Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (35 page)

              A sick knot gripped his gut, and Spencer wondered at the coincidence of their not having seen Chas since the execution. He tore open the door, finding Ethan planted sideways to the entrance.

              “She's not inside; any luck?”

              “No, but you have a driver with a sore head propped at the rear door.” Silent, Ethan squinted into sunlight of a fall afternoon, arms crossed over his chest. After a moment, he tipped his chin and drew Spencer's gaze down the block.

              Two men built like bear wrestlers flanked a lamp post at the corner, incapable of being more conspicuous in finely tailored suits that lacked enough fabric to wrap their tree-trunk arms and legs. Thick, jowled faces, slitted eyes, and lips sneering almost to the cusp of spitting made them stand out.

              “You have your pistol?” murmured Ethan.

              “No.”

              “Good. They would gut you if you did.” He straightened, tossing a surreptitious glance off his shoulder. Then he patted Spencer's shoulder.

              A sharp point registered against his arm, the fine tip of a lock pick being driven into his coat lining. “Go with them,” instructed Grayfield. “Mister Tilton is just there, by the flower cart. He will be your tail.”

Spencer dared a glance without moving his head and noticed a white-pudding sort of man reading a newspaper, the sort no one would notice let alone recall later.

“Burrell and I will work from outside; meet you in the middle.”

              How was it that they had walked to the shop seemingly without design, and Ethan had already scrounged up an agent?

              Spencer swallowed, eyeing his new companions. What if they didn't take him to Alix, if she had already been hurt? He shook off the idea; at the moment he had no information, and no choice. “Be hasty,” he muttered, stepping away. “I would hate for either of us to miss supper.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

London Docks -- Evening

              It was nearly sunset, and despite her coat Alexandra was already freezing. When Silas had her dragged in from the carriage, it had been midday, though fear had chilled her even then. Now a damp breeze from the Thames bit through the warehouse's crumbling brick and rotting timbers, and its earthen floor chilled her legs and backside. Her hips ached at sitting upright for so long, but she didn't dare lean back against the wall and sacrifice more body heat.

              Silas waddled across the long room at angles, stopping now and then to check a pair of ropes hung from the ceiling, poking his walking stick into the nooses and tugging for emphasis. She ignored the implication, just glad to see the cane applied to something other than her face for a change.

Throbbing, above her eye and across her mouth, hinted at damage that would be long in healing. Mold and tobacco tickled her nose; Alix prayed more fervently than she had in her entire life that she wouldn't sneeze and split her lip for a second time.

              A freight door at the far end of the large room rumbled open, allowing just enough space for a person and spilling thin amber shafts of sunlight into the shadows between stacks of crates. Alexandra wondered absently if it was the last sunset she would ever see. She dared a hand inside her coat to cradle her belly.

              One hulking form sidled through, and another behind, goading a silhouette she could recognize immediately.
Spencer.
She would have felt relief, except that his hands were obviously bound like her own. Gratitude filled her at being together, though in the immediate she failed to see how they were much better off.

              “Over there,” Silas ordered, indicating a stack of discarded pallets across from her. “Don't put them together. I don't want them concocting ideas.”

              One lumbering goon drove Spencer with a meaty arm, throwing him to the dirt where he produced a terrible, deflating sound. Alix held her breath until he finally groaned and rolled over. When no one made a move to interfere, he worked himself up to sit against the pallets, staring at her across the narrow space.

              She answered his eyes with a bare nod, which was all she dared without risking Silas’s wrath. Spencer's reply was a slow blink. She sensed more than an acknowledgment; maybe a reassurance, but she dared not hope. Only one thing was certain in that moment: she would put a musket ball in Silas at the first opportunity, if it ever came. Then she would deal with Chas.

              “Where are my papers!” Silas shouted at no one in particular, swinging his stick, cutting the air with a quick
zip
. It was a fine line; she sensed things would escalate quickly for her and Spencer when the 'papers' arrived. Too long a delay though, and Silas was bound to grow bored, turning idle attention to his captives. He had dumped Emily in the river, pregnant, bleeding, and broken. Alix shivered at the memories. Emily had been helpless, unaware. She, on the other hand, knew Silas for what he was, what he could do, and would fight him every step of the way.

