring of stained, chipped teeth. “Seems like you’re going in the wrong direction.” He jerked his head over his left shoulder. “Harry’s is that way.” He made a
tsk
ing noise with his tongue. “I’m sorry to tell ye, Red, but it looks like your luck has just run out.”

He withdrew a knife from his coat. Not a smooth steel blade, but a blade with a jagged edge. A gutting knife. A knife designed to rip and tear.

Jonathon fought to free his arms, but the two men held him fast.

“And I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news,” the man said. His knife upraised, he stepped closer. “That pretty face of yours ain’t going to be so pretty anymore.”

Chapter Two

Brianna Donnelly shivered beneath her heavy woolen cloak. It wasn’t the cool night air that made her body tremble, but the realization that her goal was quickly slipping away. After months of shipboard travel, making the seemingly endless trek from Canton to England, she’d finally reached Liverpool. She still hadn’t fully accustomed herself to the feel of solid ground beneath her, rather than the rolling pitch of the deck. She felt off-balance as she moved, her gait uneven.

Nonetheless, she’d arrived. All that remained now was making her way to London.

Less than a week away by coach. If Brianna were a crow, she could fly there. But she wasn’t a crow. Nor did she have enough funds to hire a coach. Still. She was
so close
. Her impatience was a living thing, coursing through her veins and commandeering nearly every thought. How extraordinary that the rest of her group couldn’t see the turmoil roiling within her.

“Louder!” Father Tim’s thin arms arced skyward. “Let the Lord hear you!”

Brianna grimaced as the missionary group responded with gusto. She joined in, tapping her foot, swinging her brass bell, adding her voice to the righteous clamor.  Although Father Tim claimed their music was pleasing to God’s ears, Brianna couldn’t help but doubt it. Even the Good Lord, for all his generous spirit, could distinguish between musical ability and screeching cacophony.

But then, they weren’t meant a professional choir. Just Father Tim’s devout congregation, spending another night assembled in the cold, saving souls.

“Raise your voices heavenward!” he urged. “Let the power of the spirit fill you!”

Father Tim surveyed the ragged crowd with the bright fever of zealotry burning in his eyes. His church, he liked to say, was the city streets. Those he ministered to were the forgotten and the dispossessed, drunks, gamblers, whores, and sinners. His weapons in the battle for their souls, a worn leather bible, brass bells, and promises of eternal salvation.

More often than not, however, the sinners did not want to be saved.

Tonight, for example. Their efforts drew nothing but crude jeers from the gathered crowds. Sister Mary Louise stood beside Brianna. Unperturbed by the crowd’s reaction, she lifted her chin and carried on, singing with a voice that warbled with age. As though feeling Brianna’s gaze on her, she sent her a serene smile. Hers was a tranquility Brianna couldn’t imagine. How was it possible to be so at peace with the world? Even now, when Brianna should be focused on the words of the hymn, her thoughts spun back along the same agitated path.

London. If Brianna could just
get
there. Once she arrived, she had employment, a place to live—everything she needed to make a fresh start. She let that thought play out in her mind, a welcome distraction from the cold night air and the rough shouts of the crowd. So lost was she in her starry vision of the future, she failed to see the tomatoes hurling her way until the pulpy missiles made impact with her chest.

One, two, three—
splat, splat, splat
.

Three tomatoes thrown in quick succession, exploding against her cloak with enough force to drive her feet out from under her and knock her flat on her rear. She toppled into a pile of muddy slush, her bonnet knocked askew and her skirts sprawled out in an undignified heap.

Sister Mary Louise—who fortunately had not been hit—was nonetheless startled. She emitted a cry of alarm and dropped her hymnal book. It landed in the puddle beside Brianna, splattering a fresh wave of mud (along with a dark substance that smelled suspiciously of horse manure) directly in her face.

The group of boys who’d assaulted her roared with laughter, then took off at a run. Brianna surged to her feet, hurling fiery curses at her youthful assailants. Her retribution, slight as it had been, was utterly in vain. The boys hooted with glee and vanished back into the dark alleyways from whence they’d come, scattering into the night and disappearing without a trace.

Father Tim’s missionary group huddled around her, their faces drawn in solicitous concern.

“Thank you, but I’m quite all right,” Brianna grit out, determined to salvage whatever was left of her dignity. She tucked her clunky brass hand bell into her pocket and straightened her bonnet. Her skirts clung to her legs, a sodden mass of dark wool that soaked all the way through to her drawers, numbing her rear and causing rivulets of icy water to drip down the back of her thighs. Horse manure splattered her face and hair. Rancid tomato pulp dripped down her chest.

Father Tim surveyed her from head to toe. He heaved a weary sigh, then lifted his bible. “We shall pray for their misguided souls,” he announced to the group at large.

