“It’s Miss Sands,” she gasped.
Dante’s heart missed a beat.
“We were outside Newgate, and—”
“Newgate!” Dante cried. “Newgate?”
“Wait, D’Angelo,” came Daventry’s instruction. “Let her speak.”
Miss Trimble gave a quick recap of events leading up to the moment a man waved a pistol at Miss Sands and forced her into a hackney coach, then she described the attacker—described John Sands.
Dante’s blood ran cold.
“I ran to Mr Bower who was parked on Newgate Street, gave him a description of the jarvey, and he gave chase. He told me to come to Hart Street, and he would send word as soon as he finds them.”
Daventry gestured to the drinks tray. “Cole, pour Miss Trimble a sherry.” He drew the woman to a chair and made her sit. “What time was this?”
“We met with Mr Manning at two o’clock.”
Nausea rolled through Dante, making him dizzy, making him want to retch. John Sands must have lost his mind. Yet, he didn’t think the man would kill his niece. No. Once he discovered the nets were closing in on him, he’d be more inclined to flee.
“What the hell do we do now?”
Daventry raised a hand. “We wait. We wait for Bower’s note, then we act accordingly. Bower knows what to do in these—”
“Wait? I’ll not sit here while Beatrice is in trouble.”
“D’Angelo. I lost an agent, a dear friend, because I arrived too late. I arrived late because I acted too quickly, made mistakes. Trust me. With patience, we will prevail.”
Every muscle in Dante’s body was primed to fight, to hurt the bastard who sought to ruin his life a second time, sought to hurt the only person he loved. For there was no mistaking the facts now. John Sands had robbed his parents’ coach. John Sands had shot three people dead for no reason other than to repay his debt to the man known as Mortuary Manning.
Chapter 19
The hackney coach reeked of sweat, straw, leather and gentlemen’s cologne. Not the strong sensual smell of Dante’s fragrance, but cheap and woody. A hint of perfume tickled Beatrice’s nostrils, too. Every fare left its imprint. Would the next passenger catch a whiff of fear?
Beatrice watched her uncle intently as the vehicle rattled through the streets. Her heartbeat thumped in her ears. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but gasp each breath. She might have gripped the seat, but everything felt tainted, dirty.
John Sands had kept the pistol trained on her for the last twenty minutes, had almost dropped it when the carriage bumped through a rut in the road. His shaky hands and unkempt hair, tired eyes and creased clothes said he was anxious, distressed. A distressed man might fire by mistake, his finger pressing the trigger when agitated or in a temper.
She had not spoken, not raged at him or begged for answers.
The answers were obvious.
John Sands was involved in her father’s murder. It wasn’t a coincidence the attack happened near the common. It was planned that way. Had her father climbed out first because he knew his brother-in-law was a deceiving devil—or was Henry Watson involved, too?
And though it was time to play the game, use her skills as an agent to extract the truth, her fear of being alone with him left her trembling to her toes.
“Are we returning to Rochester?” Her voice rattled with nerves.
They were heading south on the Kent Road, that much she knew.
Her uncle met her gaze. Despite wielding a weapon, there wasn’t a trace of his usual arrogance. “It doesn’t matter where we go. After your meddling, Manning will hunt us down.”
He should be more worried about Dante D’Angelo.
“You moved before. You can do so again.” She’d hoped the comment would settle him, but he squirmed in the seat, couldn’t sit still. “That is why we moved to Rochester? To escape Mr Manning?”
Panicked, he glanced out of the window as if longing to see the milestone for Dover. “You’re not working as a governess. I’ve been watching the boy’s house, waiting to see what he’ll do.”