Blushing surprisingly deeply for such a large, gruff-looking fellow, Frederick glanced at Halliwell, cleared his throat and said, “I believe he intends to meet with Mr. Fothersgill, my lady.”
A furious frown distorted Halliwell’s handsome features as he threw down his napkin. “We’ll see about that,” he blustered. “Please excuse me, Susan, Mrs. Waterman.”
She picked up her knife and fork after he and the footman left, insanely pleased he hadn’t used her title.
*
Fothersgill and Andrewsdid their best to recover from the shock of Griff’s clearly unexpected arrival in the staff kitchen.
However, they couldn’t hide the burlap sack fast enough.
The fleeting realization that he’d been a complete fool flitted through Griff’s brain. He’d seen the butler with the sack and thought nothing of it. He grabbed the sack and slowly untied the twine, quite enjoying the fear creeping into the two men’s eyes. Inside were several items from the drawing room—silver candlesticks, a small bronze statuette of some Greek god his father had bought, and various other knick-knacks. What infuriated him the most was the discovery of an antique porcelain figurine, the last birthday gift he’d given his mother before the accident. She’d adored the vibrant red skirts and jaunty plumed hat of the pretty French shepherdess, and been reduced to tears by the little lamb she carried in her arms. He closed the bag and clutched the top so tightly his fingers turned white.
“Frederick,” he hissed. “Escort these thieves from the premises.”
Grinning, the burly footman grabbed the collars of both cringing men and nigh on lifted them off their feet.
“If you ever show your faces here or in the village again,” he warned, unable to continue when his throat constricted.
He stood alone for several minutes, confident they’d consider themselves lucky not to be hauled before a magistrate. However, he couldn’t return to the morning room until the trembling stopped and his breathing slowed. He acknowledged Susan was right—for too long, he’d chosen to ignore problems that were right under his nose.
The Watchman
Arthur Coleman couldn’tdeny he was nervous venturing into the grimy slums of Ancoats. However, the Watchman’s notorious Red Bandana gang ruled this seedy area of Manchester. Arthur would need blunt and connections if the thoroughbred caper was to be successful. There was no better partner than the Watchman to assist with such an endeavor. He’d have ways of getting rid of Arthur’s father that wouldn’t raise questions.
However, the gangland kingpin might not be happy to see him. He’d settled his previous debt to the unpleasant fellow by consigning Tillie to work in one of his brothels. If she was an inmate in the Preston poorhouse, she must have escaped. “Trust the bitch to screw up my plans yet again,” he muttered to the mule.
His gut clenched when four toughs armed with coshes loomed out of the shadows of a narrow street and blocked his way. Shorn heads and the splash of red at their throats were a clear sign they were members of the gang he sought.
He reined the beast to a halt but didn’t dismount. On foot, he’d have no chance to escape a beating. Swallowing his fear, he narrowed his eyes. “I’ve come to see the Watchman,” he said, pitching his voice lower.
Edging closer, they made no reply.
“I’ve a proposition for him,” he continued as cold sweat trickled down his spine.
In Jamaica, he’d learned to smell a slave’s fear. These animals no doubt possessed the same instinct. “A money-making proposition,” he added.
He tightened his white-knuckled grip on the reins and urged the animal forward when they stepped aside and beckoned him into the shadows.
He obeyed when gruffly told to dismount, deeming it wise not to protest the blindfold. Prodded in the back by a cosh, he took tentative steps forward. Stumbling along, turning right, then left, then right, he began to think he’d never find his mule again—if he was even given the option to leave. The sniggering thugs behind him were clearly enjoying his predicament. A vivid flash of memory had him back in the sugar mill. Only, this time, he was the mouse and not the cat.
At length, he was shoved into a dwelling—probably the kitchen judging by the overwhelming odor of fried food, burned grease and human waste.
Somewhere in the house, a woman screeched at a wailing babe.
He blinked when the bandana was untied and he found himself the object of the Watchman’s predatory gaze.
Arthur’s first thought was to babble his admiration of what the gang boss had achieved. For a young man of maybe twenty years to build such an empire…
However, the Watchman knew the extent of his powers of intimidation without Arthur telling him. He opted instead to extend his hand. “Well met once more,” he rasped, instantly regretting a gesture that hinted at social superiority.
A tic toyed with the Watchman’s upper lip. He slowly curled his fingers into the long tresses of a doe-eyed girl kneeling at his feet and pulled her head back. Arthur’s cock reacted predictably to the adolescent breasts that popped out of her ragged frock. He shifted his weight, beyond aroused when the Watchman lowered his head and greedily suckled a nipple. The girl didn’t complain though she was clearly in discomfort. The message wasn’t lost on Arthur.
“I came with a proposition,” he said, wishing the fellow would at least invite him to sit before his trembling knees buckled. On second thought, the Watchman sprawled in the only chair in the dingy place.
“First, we’ll discuss the wench,” the gang boss growled.
“Of course,” Arthur agreed, once more cursing the day he’d dallied with Tillie.