Lady Be Good (43 page)

The sight of Bolkhov passed through Christian like a shock. Disorienting. Electric. Four years since he’d seen Bolkhov in the flesh, but it might have been a minute. At last, this rabid dog was going to be put down. Pray God it was not too late—

He closed his mind to that avenue. To every extraneous detail save Bolkhov, who marched up the steps to the tenement across the road, then pulled a key from his pocket to unlock the front door, calm as a banker returning home from the city.

“Now,” Christian said.

O’Shea split off, swinging wide across the street. The plan was to flank Bolkhov on either side of the stair. But Bolkhov had fumbled his key ring, dropped it on the ground. His curse as he retrieved it came dimly through the roar in Christian’s ears. Later, perhaps, he would wonder at this bizarre moment—the pedestrian nature of a madman’s struggle to fit a key into a lock.

But it offered a distraction he’d not anticipated. On instinct, he abandoned the plan.

Five bounding steps. Time slowed; gravity released him. He was flying. Bolkhov was turning, but Christian descended faster. Bolkhov’s throat, so ordinary. So easy to catch in a chokehold. So easy to crush.

“Not yet!” That was Ashmore. He approached, gun drawn. Bolkhov gave a full-bodied jerk, the overture to struggle—then abruptly fell still. Other men now emerged from concealment, brandishing weapons.

“Where are they?” Christian spat.

Bolkhov’s laugh sounded rusty. “A surprise from you, at last.”

Christian tightened his grip, and had the satisfaction of hearing the bastard wheeze. “I will choke you to death right here.”
Yes
. “Or you can answer.”

Men carefully stepped past Christian. “Search again, flat by flat,” Ashmore told them.

“Wait!” O’Shea had stepped aside to speak with someone—a man leaning out of a nearby window. “We’ll try this,” he said as he bounded onto the stairs. “Seems the Russian’s been messing about in the backhouse.”

Bolkhov stiffened. That was all the confirmation Christian required. “Take him,” he growled at Ashmore, and shoved the Russian into the barrel of Ashmore’s revolver before following O’Shea inside.

No words passed between them as they strode down the hallway. O’Shea led him through a doorway into a lightless passage, cold and moist. Damp earth sank beneath their boots.

Some silent prayer was making itself known. Let there be light for her. She did not like the dark. Let there be light ahead.

A sliver of illumination. A cracked door. O’Shea shoved it open.

The backroom stank of wet hide and rotted hay. Empty. God damn it, where was she?

Shreds of rope lay scattered across the floor. Christian stooped. Piece of woven hemp, frayed and split. He felt numb. This could not be. He would not bury her.

“Christ,” O’Shea whispered. He lifted a hand away from the floor. His fingertips were red with blood.

The blood seemed to expand in a violent wave, hazing over Christian’s vision. When a sound came from behind, he wheeled.

“Easy,” said Ashmore. He was prodding Bolkhov at gunpoint into the tight quarters.

“Stand aside.” He could see only Bolkhov now. Hear only the roar. He would make Bolkhov weep before he died.

Ashmore kicked shut the door and shoved Bolkhov into the middle of the room. The Russian turned full circle, his black gaze moving from gun to gun.

“Your last chance.” These words came from him. Distant, echoing, as though in a dream. “Where are the women?”

A curious smile hooked up the corner of Bolkhov’s mouth. “Gone. Very clever. Too bad for you.”

Christian cocked his pistol. Bolkhov lifted his chin. He had a chipped tooth, bared now in a maniacal smile.

Someone was speaking. “This rope was sawed,” O’Shea was saying. “Palmer. Lily carries a knife. You follow?”

Bolkhov’s smile widened. “I cut out that one’s entrails,” he said. “Then I chewed on her bones.”

“Bloody lunatic,” O’Shea muttered. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to look—”

“Hold.” Christian spoke softly. He was nothing now but murder, a moment away from blood. “This won’t take a moment.”

“There’s no call for this.” Ashmore edged into his vision. “Kit, listen to me. I’ll see he rots in the darkest pit this kingdom has to offer.”

Bolkhov chuckled. “He is a killer. Like me. He knows the way.”

“You don’t know what it does to a man,” Ashmore said, very low. “To kill in cold blood.”

Cold blood? He was burning up. He would take Bolkhov with him. That grin would incinerate. But first, Bolkhov would confess what he had done to Geoff, and to Lily.

Lily
.

She carries a knife
.

The red haze thinned. Fine details returned to him: dust floating in the light. The wrinkled sag of Bolkhov’s eyelids. The looseness beneath his chin. Even madmen aged.

He’d envisioned this moment for so long. An obsession and a mantra: the words he would speak before he killed this man. The curse he would leave ringing in Bolkhov’s ears before he dispatched him to hell. The fear he would put in the bastard’s face, the agony of oncoming death—

But Bolkhov was still grinning. And it signified nothing. Whether he feared, whether he repented, did not matter. Only one thing mattered.

Wordless, Christian pulled the trigger.

If the gunshot made a noise, he did not hear it. He heard nothing, but saw each detail: the blood blossoming between Bolkhov’s eyes. The gory spatter
raining against the wall. The sudden slackness in Bolkhov’s face. He fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the floor.

Christian turned away. O’Shea was waiting. “Let’s find her,” Christian said.

“I quite like this public house,” said Catherine.

Lilah pulled her eyes from the door. She was doing her best not to keep watch. But it was tearing at her, not knowing where Christian was. Neddie said he’d lit out with Nick shortly before she and Catherine turned up. Had they found Bolkhov? Her nerves were strung tighter than a street-musician’s harp.

