Page 93 of Tempting the Scoundrel
Thorne picked his weapons, put on his jacket, and bent to kiss his wife. He never wanted to leave her side again. “I love you,” he whispered, and he hoped it wasn’t for the last time.
Thorne left the club and set off through the streets of Whitechapel. The winding alleyways were redolent with smoke, a hint of meat pie from a nearby tavern. The raucous laughter from the street over did not fit his mood. He felt like a child again, making his way back to his master after a night of work. His pockets then had been laden with coins and pilfered jewelry, things that won no praises from Whelan. That only served to delay another beating.
His breathing quickened as he approached the old tenement where Whelan and his men once resided. Where Thorne and O’Sullivan and the other lads slept in the dark cellar. It was empty now—or, it was supposed to be. If people on the streets sought refuge in his former place of torment, he wasn’t going to stop them. He’d only bought the building to let it fucking rot.
The housing block seemed to loom in the darkness. His was little different than the buildings beside it; a patchwork of hastily repaired brick that gleamed from a recent downpour, with an arch over the door. Hard to believe this place had haunted his nightmares, that a mere tenement of stone could carve such a permanent corner of his mind. It had reduced him to circling this street for so long, terrified of what he’d find within those dark walls. Terrified of being trapped in the dark again.
Thorne finally understood: this place existed within him. He’d carried it for years, and no amount of distance would ever change that. He could let it rot, let it burn, watch it fall to ash, but he’d still remember every goddamn creak and rat-infested corner.
And he’d remember the man who put him there.
Thorne went up the steps and through the dark door.
Chapter 32
Alexandra woke to an empty bed. The sheets beside her were rumpled, but cold. Nick had been gone a while. His warmth had left the room. The noise below stairs indicated the club was still in business hours, and the first light of the sun had yet to breach the sky.
Had he changed his mind about taking the night off? Or was he at the snooker table, thinking again over his row with Mr. O’Sullivan? She didn’t wish for him to be alone with such doubts.
Alexandra pulled on a wrapper and padded into the hall, where two men were stationed outside the bedchamber door. “Excuse me,” she asked the nearest one, who she recognized as Doyle. “But can you tell me where I might find my husband?”
Doyle and the other man passed each other a look. The large man cleared his throat and said, “He’s gone, miss.”
Gone?“Where?” Another look passed between them and Alexandra lost her patience. “Spit it out.”
Doyle gave a low curse, but answered her. “He wouldn’t say, miss. Only that we was to guard the door, and if he didn’t return by morning, told us to take you to O’Sullivan.”
Some piercing dread went through her.Nick, what have you done? Where did you go?But she already knew the answer: he had gone after Patrick Whelan. And she did not know where, in the labyrinthine streets of the East End, the man was hiding.
But someone else might.
“Where is Mr. O’Sullivan?” Her voice was hoarse. At Doyle’s hesitation, Alexandra’s lips flattened. “You will take me to him.Now.”
* * *
The journeyto Mr. O’Sullivan’s flat was a blur. Alexandra urged Doyle to hurry, her focus entirely on Nick: where he was, what might be happening. A herd of elephants could have run through Whitechapel and she wouldn’t have noticed.
When Doyle indicated which building and flat belonged to Mr. O’Sullivan, Alexandra threw open the door and raced up the uneven stone steps to the second floor. The door was shut, no light or noise from within. God, she hoped he was home.
Alexandra gave three firm, no-nonsense raps. “Mr. O’Sullivan?”
A sleepy groan came from within. Her heart gave a flip in relief. “Mr. O’Sullivan, it’s Alexandra. Please open the door, it’s urgent.”
Another groan, a foul curse, then some rustling. The door opened to reveal a scowling Mr. O’Sullivan wearing only a pair of trousers and a loose lawn shirt. If the smell of spirits and bloodshot eyes was any indication, he appeared to be recovering from an evening of carousing. His gold hair stuck up in uneven tufts, which he smoothed down in irritation, knocking his spectacles askew. Mr. O’Sullivan looked like a disgruntled angel.
The factotum straightened his spectacles and gave a sigh. “What.” Before she could get a word in, he looked past her and straightened, all concern now. “Don’t tell me you walked through Whitechapel in the middle of the night by yourself.”
“Doyle accompanied me.” Alexandra didn’t have time for this. “I need you to tell me where it was that Whelan kept you and Nick. The cellar he spoke of. I only know that it was in the Old Nichol.”
Mr. O’Sullivan stiffened, and something haunted flickered through his expression. But a moment later, it was gone. “Where is Thorne?” he asked her, very softly.
“He’s missing,” Alexandra said. “I think he’s gone . . . to that place. If Whelan is tracking his movements, he’ll follow.”
O’Sullivan shut his eyes. “Fuck. Two seconds.” He backed into his room and emerged a moment later with his jacket on. Alexandra followed him down to the street where Doyle was still waiting on the pavement. The guard straightened at the sight of the factotum. “Accompany her back to the club, Doyle. I’ve business in the Green.”
Alexandra stopped him. “Absolutely not. I won’t sit in the Brimstone whilst—”
“What do you think Thorne will do if something happens to you?” Mr. O’Sullivan gave his head a shake. “No. I can’t take you with me.”
