Page 77 of No One's Bride
Sebastian reached for her hand beneath the table, and a fire of a different kind ignited. “When men are drunk, arguments often become heated. A candle flame and gin make a volatile combination.”
“Still, ye must admit, it’s quite a coincidence.”
“It ain’t no coincidence,” came a hoarse voice from the shadows. A scrawny man limped towards them. “Just an accident with a lamp.” He scanned their attire as if the garments confirmed his worst suspicions. “Can I get you something to wet your lips, milord?”
“I have refined tastes, Jones.” Sebastian glanced at her, his gaze turning darkly intense. “Something sweet from the Highlands is my only pleasure.”
“I have whisky from Knockando. My sister wed the son of a distiller in Moray. Will that suit your tastes?”
“I’m sure it will.”
“Make that two drams, Mr Jones. I have a cousin in Moray and know the whisky well.”
The fellow called to a buxom woman behind the counter and placed his order, then he dragged out a chair and sat at the table.
“I’m told you have questions about a punter who tricked Woodbury into handing over his goods.” Mr Jones’ eyes were like black marbles in his sockets, hard, cold and glassy. “Know I’ll not squeal on my neighbours without good cause.”
“So, the man is known to ye, sir, and lives locally.” Why else would he make such a direct statement?
Mr Jones shifted. “He’s known to me.”
“We’re here because we’re investigating the murder of an assistant at the auction house.” The horrid drawing of the scene flashed into Ailsa’s mind. And the blood … heavens … there’d been so much blood. “The villain cracked open Mr Hibbet’s ribcage and cut out his heart.”
The landlord licked his lips, doubtless wishing he had witnessed the gruesome act firsthand. “Are the Peelers so desperate they seek the help of lords and ladies now?”
“In their eagerness for results, we fear the police force will arrest the wrong man,” Sebastian said before gesturing to Ailsa. “We suspect the devil who tricked Woodbury broke into the lady’s home. We can identify him,” he lied. It was hard to describe a man fleeing in the dark. “But we need his name so we can find him and discuss our suspicions.”
The landlord scoffed. “Make sure he hangs, more like.”
The serving wench approached, carrying a tray. As she placed three small pewter mugs on the table, Ailsa noted the lock of sable hair poking out of her cap. At a guess, she was no older than thirty and fitted the profile of the woman who had alerted the watchman.
“Perhaps we should tell ye everything we know, Mr Jones,” Ailsa said to ease the mounting tension. “Then ye can decide what to do with the information.”
“What if I decide to do nothing?” He downed his whisky in an almost savage gulp, hissing at them, though the man could take his liquor. “What if I throw you out onto the street and warn you to stay away?”
Sebastian straightened his broad shoulders. “Then, to protect the lady from future intruders, I shall use every resource at my disposal to find the devil. I’ll have the police force trawling these streets, harassing your customers, watching your premises night and day.”
In a move as quick as lightning, Mr Jones whipped a blade from his boot and jabbed the tip at Sebastian. “Don’t threaten me, boy. I don’t care who you are. I could have your eye out with a quick flick of my wrist.”
Ailsa’s pulse raced.
But Sebastian grinned. “And if I pull the trigger on my pocket pistol, I’ll obliterate your ballocks. Shall we begin again without the need for weapons?”
Mr Jones dared to glance under the table, his shock turning into a sigh of surrender. He laid his knife next to his empty mug. “Seems you know how to handle yourself in a fight, milord.”
The landlord sounded impressed.
Indeed, Ailsa found Sebastian’s ability to beat the man highly arousing.
“When one enters a ring with Madman Murdoch, one learns to prepare for every eventuality.” He released the hammer and placed the small pistol on the table. “Now, where were we?”
Ailsa turned to the serving wench whose chin still scraped the floor. “Our job is to find a murderer, nae accuse innocent people of crimes. But ye fit the description of the woman who told the watchman she heard screams at the auction house. And ye kept Mr Woodbury busy so the villain could deliver his tomes.”
She expected the woman to thrust out her chest and deny the claim, and almost fell off her chair when the wench started sobbing.
“I swear. I swear on my ma’s grave, Cutter, I didn’t know anything about no murder.” Her hands shook as she dashed tears from her cheeks. “I needed the money, that’s all. And Mullings paid me three pounds to deliver the message.”
“Mullings!” Mr Jones shot out of his chair, his face as red as hell’s furnace. “I want that bastard here, and I want him here now! Do you hear me? Race up them bloody stairs and drag him out of his blasted bed.”
