Latymer (Nexus) Page 4

  “Please do not tell me you are plagued by disillusions,” she said. “Greed drove you to betray your precious island.”

  Greed, lust, power—they had all conspired against him. They made him hunger for more, always more. But those passions had dwindled to dust the moment the French had threatened his family. Then his passions became protection and survival.

  “My reasons no longer matter and are of no concern to you,” he said, panting. “You’re going to take me to my son, and then I’m going to end this once and for all.”

  “I don’t believe you’re in a position to dictate my actions.” Drawing closer, Collette stared down at him with dispassionate, dead eyes. “Look at what you’ve done. Such a waste.”

  “Where is Giles?”

  She peered around the bedchamber. “Here, I had hoped.” Her gaze returned to his. “Since obviously you are in no condition to assist us with Lord Somerton, you son’s whereabouts no longer concern me.”

  Hope gave him the strength to push into a full sitting position. His head swam, and he thought for a moment that it would float right off his shoulders. Cold perspiration blanketed his skin. “You didn’t catch him?”

  “No. But given the amount of time he’s been wandering the streets alone, you might wish I had.”

  Latymer forced himself onto his knees. Sweat and blood crept into the corners of his eyes, burning. His limbs shook like a newborn colt’s. “Damn you, Collette.”

  “Darling, I was damned long before tonight. This little incident will have no bearing on my final destiny.” A slow smile cracked her cool facade. “Perhaps I will locate young Giles, after all. Given the lengths Nexus went to locate the boy, I suspect your precious Lord Somerton would be interested in his safe delivery.” She caressed one long fingernail over her plump lower lip. “Perhaps Giles could finish what you started.”

  “Disgusting bitch.” He tried to stand, but she made two sharp jabs to his chest wound. Black spots filled his vision, and he crashed to the floor. “Stay away from my son!”

  “Don’t you wish for his safe recovery?” Amusement lit her tone. “He’ll be much better off in my possession than with anyone else in your fair city.”

  “Collette, I swear—if you touch my son, I will tear you apart, piece by piece.”

  She began to circle him. “To show you I’m not all bad,” she said, ignoring his threat. “I’m going to allow you to die while you sleep.”

  Confused, Latymer struggled to keep her in sight. Too late, he saw the butt of her pistol come down a second before it crashed into his temple, and all went black. In his final second of consciousness, he managed a single, whispered word of apology.

  “Giles.”

  GILES

  3:40 a.m.

  I awoke with a start and lay quietly beneath the covers on Papa’s bed. Over the pounding of my heart, my ears strained to hear the frightening sound again. But the chamber beyond my warm cocoon sat in eerie silence.

  Another minute ticked by before I mustered up enough courage to push the covers off my head. I sat up and glanced around the chamber for any sign of an intruder, be it two legged or four legged. It was dark, and I blinked several times to clear the sleep from my eyes. The fire grate and chairs, wash basin and pitcher—they all looked the same as before. My gaze crept to the door connecting Papa’s bedchamber to his office.

  My chest expanded around a new thought. What if the noise I heard was Papa moving around in the outer chamber? What if he’d returned and peeked into this room and hadn’t seen me hidden beneath the covers?

  “Papa?”

  Silence. Even louder than before.

  Maybe he couldn’t hear me with the wall between us. I scurried off the bed and threw open the door. “Papa?” I skidded to a halt.

  Alone. Still alone. The lump in my throat grew bigger and the dampness seeped beneath my clothing. How long had I slept? I shoved my hand into my pocket for Papa’s timepiece. Empty. I groaned. I didn’t need another reason for him to be angry with me. Moving to the window, I peeked behind the curtains to find more darkness—not even a hint of dawn.

  When Papa doesn’t find me at Lord Somerton’s, he will be very angry. But I’d done what he’d asked and ran away from that lady with the empty eyes. I’d raced down street after street, alleyway after alleyway, and eventually I’d lost her. But I became lost and trudged down the city streets, trying to remember how to get back to Papa’s office. I had ignored the drunken calls from the shadows and, even though I was very hungry, I avoided offers of food from men with the same empty eyes as the lady.

