Page 72 of The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady
“Boss?” He could hear Digby's frightened voice calling out in the night. “Boss are you there?”
“Here.” Nash croaked, still silently sobbing on the floor.
“Nash!” Digby sprung over to him, taking him carefully up in his arms. “You're fine enough now, alright? I'm sorry, boss, they got me in the back, I couldn't do nothin', it's all my fault.” Digby began to tear up while he used the sleeve of his new shirt to wipe the blood from Nash's nose.
“It ain't your fault.” Nash gingerly touched his jaw while he spoke. “It's mine.”
“It's that doctor's, who's it is, dirty double-crossin' snake he is.” Digby was growing visibly hot in the face. No doubt he was looking for a target to take out his anger upon.
“It ain't the doc's fault for not killin' a woman.” Nash spat blood from his mouth. “And it ain't your fault for gettin' jumped in the dark. It's my fault for believing in all this sorry shit, and it's Riphook's fault for keeping it alive.”
“What are you saying, boss?” Digby looked perplexed.
“I'm saying to hell with Riphook.” Nash spat again. The tears running down his cheek stung the burns across his jaw, and he clenched his teeth, which in turn hurt his jaw. “Let's find the doc before he does.”
Chapter 19
Francis knew he had botched it and properly. After his first encounter with Nash, he had thought himself safe from the entire situation. He had gone home to his wife, stayed away from the gambling houses, and not once looked in the direction of a brothel.
For two scarce hours, Francis thought that the cruelty of his adventure was behind him. As the evening was getting ready to set down upon London, a surprise visitor had come to his door.
And who should it be but the distinguished Lord Wilson, uncle to the Duke of Worthington. They had made the most stale of small talk as Francis's wife showed them to the study.
There, behind closed doors, it took only a few sharp words from Lord Wilson concerning the improperness of collusion with the lower classes, and the immorality of gambling, for Francis to spill all of his secrets.
When all was said and done with, Lord Wilson had thanked him for his honestly. He then slipped him a bank note for a surprisingly large sum and asked if Francis “Wouldn't mind keeping this fluke between the Duke of Worthington and a street rat out of the common ear. Just as I wouldn't mind not sharing the details of your life with your wife.”
Dr. Fowler, to his shame, had taken the money and remained silent. Then, after Lord Wilson had gone, he despaired.
If Nash knows I didn't kill her, then he'll do me in! I'll be finished! I must get away, but my wife! How can I convince her that we must leave?
Francis sweated over these thoughts while he ingested half a bottle of wine, sitting nervously by the fire in his study. Eventually he dozed off there, as he was apt to do, and so his wife left him to sleep when the house hunkered down for its slumber.
Francis let out a hearty snore that shook himself awake. He leapt forward in his seat, gasping out for air. Looking around, he saw that he was safely sat in his study, and so be began to relax again.
Then he heard it.Tap, tap, tap.Francis wheeled his head about, springing out of his chair.
“Who's there?” he hissed, afraid to wake his wife.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Francis looked around scared in the darkness. The moonlight was hidden by heavy drapes across the windows.
Tap, tap.
It was coming from the window, Francis was sure of it. Terrified, he moved towards the heavy drapes, clutching the wine bottle in his hand like a makeshift weapon.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Oh, get on with it!” Francis uttered to himself through gritted teeth. He flung the drapes aside to see Nash's hunched frame before him, perched on the wide window ledge.
Francis fell back, startled and afraid. His will to fight had vanished as soon as he had been confronted by true danger.
Nash rolled his eyes through the window, and expertly slid a knife between the wooden edges. With an upward motion, he moved clear the latch that held the windows closed.
Nash stepped calmly down from the window and into Francis's study. He looked around, and the moonlight caught the side of his face.
Francis was mortified; Nash's face had been badly burned and his jaw was swollen to the size of a plump apple. He looked like a tortured soul dragged forth from Hell, and he was standing above Francis in his own study.
