The Paid Companion | Herophine

Chapter Seventeen

“A thousand pounds,” he said, holding his breath. It was a very daring price. He would have settled for a hundred or even fifty. But he knew that the Quality never respected anything unless it came at considerable cost.

“Done,” the intruder said at once.

Zach allowed himself to breathe again.

He told the man in the cloak everything he had overheard in the linen closet.

There was a short pause after he finished.

“So, it is as I anticipated,” the intruder said, speaking softly as though to himself. “I do, indeed, have an opponent in this affair, just as my predecessor did. My destiny grows more clear by the day.”

The man sounded odd. Zach grew uneasy again. He wondered if he had given away too much information before getting his hands on the money. The Quality did not always feel an obligation to keep their bargains with his sort. Oh, they were quick enough to pay their gaming debts because those were considered matters of honour. But gentlemen were content to let shopkeepers and merchants wait forever when it came to their bills.

With a deep sigh, Zach prepared to accept a much lower fee, if it proved necessary. He was not in a position to be particular, he reminded himself.

“Thank you,” the man said. “You have been most helpful.” He stirred again in the shadows, reaching one hand inside the flowing folds of the cloak.

Too late Zach understood that the stranger was not reaching for money. When his hand reappeared, moonlight danced evilly on the pistol he held.

“No.” Zach stumbled backwards, clawing for the knife in his pocket.

The pistol roared, filling the small room with smoke and lightning. The shot struck Zach in the chest and flung him hard against the wall. A searing cold immediately began to close around his vitals. He knew that he was dying, but he managed to cling to the knife.

The damned Quality always won, he thought as he started to slide down the wall. The ice spread inside him. The world began to go dark.

The intruder came closer. He took a second pistol out of his pocket. Through the gathering haze that clouded his vision, Zach could just make out the wings of the cloak that swirled around the man’s polished boots. Just like one of those winged demons out of hell, Zach thought.

Rage gave him one last burst of energy. He shoved himself away from the wall, the knife clutched in his fingers, and flung himself toward his killer.

Startled, the villain swerved to the side. His booted foot caught on the leg of a chair. He staggered, trying to find his balance, the cloak flaring wildly. The chair crashed to the floor.

Zach struck blindly; felt the blade pierce and rip the fabric. For a second he prayed that he would bury the knife in the demon’s flesh. But it snagged harmlessly in the thick folds of the cloak and was jerked from his hand.

Spent, Zach collapsed. Dimly he heard the knife clatter on the floor beside him.

“There is a third reason why a man might tell you to name your price,” the intruder whispered in the darkness. “And that is because he has no intention of paying it.”

Zach never heard the second shot that exploded through his brain, destroying a large portion of the face that had always been his fortune.

****

The killer rushed from the room, pausing only to put out the candle and yank the door closed. He stumbled down the stairs, his breath coming and going in great gasps. At the bottom of the steps, he suddenly remembered the mask. Yanking it out of the pocket of the cloak, he fitted it over his head.

Things had not gone entirely according to plan tonight.

He hadn’t been expecting that last desperate assault from his victim. The two old men had died so easily. He had assumed that the damned butler would be equally obliging.

When Zach had flung himself at him, knife in hand, blood soaking the front of his shirt, it was as if a dead man had been shocked by an electricity machine into a semblance of life.

The sense of raw terror he had experienced was still upon him, rattling his nerves and clouding his usually well-focused brain.

Out in the darkened street, the unlit hackney waited. The coachman huddled into his greatcoat, nursing his bottle of gin. The killer wondered if the man on the box had heard the pistol shots.

No, he thought. Highly unlikely. Zach’s lodgings were at the back of the old, stone building, and the walls were thick. In addition, there were several carriages in the street, rattling and clattering Joudly.

If the coachman’s ears had picked up any sounds at all, they would have been greatly muffled.

For a second or two, he hesitated, and then he decided that there was nothing to be concerned about in that quarter. The coachman was quite drunk and had little interest in his passenger’s activities. All he cared about was his fare.

Even if the driver were to grow curious or decide to talk to his friends in the tavern, there would be no risk, the killer thought as he bounded up into the cab of the vehicle. The hackney driver had never seen his face. The mask concealed his features quite adequately.

He dropped onto the worn cushions. The coach rumbled into motion.

The killer’s breathing gradually steadied. He reviewed the events of the past few moments, going over each twist and turn with his brilliantly honed, logical mind. Methodically he searched his memory for errors or clues that he might have inadvertently left behind.

Eventually, he was satisfied that the matter was under complete control.

He was still breathing a little too fast; still a bit lightheaded. But he was pleased to note that his nerves had calmed. He raised his hands in front of his face. There was no light inside the cab, so he could not see his fingers clearly, but he was fairly certain that they no longer trembled.

In place of the frantic sensation he had experienced after the unanticipated attack, waves of giddy excitement were now sweeping through him.

He wanted—no, he needed—to exult in his great success. This time he would not go to the exclusive brothel he had used after he had killed George Tiffin and the other old man. He required a far more personal celebration, one that befitted his unfolding destiny.

He smiled in the darkness. He had anticipated the need to savour this thrilling achievement and had planned for it, just as he had planned all of the other aspects of the business.

He knew exactly how he would mark this bold triumph over his opponent.