Page 53 of The Wayward Duke
Julian tensed, scanning the milling crowds with renewed scrutiny. He searched for any familiar face, any detail out of place. A stray breeze gusted, delivering the stench of smoke, sweat, and cheap tobacco. His senses strained, attuned to the most minute details.
There.
Near a pillar, a nondescript man in rough labourer garb stood smoking. To the casual observer, he looked like a worker enjoying a brief respite. But Julian noted how his posture radiated tension, shoulders too rigid beneath the shabby coat.
Unease skittered down Julian’s spine. Every instinct screamed the man was no aimless loiterer. And he seemed to be watching someone. Following a well-dressed gentleman through the crowd with his gaze. Lord Amesbury, Julian realised with a jolt. He remembered the investor from Kellerman’s party.
His instincts blared a warning.
With subtle signs, Julian directed Wentworth’s attention towards the mysterious figure without being obvious. But their surveillance had not gone unnoticed. The man’s head turned, eyes landing on Julian as he and Wentworth approached.
He bolted.
Julian and Wentworth broke into a flat-out run across the platform. Dodging around startled passengers, they closed the distance as the fleeing man knocked over baggage and barrels to slow their pursuit. But Julian would not be deterred. He poured on greater speed, lungs burning and boots slamming the pavement. The summer breeze plastered his sweat-soaked shirt to his back. He could hear Wentworth’s laboured breaths several strides behind now. This prey was his alone to catch.
Just as Julian was poised to tackle the man, his quarry spun and produced a pistol from inside his coat and took hasty aim.
Only instinct saved him. Julian hurled himself into a diving roll just as the shot cracked as loud as thunder. A woman’s scream rent the air as he came up in a crouch, heart hammering against his ribs. The bullet had narrowly missed him, biting into the platform boards instead. Julian surged back to his feet and ploughed into the man’s midsection, driving them both to the hard pavement in a tangle of limbs.
They grappled together, landing vicious blows, fingers gouging for any weakness. The man fought like a feral animal. He clawed at Julian’s face, his pistol swinging towards Julian’s temple again.
Julian dodged the blow and seized the man’s wrist, twisting viciously until he felt the delicate bones snap. A howl tore from the man’s throat, but still, he thrashed like a rabid beast. Julian had to end this decisively before his opponent got off another shot at point-blank range.
He slammed the man’s broken wrist against the pavement once, twice, until the pistol slipped free. Quick as a striking snake, Julian snatched up the gun and reversed their positions, pinning the man face-first into the rough boards. He jammed the pistol barrel into the vulnerable flesh beneath his opponent’s jaw.
“Move again, and I’ll splatter your brains across this platform,” Julian snapped, panting hard.
The thunder of boots announced Wentworth’s belated arrival with a clutch of bobbies. They hauled the cursing assailant to his feet. Julian relinquished his hold reluctantly, tension still thrumming through every fibre. His earlier calm had deserted him. That had been too damned close.
“Take him,” Wentworth ordered his men crisply. “I’ll be along to question him shortly.”
After they’d marched the man away, he turned to Julian with a scowl. “Reckless stunt. He could’ve blown your fool head off, Hastings.”
Julian slowly flexed his aching shoulder where he’d impacted brutally with the pavement. “Learn how to run, then, Wentworth.”
A bone-deep exhaustion swept through Julian, leaving him hollowed out and spent. He braced his hands on his knees, sucking in lungfuls of humid air.
Wentworth’s heavy hand clasped Julian’s shoulder, steadying. “You all right, Hastings?”
Julian straightened. “Fine. That man isn’t the one who wrote the letters.”
Wentworth’s expression was unreadable. “I’d guess not. He didn’t give the impression of a man fluent in multiple languages.” He shook his head. “Just a hired thug.”
“When you question him, ask if the man who hired him is tall, with dark hair and a moustache,” Julian said, unable to resist one last attempt at driving the investigation towards his actual suspect.
Wentworth gave him a sharp look, gauging. “You know something.”
“Nothing concrete.” Not yet. But he would find it. “I’ll bring you hard evidence when I have it. For now, watch him.”
The other man nodded. “As you say.” He clapped Julian on the shoulder again. “Go home, Hastings. Get some rest. You look like hell.”
21
Caroline sat motionless in the sitting room. She watched dust motes dance through the bands of sunlight and tried not to think about Julian.
She’d been fretting since he’d raced off with Mr Wentworth that morning. When she’d objected to being left behind, Julian had pinned her with that intense, protective stare. The imprint of his blistering kiss still lingered, fogging her mind as effectively as any drug. She could summon the sensation too easily – the possessive sweep of his tongue, the bite of his teeth. A kiss designed to weaken knees and steal breath. Oh yes, it had done its work flawlessly.
And now there was nothing she could do but sit there, a dutiful wife biding her time.