Brianna bit back a sharp retort. In her view, what the boys sorely needed was a few good wallops to their backsides…along with a mother and father who cared enough to see to it that they were properly bathed, fed, and tucked into their beds, rather than allowed to carouse through dark alleyways after midnight. She bowed her head and joined the prayer.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said as Father Tim finished, “I believe a change of clothing is in order.”

“I’ll accompany you, my dear,” said Sister Mary Louise.

“Thank you, Sister. That would be most appreciated.”

The church rectory where Father Tim had found temporary quarters was only a few blocks away. Brianna took Sister Mary Louise’s arm and set off in that direction. But as Brianna adjusted her confident stride to match the elderly woman’s small, mincing steps, she immediately regretted accepting her offer to accompany her.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

Sister Mary Louise’s lips curved upward in a small smile. “Being old?” she said. “It’s not so awful.”

Brianna couldn’t help but smile in return. “I meant your hip. Does it still pain you?”

“Ah, that.” She tilted her head to one side and considered her infirmity. “It merely slows me down, child. A gentle reminder that I should be grateful for having been blessed with such a long life.” She gave Brianna’s arm a light squeeze. “But I didn’t come along so we could talk about me. It’s your situation we need to address.”

Brianna fought back a fresh wave of anxiety. “You mean Mr. and Mrs. Caruthers? I’m sure they’ve just been delayed—”

“I’m sure of no such thing. It’s time we address your situation.”

“You believe I’ve been swindled?”

“I’m afraid it does appear that way.”

Brianna swallowed hard. She didn’t want to face the truth, but it appeared she could no longer put it off. She had wired funds—nearly all she had—to a couple she’d chanced to meet in a passing port who had promised to escort her to London. They had sent her several cheery letters assuring her that arrangements for coach and rail had been made, promising her they would meet her in Liverpool when her ship docked. But a week had passed with no word from them. Either something dire had happened to the Caruthers, or she had been taken for a fool, with no one to blame but herself. In her anxiousness to reach London, she had rashly wired the funds without first checking the Caruthers’ references.

Blast and bloody blue hell
. Now what?

“I could walk.”

“All the way to London? By yourself?” Sister Mary Louise let out a soft, amused breath. “If anyone could do it, it would be you. But that does not mean it is advisable.” 

“I’m perfectly certain I would be all right.”

“And I am perfectly certain you would not be.” She sent Brianna a sideways glance, then gave her head a firm shake. “I am old. I am slow. But I am not blind. You would attract too much attention. Attention of the wrong sort, I’m afraid.”

The words stung. However there was no denying the truth in them. Even Brianna had noticed the curious glances and disapproving stares she’d received since arriving in England. She had hoped she would be able to blend in, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen. Her looks were distinctively foreign. Exotic. That hadn’t mattered one whit in Canton. But in England? Apparently it did.

She worried her lower lip in her teeth. Her stomach clenched in tight, nervous knots. “You think people will recognize that I don’t belong here.”

“That’s not the kind of attention to which I’m referring.” The older woman paused for a moment, tightening her grip on Brianna’s arm as she navigated past a particularly slushy puddle of mud. “We will have to make some arrangement for a chaperone to see you safely to London.”

Brianna shook her head. “I will not be more of a burden to you than I already have been.”

“Nonsense. You haven’t been a burden at all. Father Tim was delighted to welcome you into our fold, even if it was only for the duration of the voyage.”

“But now that we’ve reached England—”

“It’s all been taken care of, my dear,” Sister Mary Louise announced. “I’ve asked the good Lord to put a solution before us. I feel sure He was listening. Whatever happens next will be divine providence.”

Brianna managed a fleeting smile, wishing she could share the sister’s serenity, her cool confidence that all would be well. But that simply wasn’t her experience. The shouts of a rowdy group of men echoed from the alleyway ahead of them. Brianna gently steered the older woman away, setting a new course for the church where they’d rented rooms. The streets here were a bit darker, but quieter, seemingly free from the drunken revelers who crowded the main thoroughfares.

An icy wind whipped past them, pasting her sodden skirts to her legs. With the dropping temperatures, the rough streets grew increasing difficult to navigate. Sinister shadows surrounded them. She focused her attention on the puddles beneath their feet, which had grown slick in the night air.

Sister Mary Louise must have sensed Brianna’s uneasiness, for she gave her arm a reassuring pat. “Have faith. All will be well. The good Lord has put us exactly where we need to be.”

Brianna opened her mouth to reply—some nonsensical words of comfort, surely—when the sound of a gravelly male voice stopped her cold.

“…face of yours ain’t going to be so pretty anymore
.”

Her head snapped up. Terror enveloped her as she took in the tableau laid out before her: three rough men surrounded a fourth, who struggled fruitlessly against them. His arms were pinned behind his back. A jagged knife glinted in the moonlight.

She heard Sister Mary Louise’s gasp. The elderly woman stiffened and froze.

Brianna sucked in a breath. They’d walked right into a scene from a nightmare. Surely this couldn’t be where God wanted them to be.