Catherine looked far more relaxed. Chin propped on one fist, she slouched on the bench across from Lilah, a plate of fried oysters and two half-drunk tankards before her.

The sight was sufficient to inspire brief amusement. “I think this pub likes you back,” Lilah said. Had anybody told her six months ago that she’d be visiting Neddie’s with Miss Everleigh, she would have laughed in their faces and then directed them to an asylum.

But once Catherine had cleaned herself up in Neddie’s washroom, she hadn’t wanted to go. Lilah had asked a man to ride around the auction rooms, and he’d reported back quickly: the building was dark, but he
saw no damage from fire. That had set Catherine’s mind at ease. She’d decided to keep Lilah company.

“It’s safe here,” she’d said. “And I can’t bear to face my brother just yet. He’ll be full of questions . . . I’ll wait with you until Palmer and Mr. O’Shea come back.”

Shortly thereafter, some cheeky group had sent over two tankards of ale. Catherine had grimaced awfully at her first sip, which had inspired a great round of laughter. Now the entire pub had taken it upon themselves to send fresh rounds on the regular, just to see if she’d screw up her face again.

Catherine was toying with a fried oyster, inspecting it as though in search of flaws. “This establishment seems quite successful.”

Of course it was. “Nick owns it.”

She raised the oyster and gave it a dubious sniff. “Is he unmarried, your uncle?”

“Nick?” The thought was ludicrous. “Some husband he’d make.”

“Indeed? He’s of age, and he seems well established. How many properties does he own in London?” Catherine popped the oyster into her mouth, then made an enthusiastic noise and widened her eyes.

“I know,” Lilah said by way of agreement. “Nobody fries them like old Neddie. As for Nick, this public house was the first place he bought.” He’d needed some place to invest his ill-gotten money. The banks would have no truck with him, back in the early days. “Used to spend all his free time here, before he opened the House of Diamonds.”

“He’s almost—” Catherine put a hand over her mouth, evidently startled by her own poor manners; she had not yet finished chewing. She swallowed the oyster
before continuing. “He’s almost a proper businessman, then.”

Lilah glanced again toward the door. Neddie said Nick had known where to look for Bolkhov. It was a hop and a skip away. They should have been back by now. “Proper? No. Businessman . . . I suppose so. Among other things.”

“Criminal things,” Catherine said solemnly.

“Well . . .” Lilah hesitated. Nick had long since passed the point of petty crimes; the profits were too trifling for him, now. “He doesn’t let the law stop him, that’s for certain.”

“I imagine he doesn’t let anyone stop him,” Catherine said. “Saint Nicholas. The King of Diamonds. A very dangerous man.”

Lilah frowned. “He never crossed anybody that didn’t deserve it. And he’s mostly a landlord these days. Owns every building for ten streets around us.”

“Really?”

Catherine’s amazement touched off an uneasy realization.
Stars above. I’m defending my uncle
.

Well, but it was true, wasn’t it? Nick was turning a fine profit now aboveboard, though certainly he still kept a hand in the below. And wasn’t there something gratifying about putting that look on Catherine’s face? Lilah’s kin might not be decent folk, but nobody would ever call Nick stupid. He had more power, in his way, than the mayor.

The aristocracy of the underbelly
. So Christian had once put it when trying to drive her away. “Where are they?” she muttered. “It shouldn’t be taking this long.”

“Trust your uncle,” Catherine said serenely.

Lilah snorted. “If I’ve got one piece of advice, it’s to mistrust him with all you’re worth.”

“Oh, naturally. But . . .” Catherine looked into her tankard, delicately flicking at the foam. “You said he was honorable in his own way.”

“In his own way. Give Nick a plan, and he’ll turn it inside out, stand it on its head, fold it in half, and leave you so dizzy that you’ll end up convinced the plan was
his
idea in the first place.”

Catherine’s brows drew together. “So he’s a skilled negotiator, then.”

Lilah suddenly remembered that conversation in Catherine’s office, what seemed like ages ago. She’d asked for a meeting with Nick—to do with Bolkhov, she’d claimed.

But this line of questioning didn’t touch on the Russian. “Why are you so interested in my uncle?” she asked slowly.

Catherine’s lashes dropped. “Well . . . I’m not going to marry Lord Palmer, Lilah.”

Her throat tightened. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Catherine said serenely.

She didn’t know what to say. “Can you change your mind so easily? It’s bound to cause a scandal.”

“In polite circles, certainly. But . . .” Catherine shrugged. “I’ve never had any use for mixing with fashionable society. And even if I did, I could hardly marry Palmer. He’s in love with someone else, you see.”

Lilah folded her lips, bit them hard. “Do you think so?”

Catherine snorted. “I shan’t dignify that with a response.”

Lilah tried for a smile, but it slipped right off her lips. This conversation was tempting fate. “Where
are
they?”

Catherine opened her mouth, but Neddie forestalled
her, materializing beside them to plonk another round onto the table. “From the Hooleys,” he muttered, before stalking off.

Despondent, Lilah lifted her mug and took a deep breath. Catherine, who had caught on three pints ago, hurried to hoist her own tankard.

“To the Hooleys!” Lilah yelled, and the boys in the far corner grinned and took their bows.

Catherine cleared her throat. “As for your uncle—I need somebody to manage my brother, you see. He’ll drive our company into the ground otherwise. And I can’t trust the courts. They always favor men when it comes to matters of business.”

“Is that so?” Lilah didn’t feel much like talking about business. If she hadn’t known that Nick would come back here first, she would have been alone right now, clutching herself and praying. She buried her nose in the foam for a sip.