              The issue was quickly rendered moot. Hooves thudded on cobblestones along the wharf and ended with a sharp whinny that echoed through the door. Silas immediately left, leaving his two hulking golems to keep watch.

              She strained her ears, trying with every fiber of her being to hear what transpired outside. All she could hear were two voices.

              First an unidentified man, then Silas. Alix could hear their tone, but not the words. They climbed one another until it peaked with shouting. There was a horse's anxious shuffling, and then a man-sized thud. Silas went on yelling, the other man escalating to shrill screams. Then it was only Silas and a repetitive, meaty thump that seemed to go on forever. Alix swallowed down a wave of bile, staring at Spencer without blinking.

              A moment later Silas appeared in the doorway, blotting out the last burning ripples of sun. Huffing, he dragged something behind him that Alix couldn't bring herself to examine.

              “We agreed on a goddamn price!” A meaty blow, boot against flesh, reached her ears. “Don't dare try to cheat me!” Spit flew from Silas’s fat lips, caught by the light. “We agreed on a goddamn price,” he muttered again, panting. Then he waved over one of his men. “Get rid of it.”

              The man stared at him blankly. “Where should we take him?”

              Silas waved a steady hand out toward the river. “Whatever you do, I don't think he'll complain.”

              He shook a long envelope in her direction, sweeping dark spots from his waistcoat with a handkerchief. “Abel, bring her here. And Dein, watch
him
with both eyes,” he said, vaguely waving as Spencer.

              She had no idea which was which. Abel, based on the order Silas had addressed them, came around behind her while Dein grabbed her coat-front and hauled her up. Grunting, he stalked back to Silas while Abel yanked at her manacles. Whispers passed between Dein and his master, Silas staring at her and plucking a wiry straw mutton chop. “With child? We come a little closer to justice, then. One child for another.”

              She dared a glance at Spencer, but he wasn't looking at her. He studied the ceiling, listening. “Don't compare our children,” she dared. “It's hardly the same.”

              A nod from Silas, and Abel's ham fist jammed her kidney. It drove out her breath, cramping, buckling her right knee. More than feeling pain, however, her mind shrieked with fear; she could only think of her unborn child.

              Spencer roared, rising up, but Dein was quick. His fist twisted Spencer’s jaw and knocked him back to the floor. She cried out, lunged for him, but Abel smacked her hard enough to make her head ring, and she fell to her knees.

Before she could recover, Abel was dragging her. Silas seemed oblivious to the commotion, smoothing his papers out atop a long wooden box which was set on two crates against a wall near the doorway.

              The smell struck her before they'd gone half way across the room, sweet like decaying fruit over rotting meat. It grabbed for the bottom of her stomach, turning it, and obliging her to pull breaths through her mouth. By the time they reached Silas it was near impossible to avoid.

He pushed the papers in front of her and set a quill beside them with a chilling gentleness. “Sign the documents, Alexandra.”

              Pressing her face into a sleeve, she skimmed writing on the first page. “Sign over my shares to you? I don't have any shares.”

“That's not true,” he pouted, thick lips pulling into a frown. “You have a great many shares. I've had time to piece together how you stabbed me in the back!” He slammed the box with a fist, each word raising in volume. He sucked in a breath, growing calm again. “Sign the papers.”

              She pushed the quill away with a finger. “Why should I? You'll kill me either way. Why give them to you?”

              Smoothing the wood between them with a fat hand, Silas followed its path with down-turned eyes. “You owe a great deal for what you did to my daughter.” He pressed trembling fingers against the box. “I can be merciful, if you sign. We can end things quickly.” His eyes fell to Spencer, forgotten behind them. Spencer had risen back to his knees, and a dark bruise was forming under his eye. “If you make this difficult, I will start my revenge with him, and you will watch. How much will you endure, I wonder? It can take a long time.”

              She heard his words, felt their razor edge, but her eyes fixed on the long crate in awful recognition. The odor, the way he caressed its lid.

Alix swallowed back vomit and glanced over her shoulder at Spencer, face blank save a firm set to his jaw. “Do not sign those papers,” he said.

              Despair rose up inside. “We're dead anyway. I can't bear to watch him hurt you.”

