Page 44 of Tempting the Scoundrel
She slid her finger across the paper and murmured, “I agonized over these words when I wrote them. Having my work used for this . . . like sometaunt. . .” The pain on her face squeezed something in Thorne’s heart, for he knew how important her work was to her. “I have two other informants. I need to warn them.”
Thorne reached out and gently took her arm. “Not tonight.” She was trembling, and it reminded him of when she’d come to his office days ago. Some sights brought back terrible memories. “It’s safer during daytime. Here, let me take these.” He gestured for the items she found in Joseph’s mouth.
Alex passed him the scrap of paper, and the other thing that had come from Benjamin’s mouth—a cheroot, he realized. Why would the killer leave this? He lifted it to his nose.
The stench of specialty tobacco made his stomach heave. “God. Christ fucking god.”
O’Sullivan snatched the cheroot out of his hand, sniffed it—and gagged. “Fuck.” He dropped the cheroot and ran his hands through his hair. “Fuck fuckfuck.” His words were hoarse, gasping.
It wasn’t the scent; it was the memories. Memories of being ten years old in the dark withthat stenchlingering in the cellar as they treated each other’s wounds. As O’Sullivan and Thorne and the other lads huddled together for warmth—thirty-one at first, then twenty-eight, twenty-three, twenty, fifteen, ten. So many of them dead. From cold, from fights in the Nichol, or murdered. Aye, so many murdered, too.
By the man Thorne had replaced as King of the East End.
The man he had betrayed Alex to defeat—her money gave him the power he needed to save those who had lived in the darkness with him. Boys who had, against all odds, survived to grow into men.
And the piece of shit who had starved them, beat them, and forced them to kill and steal for him was still breathing.
He was still fucking breathing.
And he was after Thorne’s wife.
“When we get back to the Brimstone, I want everyone notified.” Thorne’s order to O’Sullivan was clipped as he took Alex’s arm and all but dragged her in the direction of the Brimstone. “Two of my men guard her door at all times, and someone at every entrance. If he took the contract from Seymour, he won’t do his dirty work alone. You know that.”
“Who?” Alex was alarmed, but she let him lead her. “What did the cheroot mean?”
O’Sullivan shook his head wildly as he kept up with Thorne. “It’s not possible.”
“They never found his body,” Thorne reminded him.
“You slid a knife in the bastard’s belly and he fell over the bridge. If he didn’t drown in the Thames, the sepsis would have killed him off. We made damn sure there was no one to fish him out. Whelan is dead.”
It made Thorne’s skin crawl to think that bastard had pulled himself out of the Thames four years ago and survived. That he had recovered and planned for the day that he could return and get his revenge on Thorne. Oneveryonewho betrayed him. O’Sullivan, too.
Alex tensed in his grip as Thorne led her down another alleyway. “Whois Whelan?”
“Patrick Whelan used to control the East End,” he told Alex as he placed a hand on her back to urge her forward. O’Sullivan’s pace was brisk beside them. “He took kids off the street to steal for him, or kill if necessary. Liked to remind you of how much blunt you owed him for food and shelter, so debt and fear kept you loyal. No one ever tried to leave him without getting a knife in their back for the effort.”
“You think Seymour hired this Whelan?”
“Aye. I’ve a lot of enemies who would ally themselves with Whelan.” He kept his voice low. Now that he knew Whelan lived, these streets suddenly seemed filled with eyes watching from the darkness. “The man you killed was just one of many.”
“Would make sense,” O’Sullivan said. He sounded breathless. “Whelan did business with toffs. If Seymour suspected your wife was gathering information on him, hiring someone who fucking hated you both would be ideal motivation to get the job done.”
“Me?” Alex looked surprised as she came to an abrupt stop. “Why should he hateme?”
O’Sullivan raised an eyebrow at Thorne. “You gonna tell her?”
Thorne made an impatient noise. He knew his old enemy wouldn’t attack now, but he wanted his wife safely inside the Brimstone and guarded by men he trusted. “I took the East End from him,” Thorne told her, nudging her forward once more. “And he hates you because you gave me the means to steal it.”
Chapter 14
Stratfield Saye, Hampshire. Four years ago.
Alexandra smoothed her hands down the front of her dress and eyed herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed. She was always nervous before seeing Nick, despite meeting him daily for weeks now. It was a strange feeling, this fluttering in her belly that she experienced before their swimming lessons.
There were so many words in her vast vocabulary that she had never felt before him: want; longing; yearning.
Desire.
