Page 100 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
How had everything gone wrong so quickly?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“So,” Adrian said slowly. “Moreton approached you to put an end to his brother.”
It took Adrian a week of searching, but eventually his efforts paid off. With news of the duchess retiring to Brighton for some sea air relieving him of his societal duties, he was free to pursue the matter of Moreton with more freedom.
And pursue he did.
He had originally believed the “bandits” who had killed Moreton’s brother were Scottish, but new information revealed they were London born and based. Moreton had most likely approached the leader of one of the East End gangs.
That was the individual in front of him. A fellow by the name of Jack “Gutter” Briggs. A sly, sharp man with a patched coat and quick fingers.
Briggs swaggered into Adrian’s study like he belonged there.
He didn’t.
Adrian leaned back in his chair, gaze heavy-lidded, expression unreadable. He let the silence stretch, let Briggs fidget under the weight of it.
A lesser man might have shifted, might have spoken first. Briggs wasn’t a lesser man—he was a rat, but a clever one.
Adrian finally spoke. “Lord Moreton approached you to put an end to his brother.”
Briggs blinked. “Never heard of him.”
A smirk ghosted over Adrian’s lips. “Interesting.” He pulled out a small, ornate object from his drawer and placed it on his desk. “That’s my butler’s pocket watch. You lifted it within five minutes of entering my home. Which tells me you’re still as sloppy as you are arrogant.”
Briggs stiffened. His hand twitched toward his coat, but Adrian merely tilted his head.
“How did you?—”
“You’re not the only one around with light fingers.”
Briggs hesitated, then let his hand fall away.
“Now, back to business.” Adrian stood, pacing toward the window. “See, I had a chat with a few of your old acquaintances. Turns out you’ve been a busy man. Black-market dealings, stolen goods, the odd street execution.” He turned back, smile ice-cold. “I could have the Bow Street Runners here in an hour.”
Briggs’s bravado wavered.
“So,” Adrian continued smoothly, “let us try again. Moreton approached you to put an end to his brother.”
Briggs exhaled sharply. “Didn’t know his name. Just knew he was a flash cull.” His fingers flexed, resisting the urge to pick at the frayed hem of his sleeve. “But yeah, I did it. Shot the wheels off his carriage. Didn’t have a chance in hell of making it out alive.”
Cold. Callous. Precisely the qualities that had allowed this individual to survive for this long. And, of course, for Moreton to ensure his brother died and he profited from it.
“I see,” he said, drawing the word out. “Then what happened?”
The man shrugged. “Don’t know. Never asked. Not my business.”
Adrian reached into his study drawer and pulled out a bag jingling with coins. “How much did he pay you for the murder?”
“Now that’s not a nice term for it.” Briggs’s nose wrinkled. “I prefer the wordbusiness.”
Adrian let the authority in his tone ring through. “How much?”
“Two hundred.”
Adrian weighed the bag in his hand. It grieved him to pay such a man such a sum, but he would do anything so long as it caught Moreton good and proper.