              “Alexandra,” he barked, widening his eyes, “I do
not
want you to
sign
those papers.”

              “A pair of idiots,” Silas declared.

              Abel moved to replace her shackles, but Silas raised a hand. “Hold her. I think she'll change heart quickly enough.” He tugged a leather thong which bound a canvas bundled set atop the box. Metal clanked inside.

              Swallowing, she glanced behind her. “Spencer…”

              He winked, then smiled.

              And somehow, impossibly, she felt hope.

              Maybe whatever he'd heard was the same thing that had grabbed her attention, while Abel gripped her wrist and Silas went on un-bundling his tools, Dein keeping bored watch over Spencer.

              There was a sudden thunder out on the wharf, a rumble that reached her ears from under the ship bells and hushing surf. It grew suddenly, as if hurried by a short distance, and the cargo door slid open with a deafening clatter. Silas shot to his feet as his goons turned, shock on their faces.

              Alix knew a privateer when she saw one, and right now there were five. Too rough edged for sailors, they also sported too much of a uniform to be mistaken for pirates. Loose shirts tucked into blue- and white-striped slops, they held pistols at the ready. A smart-suited little man marched in behind them and studied his pocket watch with a frown.

Abel dropped her arm, drawing his own pistol while the newcomers waved arms and shouted in angry French. She had no notion if they were friend or foe, and at the moment she didn't care. They were a distraction, and no one, including Silas, made a move to stop her as she dodged and ran for Spencer.

*              *              *

              Spencer narrowed his eyes, taking in the new development and considering how it changed things. Not for the better, so far.

“DuFresne,” Silas snapped. “We agreed that I would come to
you
.”

              DuFresne raked his hand through thin hair over his egg head, then adjusted his spectacles to better peer insultingly at Silas. Unlike his companions, the man wore finely polished boots and a proper wool suit which he smoothed with long, puppet-master fingers. “You
informed
me that you would come to me, Van der Verre. I
agreed
to nothing.” The unimposing Frenchman took a few steps into the warehouse, squinting and sniffing with the fussy disapproval of a butler.

              It wasn’t who he'd expected to see come charging inside, but DuFresne and his men had bought them time. He shrugged a shoulder at Alix as she fell to her knees beside him. He wanted to comfort her, to ask about her injuries, but they might only have seconds with no one looking at them. “Quick, put your arm inside my coat.”

              She frowned but didn't hesitate.

              “Inside the sleeve. You're looking for something like a thick pin, a nail,” he said, keeping his attention on the others.

              Silas snatched his documents from under DuFresne's probing gaze. “I have matters to resolve before we can conduct our business.”

              DuFresne's arms went slack, like a disappointed parent. “You assured me those matters were already resolved.” His men, still until now, shuffled between agitated murmuring.

              “Spencer, who are they?” whispered Alix as she searched through his sleeve.

              It had taken him a moment, but he’d finally placed the man’s face. “Emil DuFresne is a bureaucrat. I recognize him from my time in Paris.”

              Her fingers skimmed to his elbow, then started back. “What is he doing here?”
              “If I had to guess, a bureaucrat is not
all
he is.” DuFresne worked for men with changeable loyalty. He was too incurious to be labeled a spy, but was certainly an agent for
someone
.

              “Found it,” said Alix. “Now what?”

              “Tear it out.”

              There was pressure against his arm as the lining ripped and her hand flew out. “Good. Get around behind me.” He rotated away from the crates, giving her access to his hands. “See a thin spot, nearly in the middle?”             

“Mm.”

              “Twist it, just there, until you have two pieces.”

              “Done.”

              “The real key is a sort of screw,” he explained. “That's what you're trying for. Flat bit goes in until you feel it seat.”

              Her pin scraped the shaft. Spencer felt when it lodged. “Bend the other one into a U, settle it over the post and press hard as you can, twisting at the same time.”

              “You're impressively familiar with this process. Something you do often?” she whispered.

              “More often than I'd like, thanks to Grayfield,” he whispered back, and left it at that.

              Alix made smal,l frustrated sounds behind him, until he feared she wouldn't manage the task. He watched the exchange across the room, praying with every fiber of his being that no one turned around.