Zach
The buxom serving wench made one more attempt to snag his attention when she saw that he was making for the door of the smoky tavern. Zach gave her a brief, contemptuous survey, letting her know that the sight of her full breasts spilling out of the stained bodice of her dress filled him with disgust, not tust. Her cheeks went red. Anger and humiliation flashed across her face. With a swish of her skirts, she whirled and hurried off toward a table of raucous patrons.
Zach muttered a curse and opened the door. He had been in a foul temper since Hero Fiennes Tiffin had let him go two days earlier. Several hours of drinking bad ale and throwing bad dice tonight had done nothing to improve his mood.
He slouched down the steps into the street, turned and started toward his new lodgings. It was just going on midnight, and there was a full moon; an ideal setting for footpads. Anum ber of carriages rattled up and down the street. He knew they were filled with drunken gentlemen who, bored with their clubs and ballrooms, came to this neighbourhood in search of more earthy pleasures.
He shoved one hand deep into the pocket of his coat and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife that he had brought along for protection.
The silly serving wench was a fool to think that he would even consider lifting her skirts. Why would he want to share the filthy sheets of a tavern girl who likely bathed only once a week, if that? In the past few years, he had to come accustomed to tumbling the clean, perfumed ladies of the Quality; ladies who dressed in silks and satins; ladies who were ever so grateful for the attentions of a strong, well-made man who could satisfy them in bed.
A figure moved in the shadows of the alley up ahead. He tensed, nervously tightening his hand around the hilt of the knife. He heard the slap of shoes on pavement and glanced back at the tavern door, wondering if he should make a run for it.
At that moment a drunken whore stumbled out of the darkness, singing an off-key ballad to herself. She spotted him and stumbled to a halt.
“Well, now, yer a fine-looking one, ye are,” she called out. “What d’ya say to a bit o’ sport? I'll give ye a good price. Half the gennelmen’s rate. How does that sound?”
“Get out of my way, you stupid whore.”
“No call to be rude.” She hunched her shoulders and headed toward the lights of the tavern. “That’s always the way with the hand someones. Think they’re too good for the likes of a hard-working girl.”
Zach relaxed a little but quickened his pace. He was anxious to get back to the safety of his new lodgings. It was time to contemplate his future. He had plans to make.
He still had his looks, he reminded himself. With luck, he would keep them for a few more years. He would soon find another post. But the sad truth was that it was unlikely he’d ever again turn up a situation as comfortable and as profitable as the one he’d just lost.
The bleak prospect stoked his rage. What he wanted was revenge, he thought. He’d give a great deal to make Tiffin and Miss Langford pay for ruining his pleasant arrangement at the mansion in Rain Street.
But the only way to do that was to find a means of using the information he had obtained by eavesdropping. Thus far, he had not been able to come up with a promising scheme.
The big hurdle was that he did not know who in Society to approach. What member of the ton would be willing to pay for the news that Tiffin was trying to find his great-uncle’s killer or that the amusing jest concerning Miss Langford’s origins in an agency was actually the truth?
And there was another obstacle. Who would take the word of an unemployed butler over that of the powerful earl who had dismissed him?
No, he was probably doomed to return to his former career, he decided as he arrived at his new address. And it was all the fault of Tiffin and Miss Langford.
He let himself into the dingy hall and went up the stairs. The only good news on the horizon was that he was not going to have to start looking for a new post immediately. Over the course of the past few months, he had surreptitiously removed some lovely silver items and a couple of excellent rugs from the Rain Street house and taken them to the receivers in Shoe Lane who dealt in stolen goods. As a result, he had some money put aside that would enable him to take his time selecting his next situation.
He stopped in front of his room, dug out his key and fitted it into the lock. When he opened the door he saw the weak glow of a candle flame.
His first befuddled thought was that he had somehow unlocked the wrong door. Surely he had not been so foolish as to go off and leave a candle burning.
Then the voice came out of the darkness, chilling him to the bone.
“Come in, Zach.” The intruder moved slightly in the corner. The folds of a long black cloak shifted around him. His features were hidden beneath a heavy cowl. “I believe that you and I have some business to transact.”
Visions of the legions of husbands he’d cuckolded over the years blazed in his brain. Had one of them learned the truth and taken the trouble to hunt him down?
“I..." He swallowed and tried again. “I don’t understand. Who are you?”
“You do not need to know my name before you sell me the information you possess.” The man laughed softly. “In fact, it will be infinitely safer for you if you do not learn my identity.”
A glimmer of hope leapt within him. “Information?”
“I understand that you have recently left the employ of the Tiffin mansion,” the man said. “I will pay you well if you can tell me anything of interest concerning that household.”
The cultured, well-educated voice marked the intruder as a gentleman. The last of Zach’s anxiety evaporated. Euphoria took its place. He had learned the hard way over the years that the men who moved in the elevated circles of Society were no more to be trusted than those who lived in the stews, but there was one significant difference between the two groups: The men of the ton had money to spend and were willing to pay for what they wanted.
His fortunes had turned yet again, Zach thought. He sauntered into the room, smiling the smile that had always turned heads. He made certain that he stood within the circle of light provided by the candle so that the man in the cloak could see his handsome features.
“You're in luck, sir,” he said. “I do, indeed, have some interesting information to sell. Shall we discuss the terms of our bargain?”
“If the information is of use to me, you may name your price.”
The words were music to Zach’s ears.
“In my experience, gentlemen only say that sort of thing when they are pursuing women or vengeance.” He chuckled. “In this case, I expect it’s the latter, eh? No sane man would go to such lengths to get his hands on an irritating female like Miss Josephine Langford. Well, sir, if it’s revenge against Hero Fiennes Tiffin you're after, I’m more than happy to help you.”
The intruder said nothing in response, but his very stillness renewed a measure of Zach’s nervousness.
It did not surprise him to learn that Tiffin had such a determined and relentless enemy. Men as wealthy and powerful as the earl always managed to annoy a few people. But whatever the intruder’s reasons might be, Zach had no intention of inquiring into them. He had survived in the households of Society all these years because he had learned the fine art of discretion. Take, for example, the way he had been very careful not to let Tiffin know that he was aware of the inquiries the earl was making into his uncle’s murder.
“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.