Page 41 of The Duke and Lady Scandal
“Just wanted a word with you, Jack.” Ben blinked as his eyes adjusted and he could make out the shape of the man behind the bullseye lantern. He sensed the nearness of other bodies in the darkness too. He guessed it was the three men he’d followed who stood in the shadows.
“A word, is it? Just the one?” At his taunt, one of the other men laughed, allowing Ben to gauge that he was but a few feet away.
“More than one, I’m afraid,” Ben told him. “I need to speak to you about your presence on Moulton Street today.”
“Not in the mood for being questioned.” Demming grunted and signaled at one of the men. “Take him.”
An arm thick as a tree trunk wrapped itself around Drake’s neck. He thrust an elbow back into the man’s belly.
“Get ’is hands,” the man behind him shouted.
Ben shoved up to break the man’s hold on his neck, but his release was only momentary. Before he could fully break free, the arm lashed around him again and the thug only squeezed tighter. So tight he couldn’t catch his breath.
Another man emerged from the darkness, jerking one of Drake’s hands into a loop of rope.
Ben swung wildly to catch the man with a blow, but he ducked agilely and caught his other hand, wrapping it with the rough binding. The knot he tied was as tight as the hold on his neck.
Once the man in front of him nodded, the one behind him loosened his hold a fraction.
Ben gulped in air.
They’d tied his hands in front, and he calculated how he might reach for his revolver.
As if reading his mind, Demming stepped closer and reached into Ben’s empty pocket and then the other, pulling the revolver out by its barrel.
“Seems you ’ad more than talk in mind, detective.” Demming stared at Ben with a menace that felt deep, personal. “Tie the bastard to the gears.”
Ben had more than a couple inches of height on Demming’s men, but they outweighed him in combined brawn, and the one behind him dragged him as if he weighed nothing at all.
Together, the two men slid a chain around hismiddle. Ben fought to keep his arms free, but they forced them down and under the chain. The hard, unforgiving wedge of metal at his back felt as if it would leave a permanent dent.
“Consider carefully whether you want to do this, Demming. Assaulting a Met detective isn’t something you want added to your record, is it?”
“Oh, I’ve thought of this moment awhile, I ’ave. Bleedin’ dreamed of it.”
“Why?”
“Forgot ’im already, ’ave you?”
The beast at his back alternately tightened and loosened his hold on Drake’s neck, as if it was some sick game.
“Who?” he managed, though his voice had gone hoarse.
Demming drew close, a fearsome glare on his bearded face. “Amos Howe.”
Drake’s mind had gone fuzzy, his thoughts scattered pieces he fought to assemble. Howe in that empty townhouse in Bedford Square. The unanswered questions about M. Haverstock handing him a report detailing Howe’s death. All of it swirled in his brain.
“You knew Howe?” Drake willed the scraps of information to assemble into solid facts.
“?’E was my brother, and you got ’is throat slit.”
“I’m sorry.” Drake meant it with utter sincerity. Howe wasn’t a great man or perhaps even a good one, but he’d done the right thing in the end.
He thought he’d learned a great deal about Howeduring the investigation, but he’d never known he was related to Jack Demming.
Demming spat. “To ’ell with your sympathy. Can’t bring me brother back.”
Demming drew back and punched Ben in the stomach.