  When I finally came upon a familiar intersection, I almost cried like a girl. But I didn’t—at least not until I’d slipped inside Papa’s office and locked the door behind me. Then the tears had fallen. I was frightened and I didn’t know what to do, so I crawled into Papa’s bed and hid beneath the covers.

  I felt so ashamed. Why couldn’t I have been brave like Papa? He feared nothing. The way he’d stood up to those two big men tonight had been amazing. I sucked in a sharp breath as another thought struck me. What if those men had beaten Papa? Or worse, killed him?

  Rrrrrowrrrr!

  My eyes widened at hearing the sound again. The noise was coming from outside in the street.

  Rrrrrowrrrr, rrrowr.

  Then a second, scarier sound joined the first.

  Rrr, rrr, RRRRWOOOWWRRRR.

  I backed up and stumbled against one of the chairs. Both the chair and I went tumbling to the floor. A loud hiss erupted on the opposite side of the door. Then all went eerily quiet. I scrambled to my feet and tiptoed to the window. Halfway across the street stood a very large, orange-striped cat peering over his shoulder at me. Below the windowsill sat an even larger gray cat, his tail whipping furiously against the pavement.

  A tomcat fight.

  A long breath shuddered between my lips. I didn’t want to stay here any longer. Papa said Lord Somerton would keep me safe. Maybe he would do the same for Papa. But first, I had to find him. Tears threatened again. I was tired and hungry and frightened. I hadn’t wanted to leave Papa. But the lady’s empty eyes and Papa’s shout for me to run—

  I scrubbed my face, fighting back the images. My only thought was to save Papa, but I was going to need help. Lord Somerton was my only hope. He and Papa were friends.

  Friends always helped friends.

  MAC

  3:44 a.m.

  Mac O’Donnell paused outside the rear door of Latymer’s Paddington town house. Having searched the two locations Cameron Adair had left for him, and with no luck, Mac decided to move on to one of Latymer’s so-called country residences. Although he would hardly call the quaint village situated just outside London country. But he understood those who never ventured beyond the city’s borders would look at this quiet neighborhood with different eyes.

  Testing the door latch, he found it locked. Next, he tried several windows. All secured. There was nothing for it; he would have to make some noise if he wanted to gain access. Peering into the nearest window, he checked the floor surface and the area directly in front of the window. There were no obstacles in his path, however, glass hitting the hardwood floor might be a little problematic. He went to the next window and saw what looked like a morning room. Again, no obstacles, and this time a large Turkish carpet covered the floor.

  Averting his face, he thrust his elbow into the bottom left corner of the window and, as luck would have it, he managed to catch a rather large section of glass before it hit the sill and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. The stinging sensation in his palm meant he wouldn’t come away from the feat unscathed.

  He laid the broken pane on the grass and immediately felt blood trickle down his palm and drip from his fingers. Removing his neckcloth, he wrapped the linen around his hand several times, using his teeth to tie it off. He flexed the fingers of his injured hand. It would have to do.

  The low window allowed him to step over the sill and into the room. Once inside, he paused,
listening. Satisfied his entry hadn’t disturbed anyone who might be in the house, he trod on careful feet down the nearest corridor. He made a careful sweep of the lower level, stopping long enough to light a candle before moving on to the upper floors.

  Despite having the same linen-draped furniture and faint scent of abandonment, this residence resonated a warmth and cheeriness that the others hadn’t. Each room here held a woman’s touch—a keepsake on the mantel, a child’s top sitting on a table in the library, an overgrown herb garden behind the house.

  As he ascended to the second floor, Mac’s anticipation built. His pulse pounded in his ears, making concentration difficult. Arriving at the top of the stairs, he saw that three doors lined the corridor—one on the right and two on the left. He approached the first one and grasped the handle, slowly turning until the door eased open.

  Murky shadows drenched the bedchamber. Mac paused, giving the candlelight time to penetrate the darkness. When he could finally see farther than three feet in front of his face, his heart rammed hard against his chest. In this room, linen draped nothing. The delicate writing desk, the cream-and-gold damask chairs, and the large bed decorated in various shades of rose all sat uncovered, ready, as if waiting for their mistress to return home from an evening in town. The sight somehow saddened Mac.

