Page 86 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
However, their problems began as soon as they returned to the inn to collect the payment for the final hostage.
“I think they’ve figured out what’s going on.” Cedric stopped Mr. Miller before he crossed the street and pointed at the inn.
Two men patrolled the door, pacing back and forth between the entrance and the window, with their pistols drawn, their dark gazes investigating every shadow.
“I’ll draw them away from the door,” Cedric said, flattening himself against the side of the building and peering around the corner. “Can you determine the final man? You’re looking for someone who’s dressed differently than the others.”
“I won’t fail you, Captain.”
“I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes.”
Pulling his pistol from his hip, Cedric leaned around the corner and aimed his gun at the sign hanging from the inn. He squeezed the trigger, and the bullet exploded from his pistol, striking the iron placard with a loud clang.
Men poured from the inn, rushing toward Cedric.
He took off running, his shoes scraping on the cobblestones. The echoing sound attracted the mob, and they rushed past Mr. Miller’s hiding place without noticing him.
Cedric led them toward the beach, then took a sharp left, guiding them away from Mr. Northcott and the longboat, and followed a road that took them into a poorer section of the town.
Melting into the shadows of a doorway, Cedric removed his shoes, shrinking away from the dim lighting provided by the moon as the group of men raced down the street.
After they passed the doorway, he peeked out, watching them vanish around a corner, then clutching his shoes, he ran in the opposite direction, his stocking feet making no noise.
When he was certain none of the men would hear him, he stopped, and pulled on his shoes, then wandered up the street, walking as though he were slightly inebriated, a ruse should he encounter anyone who questioned his activities at that late hour.
The shot of a pistol caused his chest to constrict, and, forgetting his disguise, he raced down the street toward the inn, fearing what he would find when he turned the corner.
Mr. Miller, standing over the body of a man with graying hair, lifted his head when Cedric appeared. He tucked his pistol into his waistband with a shrug.
“He refused to pay.”
Before Cedric could respond, a second shot rang out, and the sheepish expression on Mr. Miller’s face changed to one of shock. He glanced down at his shirt, gasping as a scarlet color spread across his chest. He collapsed on top of the dead man.
Stepping from the inn’s doorway, a man wrapped in a long, black cloak walked to Mr. Miller’s immobile form and rolled him over with the tip of his shoe. Mr. Miller’s empty eyes stared back at the man.
“This isn’t Captain Shaw!” the man yelled over his shoulder, and another man, dressed in the same kind of cloak appeared behind him.
“Damn.” The other man knelt beside Mr. Miller. “I don’t recognize this one. Do you think Shaw’s recruiting?”
“Of course.” The first man pointed at a small sack, partially visible beneath the bodies. “Grab that. We don’t want him getting any more gold this evening.”
“It’s a pity we couldn’t recover Mrs. Thornhill,” the second man said, retrieving the sack. “What do you think will happen to her?”
“Death… eventually.”
They both chuckled.
“He has four more hostages, we’ll catch him next time,” the first man added.
They entered the inn, leaving both Mr. Miller’s and Mr. Thornhill’s bodies on the ground.
Waiting until they closed the inn’s door, Cedric backed away from the corner, turned, and ran to the tavern. He burst through the door, his gaze seeking Mr. Hayward, and exhaled a sigh of relief upon discovering him seated with Mrs. Thornhill.
“Where’s Miller?” Mr. Hayward asked when Cedric appeared before him, huffing.
“They killed him.”
Mrs. Thornhill gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as her eyes flicked back and forth between them. “Who did?”
