Page 71 of Tempting the Scoundrel
The knife he carried did not show mercy four years ago. And he hadn’t cared if he’d lived or died taking care of his business—he just wanted it done. He wanted to be free.
And his freedom came with a price: her.
“Yeah, you won the war. Barely. That lady toff left you a fucking mess after Hampshire. I helped you pick up the goddamn pieces last time, remember? Don’t make me do it again.”
Thorne ignored that. “Thatlady toffis my wife.”
O’Sullivan stepped closer, his gaze harsh. “Thatlady toffwas your fucking mark.”
Thorne made a noise. “She hasn’t been that for a long time, and you know it.”
“Don’t care. If you lose focus and Whelan ends up slitting your throat, a lot of people will suffer for it.” O’Sullivan straightened. “I’m going to find Gibbons alone.”
This time Thorne blocked O’Sullivan from leaving. “Things are different now. I have more to lose than I did four years ago.” He added, very softly, “And so do you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Thorne raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “So the woman managing my orphanage means nothing to you, then?”
O’Sullivan’s lips flattened. “Leave Sofia out of this.”
“I may not know what you went through after Whelan sold you, but she came tomewhen you were near dead. And she came toyouwhen she needed help. I make my living on bets. I’d wager that means something.”
O’Sullivan’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his eyes hard behind his spectacles. “Fuck off.”
“Sure. Answer me one question first: if trouble came for Sofia, would you let me block this door, or would you fight like hell to get past me?” O’Sullivan looked away, his jaw working. Thorne let out a dry laugh. “That’s what I thought.”
“Fine,” O’Sullivan said. “But I’m coming with you. Someone needs to have your back, or you’ll find yourself with a knife in it.”
* * *
The Golden Lionwas a public house in the Nichol where Gibbons used to get soused on a near-nightly basis. Where some taverns in the East End acted as unofficial meeting places for anyone from laborers to businessmen, the Golden Lion made no attempt to advertise itself as a respectable establishment. Set within the ground floor of a crumbling tenement, the Lion appealed to men who wished to drown themselves in pint after pint. Aged prostitutes lingered outside the door, offering a quick fuck between tankards of the cheapest, foulest ale in London. Near nightly brawls spilled out onto the vomit spotted pavement, and it was a damned unusual day if you didn’t see a man passed out there from either a hit to the face or too much drink.
The Golden Lion was near the tenement cellar where Whelan had kept Thorne and O’Sullivan and the other lads. If he’d listened closely in the darkness, all those years ago, he could hear the noise from the public house. He knew how fucking idiotic it was to envy the brawlers and drunkards at the Lion, but when he was a lad, the raucous had sounded like freedom.
Thorne slid his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned against the blackened brick wall of an old tenement. Beside him, O’Sullivan was quiet, watching the door of the Lion with a gaze that was narrowed and focused. Earlier, as they had drawn closer to the Nichol, O’Sullivan’s expression became shuttered, his mouth set in a firm line.
O’Sullivan stiffened at a sound in the distance, unidentifiable.
“All right?” Thorne asked him.
The factotum didn’t take his eyes off the Lion. “Just wish we had gone after Gibbons years ago, and the other three that got away. They all brought lads down into that cellar for coin.”
“Never too late for retribution. But somehow I don’t think you’re only speaking of Whelan’s men.”
“Sunderland,” O’Sullivan said quietly.
“Eight years since the night I hauled your pummeled arse out of that locked room,” Thorne said. “Reckon the earl is feeling comfortable about now.”
O’Sullivan’s expression went hard. “I want him to sleep soundly,” O’Sullivan said. “Think he’s safe. Because after I come for him, he’ll never fucking sleep again. Him and his son, both.”
“Good.” Thorne pushed off the wall as he saw a familiar face stagger out of the Golden Lion. Gibbons headed down the shadowed lane further into the Nichol. “I want to be there the day you ruin them.”
Thorne lunged out at the right time, grasped Gibbons by the coat and slammed him into the wall. He slapped a hand over Gibbons’ mouth to cut off the man’s startled yelp. “Shhhhh. None of that now. We’re going to have a conversation.”
O’Sullivan stepped out of the shadows with a smile that held a promise of retribution. Gibbons’ eyes bulged from behind Thorne’s fingers. The low lamplight revealed a man little changed by the years spent outside London. His hair was still greasy and thinning at the top, and the darkness threw his sharp cheekbones into stark relief. The stench of body odor and spirits clung to Gibbons like second skin—always had.
Gibbons bucked, and Thorne pressed him harder into the wall. He wasn’t a lad anymore, weakened and trembling from hunger. He had muscles from sparring with O’Sullivan. He hadn’t gone without a meal in years.
