Page 102 of The Last Chance
The lackey nodded. “The old toff headed across town, past Tower Hill and Shadwell Church, towards the Limehouse Basin. That’s where I ran out of coins and the jarvey turfed me out.”
“Where the blazes is Berridge going?” Aramis mused aloud.
“There ain’t much out there. There’s the West India Docks on the Isle of Dogs and the marshes.”
“The earl could be leaving town,” Delphine said.
“I don’t reckon so,” Aaron’s watchman replied. “He went in a hired coach, not a nabob’s carriage. A right old rickety thing. I’ll wager the driver takes him to the marshes and robs him blind.”
Joanna turned to Aramis. “Might Natasha take Aaron to any of those places? She said something about a woman destroying him where strong men failed. Might she be talking about a past event, a fight his father forced him to attend?”
Sigmund spoke up. “Aaron told me about a bare-knuckle brawl north of the Ferry House on the Isle of Dogs. He was only fourteen but had beaten four brutes that night. His last opponent was a woman with fists like mallets. No matter how much she provoked him, Aaron couldn’t hit her.”
“I know the place,” the lackey said. “They call it the Dog Pit. No-Neck Harry won there a few months ago.”
“How long will it take to get there?” A bud of hope blossomed in Joanna’s chest. She looked at the crowd of people huddled in the hall. People who loved Aaron. “There’s no room for us all. We’ve got a hackney coach and Mr Flynn’s carriage.”
“The fewer occupants, the quicker we’ll be,” Aramis said.
“We’ll need weapons.” Joanna imagined them closing in on Natasha, surrounding her, giving her no option but to surrender. “We don’t know how many men Natasha hired.”
“I—I know of four,” Lucia said weakly, shuffling into the hall. “You must let me come, too. I may be able to reason with her.”
“You’re hardly fit to travel.”
“But without me, my mother’s plan won’t work.”
“What plan?” Aramis demanded to know.
“The plan to have Aaron sign everything he owns over to Lucia.” Joanna considered Lucia’s request. It made sense to bring her along. They could use her as bait or a bargaining tool. “We can’t take everyone, but we must take Lucia.”
“Perhaps I may be of assistance,” came a deep, masculine voice from the doorway. Mr Daventry stood like a monument to justice. His black attire gave him a menacing air like he meant to rid the world of sinners. “My carriage is outside. I had a man watching the premises. He sent word to my office when you left. My agents are on hand and are parked at the top of Aldgate Street.”
Joanna might have dropped to her knees and kissed his feet if time wasn’t precious. “Aaron’s stepmother is alive and has transported him to a secret location. She plans to kill him. We think they’re heading to the Isle of Dogs.”
Mr Daventry gripped her upper arms. “Aaron Chance has nine lives. He won’t be beaten, and certainly not by someone as wicked as Natasha. Tell me everything en route.” He gestured for everyone to follow him outside. “Aramis. Fill my agents’ carriages and tell them to follow mine.”
Aramis began ushering everyone outside.
“Wait for me!” Mrs Maloney descended the stairs, Joanna’s musket in one hand and her homemade felt bag in the other. “I found this upstairs along with powder and lead. It might be useful.”
“A coat might be useful,” Aramis said, sighing. “The cold will nip more than your nose. Hurry. Your son needs you.”
Mrs Maloney tutted. “This isn’t cold. You’re too young to remember the winter of 1791. And my boy isn’t dying tonight.”
“Please hurry,” Joanna said, wrapping her arm around Lucia. “While we dally, Aaron is out there, cold, drugged and all alone.”
Mr Daventry gave a knowing grin. “He’s not alone. The Marquess of Rothley followed you to Lambeth tonight.”
Chapter Twenty
Fortunately, Aaron could take a punch.
The skipper of the crude river barge, a small boat named The Good Hope, thumped Aaron in the gut to ensure he was subdued from the opium. He delivered a jab to Aaron’s chin, an uppercut too weak to floor a gnat. Once satisfied his prisoner had downed enough opium to dull the pain, the thug frisked him, a hapless pat of Aaron’s body and thighs to search for a weapon.
Aaron swayed and mumbled a few words, pretended his knee had buckled and let the skipper lay him down beneath the canvas canopy. The cove stank of stale sweat and rotten fish. Anyone who caught a whiff of his breath would retch.
“Where are you taking him?” Mrs Lowry asked, pretending to be friendly. “It’s too cold to be out on the river tonight.”
