Page 79 of The Wayward Duke
Wentworth cut him a sharp glance. “I won’t have London’s most powerful duke charging into a potential deathtrap. Her Majesty will have my bollocks for earrings if I let you stub your toe.”
“He shot my wife.” Muscles coiled in Julian’s shoulders, unease threading through him. “I’ve earned the right to see his neck snapped.”
The spymaster inhaled slowly through his nose. “You’ll follow my lead in there, or I’ll eject you myself. Titles mean nothing right now.”
Tension arced between them. After a long moment, Julian looked away, back to those lightless windows swathed in shadows. He gave Wentworth a terse nod.
The spymaster lifted his hand in a series of quick gestures, directing his men to surround the premises. They melted into the darkness, slipping through the tangled maze of alleys and rookeries. Unseen, unheard.
Wentworth grasped the worn iron latch and pushed. The door protested, screeching on its hinges as it swung inward to admit them into musty blackness. Upstairs, all remained still – not a creak or cough to betray any occupants. Wentworth eased over the threshold, pistol drawn. Julian’s heart pounded as he followed.
Step by measured step, they crept up the narrow stairs. Julian’s ears strained for any noise past their own hushed breaths and the treads groaning faintly beneath their cautious steps. On the top landing, Wentworth jerked his head left and took position by the farthest door. Julian mirrored him on the right, bracing his shoulder against the warped wood. Their stares locked across the dim passage.
Go.
Wentworth kicked open the door, splintering wood. A scuffle from one of the rooms broke the fraught silence, then a heavy thud. Pritchard lurched out from his bedchamber, looking half drunk, clearly unused to such rude awakenings. When his bleary eyes landed on Julian, the colour leeched from his scruffy face.
“You,” he croaked.
“Check the rooms,” Julian said to Wentworth.
As Wentworth swept through, Julian focused on Pritchard, pinning the man in place.
“All empty,” Wentworth confirmed, returning to the hall.
Julian advanced on Pritchard, fury coiling beneath his skin. “Where is he?”
The veneer of the polished aristocrat had cracked, and violence seeped through the fissures.
Pritchard’s eyes bounced from Julian to Wentworth’s men, now stationed at the door. “Don’t know who you mean.”
Julian’s fingers twitched with the urge to throttle the bastard. “Don’t play the fool. Yesterday at the Brimstone, you mentioned another tenant. Edgar Kellerman, born Theodore Warrington.” He drew nearer, letting his imposing height carry the threat. “Where. Is. He?”
“He must have sneaked out while I slept.” Pritchard’s voice shook.
“How convenient,” Julian said coldly, backing the man into the flaking wall. He shoved his forearm under Pritchard’s chin, relishing his panicked wheeze as he cut off his air. “And where might our rat have scurried off to in search of new shelter?”
Pritchard’s face purpled. “Anywhere. He has money from robbing you toffs.”
Julian pressed forward, savouring the chokehold. “Because I have a deeply personal interest in finding the man who shot my wife. Think harder.”
“I don’t…know,” he rasped.
Through the red haze edging his vision, Julian felt a firm hand grasp his shoulder. “Ease back, duke,” Wentworth said. “Let’s focus on locating our real target, shall we? We need him able to talk if we’re getting answers.”
With effort, Julian uncurled his fist and released Pritchard, who sagged back against the wall, wheezing.
Wentworth withdrew his pistol, thumbing back the hammer with an ominous click. “Details on Kellerman. Now.”
But despite the panicked sweat coating his sallow face, Pritchard offered no answer.
Wentworth sighed. “No? Pity.”
Without blinking, he aimed the pistol and fired.
The gunshot split the cramped space like thunder. Pritchard howled as the bullet punched through his kneecap and out the back of his leg. Before he could collapse, Wentworth slammed his hand into Pritchard’s shoulder, shoving him against the wall.
The spymaster re-centred his pistol over Pritchard’s good leg with casual menace. “Feeling chatty about your dear friend Kellerman’s plans and whereabouts now, I trust? Useful words keep you limping out of here intact. Further waste of my time, and the next one goes through your other kneecap.”
