A frown marred Mr Bower’s brow. “If I may be so bold as to ask you to heed the gentleman’s advice and leave him to his business.”
Frustrated, Beatrice pushed out of the booth. “Very well. But I am not going home.” She had to discuss the gentleman’s odd behaviour with someone, and Alice was a fountain of knowledge when dealing with men’s moods. “I wish to visit the Bull in the Barn tavern. Take me to Whitechapel, Mr Bower.”
Chapter 5
Three days had passed since Dante made a hasty escape and left Miss Sands in the coffeehouse in Cornhill. She had sent letters, called at his house in Fitzroy Square and hammered loud enough to wake the dead. When all attempts to gain his attention failed, she resorted to contacting his friend and colleague Evan Sloane, worried Dante had ventured to the White Boar and taken a pounding.
He had gone to the White Boar to spar with his demons, though his bruised ribs failed to offer a much-needed diversion.
“Well?” Sloane relaxed back in the fireside chair, cradling a brandy goblet between his long fingers. “Do you not think you owe the lady an explanation? After all, she has something you want. And considering her father died while in your parents’ employ, it is only right you include her in your plans for vengeance.”
“I cannot deal with my own torment. How the hell am I supposed to deal with hers?” Time had not blurred the harrowing images but enhanced them. Bitter thoughts mingled with bad memories. They fed each other, two gluttons gorging on misery. “I watched her father perish. Am I to bear the guilt for her loss, too?”
“Guilt?” Sloane shook his head, confused. “You were a child. Why should you bear any responsibility for what happened?”
“I lived. They died.” Dante drained the last drop of brandy from his glass. “Fate dealt me an ace card, why not them?” Although watching one’s parents die could hardly be considered fortuitous.
“You lived because a coach approached and the blackguards fled. By the Lord’s grace, you were spared.”
Kill the boy last.
The two devils had argued about whether they needed to kill a child at all. The murdering bastard thought it necessary. Wounded boys grew into vengeful men. His accomplice lacked heart when it came to dimming the light in a youngster’s eyes. Those few minutes had made all the difference.
“Did the Lord not spare the coachman, too? He lived despite taking a shot to the shoulder.”
The servant died a few years later, drank himself into a stupor and toppled into the Thames. Had he been paid to stop the carriage at the roadside? Paid to aid in a murder?
“I think we both know why the coachman survived, and it had nothing to do with divine intervention,” Sloane said, echoing Dante’s suspicions. “Still, Miss Sands offers new information. There might be something written in her father’s notes to lead you to the killer. Ought you not at least listen to what she has to say?”
“I will. I need a few days. A few days to calm—”
“You’ve had a few days.”
Dante firmed his jaw and mentally darted behind his barricade. Sloane meant well, but if he did not retreat, Dante would haul out the canons, and he did not wish to attack his friend.
“Leave me be. Go home to your wife and let me drink away my troubles.”
“Over the years, you’ve consumed enough brandy to fill a king’s cellar, bedded women galore, beaten men to within an inch of their lives, and yet the pain is as raw as the day the bastard fired the shots. When will you realise your way of coping fails to bring the desired results?”
Every muscle in Dante’s body tensed, fought fiercely against discussing the matter further. He craved peace, peace, not this incessant torment. But Sloane was determined to have his say.
“You’ve spent your adult life looking for the fiend. Miss Sands has the means to help you, yet it’s as if you’re teetering on a precipice and refuse to grab the rope.”
Dante scrubbed his hand down his face. “And what if something should happen to Miss Sands? How am I to live with the fact I dragged her into this godforsaken mess?”
Sloane exhaled slowly. “Miss Sands is as determined as you when it comes to finding the man who killed her father. She intends to catch the devil whether you help her or not.”
I’m prepared to fight to the death in the hope of discovering the truth.
Dante’s temper cooled. Miss Sands was a kindred spirit, perhaps the only person who understood his internal struggle. One of the few who saw his weaknesses. But he did not want her compassion or pity. Didn’t want her to see him as less of a man because he could not control his demons.
“Tomorrow you plan to catch Babington in the act of defrauding Mrs Monroe of her sapphire ring,” Sloane continued. “Are you to follow him when he leaves? Attack him before he climbs into his carriage?”
“The plan is to wait for him inside his carriage.” And then he would grab Babington by the throat and demand to know how he came to pawn a brooch ripped from Dante’s mother’s gown.
“Had you spoken to Miss Sands, you would know she is to don a disguise and take Mrs Monroe’s place. She plans to corner Babington b
efore he leaves the woman’s house.”