He smirked to himself. As much as it had been a mistake, even if he could go back, he’d probably still damned well kiss her.
A young boy pushed his way through the crowd, forcing Duke to cease thinking of Violet’s lips. The child had to be no more than seven or eight. A newcomer might think he was the child of a patron here, begging Papa to come home before he got too drunk or maybe a son of the innkeeper. Those who read all about Doyle’s activities knew rookeries like this one used children to thieve and move stolen goods.
Duke struggled to keep the disgust from showing in his expression. It was far easier for grown men to have a vulnerable child take all the risk and the penalties for children being caught were less severe than for an adult. It was easy to see why a scrawny child like the one who moved behind the bar and through a door at the rear would work for these people. Thieving would put food in his belly and coin in his hand.
Duke placed his drink down and waited for the elderly barmaid to make her way to the end of the bar to serve someone then slipped behind it and pushed straight through the door. The boy pivoted and a man looked up from his position behind a desk.
“Oi, you’re not allowed back here,” he bellowed, thrusting an ink-stained fingertip his way.
The man who wrote the note about his father perhaps? Duke didn’t know. He didn’t care. All he knew was that the presence of the child linked the man to Doyle’s gang. Fists bunched, he eyed the man with more calmness than he felt. “Where is my father?”
Rising from the desk, he revealed himself to be skinny but taller than Duke. The man stared him down. “Your father?” he smirked. “What the bloody hell are you blathering about?” He pointed to the door again. “Get out before I make you leave.”
Duke moved and grabbed the man by his collar quite before he had realized what he had done. He slammed the man down on the desk. Wood cracked and paper fell to the floor. He was vaguely aware of the boy scarpering out and slamming the door behind him.
“Where. Is. My. Father?” he demanded, pressing down on the man’s neck.
“I don’t know who...” The words were strangled, and the man’s face reddened as he squirmed on the tabletop.
“I’m Marmaduke Cameron. Where is my father?” he said through a tight jaw.
The man’s expression did not change. Not with the mention of his name or talk of his father. Either the man was an excellent liar which he could well be, or he had no idea who his father was. Curse words singed his mind. How could he be no closer to finding him?
“You must know something.” He pressed harder and the man emitted a gargling sound. “My father, damn it. Where is he?”
So intent on watching the man for any flicker of recognition was he that he didn’t notice the door opened until the two men were upon him. They grabbed him by both arms, wrenching so hard he feared his tender ribs had cracked again. He held onto the man’s collar until they pried his fingers off and hauled him through the inn and out into the bitter night.
Though he fought every step, the two men were larger than the man he’d threatened and retaliated with several punches to his tender ribs and a final blow to the face that left his cheek throbbing and the taste of metal in his mouth. They flung him to the ground, and one gave him a quick swift kick to the gut for good measure.
“Where is my father?” he croaked one more time through a bloodied mouth.
“Don’t come back or we’ll kill you next time, do you hear?” the man who’d kicked him said. “Probably bloody mad,” he muttered to his friend as they turned their backs on him.
Duke drew in ragged breaths and eased himself up to sitting as he heard them mention telling Doyle about him. Presumably they meant Patrick. These men might not know anything about his father’s whereabouts, but someone had to.
He pushed to standing and winced. He needed to be better than this, smarter than this. He held some cards—Doyle still wanted him. Somehow, he would use that as leverage to find out where his father was being held.
Then he’d worry about swinging some fists and getting revenge on the men who had beaten him and kidnapped his father.
Chapter Thirteen
That was it. Violet was waiting no longer.
She rose from the sofa and snatched up the candle, the only light source in the parlor room sputtering in protest at the sudden movement.
She was going to find him. She was going to search the countryside. Ride through Bath and demand answers. Search each hedgerow. Each tavern too.
She closed her eyes briefly. What good would it do? She had no idea where he was, no clue as to where he was headed. It was pitch-dark and freezing. If Duke had fallen and hurt himself the chances were she would fare no better. Violet lowered the candle to the table and bunched her freezing hands into the sleeves of her dressing gown. All she could do was continue to wait and hope, she supposed, but she was damned well going to kill him when he returned.
Her chin trembled.Ifhe returned.
Taking a step back to the sofa, Violet froze. Narrowing her gaze out of the window, she held her breath. Had that been movement? She forced herself to breathe slowly and listen. The house creaked, a clock ticked, wax sizzled. Horse hooves?
She paced across the room and pressed her fingers to the cold glass. She waited, breath trapped in her throat. The sound increased and finally she saw him. Barely an outline upon horseback, Duke rode slowly toward the house.
Candle in hand, Violet stomped toward the front door, and hauled it open. The well-oiled hinges remained silent, and Duke didn’t even look up until she had flown down the steps toward him. She caught sight of his befuddled expression.
“Where on earth have—” She stilled. He had an arm wrapped about his waist and his expression moved swiftly from befuddled to pained. “What happened?” she gasped.