  Shaking off the strange sensation, he took several steps inside, determined to conduct a thorough search, despite the constant nag of urgency eating at him. Heading toward what he assumed was a dressing room, he hooked the toe of his boot on something hidden behind an ottoman. He slammed to a halt; candlelight flickered wildly at the abrupt change in momentum.

  Turning, Mac stared down into the ashen face of a dead man. He held his candle aloft, not believing what was before his eyes. Even in the dim light, Mac recognized the man who had murdered his brother Mick. William Townsend—Lord Latymer.

  Judging from the fresh pool of blood spreading out from Latymer’s body, Mac guessed the traitor hadn’t been dead long. A strange sense of satisfaction mingled with disappointment gripped his heart—satisfaction that the bastard was dead and disappointment that he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger.

  “Bloody bastard.” Mac rammed the toe of his boot into the man’s thigh.

  The violent act did not feel as good as it should have, so he kicked the corpse again. And again. He kicked him for Mick and for all the other innocents Latymer’s actions had hurt. He kicked him for himself, because he didn’t know how he would survive his brother’s death.

  Amelia Cartwright’s image surfaced, and his blows slowed to a stop. He bent over, laboring to regain his breath. She would be horrified by his actions, disgusted beyond measure. Nausea bubbled up in the back of his throat. This…this madness was not him.

  A weak groan emerged from the motionless body.

  Mac canted his head to listen. But he could hear nothing over the seesaw of his own harsh breaths. Dropping to his knees, he checked Latymer’s neck for a pulse. A low, pitiful thump met the pressure of his fingers.

  He sat back on his heels, unsure of what to do. His first thought was to finish him off and take his revenge. Amelia’s image resurfaced again, and shame pierced his chest. Killing a defenseless man—no matter his level of evil—made Mac’s gut twist.

  As if Amelia’s bite to his conscience wasn’t painful enough, the sudden thought of this man’s son, Giles, added to his agony. Mac’s wary gaze slowly scanned the bedchamber. Could the boy be hiding in this room? Watching a lunatic brutalize his helpless father? Dear God. “Giles Clarke, are you there?” Mac called out.

  Fool. What nine-year-old would reveal himself after observing such cruelty? Mac jumped up and tore the chamber apart, but no frightened child cowered in any corner. His relief was temporary. Where could the boy have gone? Perhaps he was here, hidden somewhere in the house.

  Cognizant of the fact that Latymer’s attackers might well be lurking in the house, Mac carefully resumed his search of the small property, peering behind and inside every possible hiding space. He could find no sign of Latymer’s attackers or of Giles on the floors below. Nothing. There was not one single indicator that Giles had been here—either tonight, or in recent days.

  However, on the third level, Mac came across another bedchamber preserved in the same manner as the feminine one on the second level. Everything appeared as if the occupant would return at any moment. Given the battalion of toy soldiers positioned strategically on the floor, this bedchamber obviously belonged to a young boy. Giles.

  Mac picked up one of the toy soldiers. The fierce soldier was crouched, bayonet pointed at an unseen enemy, ready to attack. For a paralyzing moment, Mac was pulled back in time.

  He and Mick huddled on the filthy doorstep of the Lindlewood Home for Disadvantaged Children, a combination of terror and hope racking their ten-year-old bodies. Terror from being dumped into a large, unfamiliar city by their mother, and hope that their beloved father would find them before it was too late.

  But their father never came for them, giving rise to their belief that he, too, believed his son Mick was cursed because he had the sight. A year later, he and Mick escaped that abusive home, assumed new identities, and somehow preserved their humanity while surviving the streets of London. They never returned to Ireland. Never saw their family again.

  Could Giles be huddled on a London doorstep even now? The possibility propelled Mac’s feet into action. All the searching and gathering of information on Latymer that he, Mick, Amelia, and the Hunt Agency had done over the past two weeks had guided Mac to this place, to this time. He felt it deep in his bones. After Mick’s death, Mac’s one purpose had been to find Latymer and kill him. And, God help him, he still ached to finish off the bastard.

  But now, a new driving need bubbled up inside of him. One he would never be able to ignore. He must find Giles, if not for himself then for his brother, Mick. And then he would settle the score with Latymer.

  Returning to Latymer, who still lay prone in the bedchamber, Mac shook his shoulders and slapped his face. “Wake up, Latymer! What did you do with Giles? Latymer, come to, damn you!”

  Latymer’s eyes flickered open. “Giles?” he said with a groan.

  “Yes, where is he?”

  “Don’t know,” he mumbled. Then, seeming to gather himself, he opened his eyes wide, as if to force consciousness to overtake his dulled mind.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You took him from Abbingale Home. He should be here with you!” Mac shouted.

  “Collette,” Latymer whispered, barely able to speak. He shook his head. “I mean, he ran away.”

  “I don’t understand. He’s with Collette and they ran away?” Mac asked, panic beginning to surge.

  Latymer coughed, shaking his head.

  Mac bit back a curse. “Focus, Latymer. Do you believe your son is in danger?”

  Bleak eyes bore into his. “Yes.”

  “Then tell me what you know so I can find your son.”

  “Who are you?” Latymer asked, an expression of confusion on his face.

  The man who is going to send you to hell. “I’m with the Hunt Agency. We’ve been working with Nexus to locate your son Giles.” And you.

  “Nexus knew nothing of my son.”

  “They did once his dying mother requested their help.”

  “Lydia.” Latymer closed his eyes, but not before Mac glimpsed the sheen of tears.

  Mac viewed the bedchamber with new eyes. “Did you buy this house for your mistress and son?”

  Latymer opened his tortured eyes, though he said nothing.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Who is Collette?”

  “A French assassin.”

  “Holy Mother,” Mac murmured. “You think she took Giles?”

  “N-not sure.”

  “Where did you last see him?”

  “Near the docks.” Latymer’s voice began to fade, and he fought to keep his eyes open.

/>   “Not yet, you don’t.” Mac shook Latymer’s shoulder, causing him to wince. Mac inspected Latymer’s head wound. He’d lost a lot of blood, but the bleeding had stopped. The man’s chest, however, was a different story.

  A dark, wet patch covered the left side of his coat, and a ragged hole punctured the expensive material. Mac knew the only way to assess the extent of the damage was to remove the fitted coat. Such a maneuver would cause excruciating pain, and Mac found himself eager to start.

  He gripped Latymer beneath the arms and shoved him into a sitting position. That snapped the traitor out of his stupor.

  “Goddammit!” Latymer clutched at his chest while he labored to breathe.

  Mac ignored the outburst, feeling no remorse for a man who had caused so much suffering to others. From his vantage point, Mac spotted the telltale hole where the lead ball had exited. The sight evoked a tangle of bittersweet emotions. “The bullet passed through. As long as it didn’t hit anything vital, you’ll live.”

  “Not the news you were hoping for, I take it,” Latymer replied weakly, his strength clearly ebbing.

  “I need you alive for as long as it takes to find and identify your son. Once Giles is safe, your value to me ends.”

  When Latymer didn’t respond, Mac commanded, “Stay put.”

  “Where would I go?”

  Mac got to his feet and opened Lydia Clarke’s wardrobe. He hurriedly rifled through her garments, a faint floral scent reaching his nose. How long would Latymer keep this house now that Lydia was dead? It had already been several weeks. Would he keep it as is until his son was old enough to assume ownership?

  Finding what he was looking for, Mac yanked the petticoat out and closed the door. He knelt at Latymer’s side, ripping the linen into long pieces.

  Latymer peered up at him, studying his face. “You are familiar to me somehow. Why?”

  “Remove your coat,” Mac ordered. If he spoke of his brother now, he might finish what the bullet had started.

  One-handed, Latymer opened his coat and attempted to peel the garment off his left shoulder. Sweat streamed from his brow, and he winced, pausing several times.