Page 77 of A Scandal at Stonecliffe

“Yes.” Verity dug a lorgnette out of her reticule and held it to her eyes. She handed it to Nathan. “Look.”

“I think you’re right.” He looked at her. “I never really expected this to work.”

“Sometimes you get lucky.” Verity slid out of the carriage and, after a word to her driver, she walked in the same direction as Hill, staying somewhat behind him and on the opposite side of the street.

Nathan joined her, letting Verity keep her sights on their quarry through the shield of her veil while he gazed in shop windows and the streets ahead, mapping where they were going in his mind. It was no surprise when Hill made his way into the narrow streets of less prosperous areas. No longer having the distance of the wider thoroughfares between them and the man they pursued, Nathan and Verity hung farther back.

Their attire made them stand out more here, and more than one person looked at them oddly. Nathan glanced pointedly at her veiled hat, which made them even more conspicuous, and Verity nodded, and, with a little sigh, pulled it from her head and handed it to an astonished woman standing at a cart.

Fortunately, Hill never even glanced behind him, but continued at an unhurried pace. He stopped to buy a meat pie from a cart, which caused them a moment of anxiety as they did their best to disappear by squeezing into a doorway. Then their quarry continued on his way, carrying the pastry but not eating it.

He crossed a broad street into the area of the docks, and Nathan exchanged a surprised look with Verity. He had expected the man to return to a residence. If Hill was just going to work on the docks, they would have a difficult time keeping themselves hidden the whole while.

Hill turned before he reached the busiest area and made his way toward an old dilapidated warehouse. He entered the building, and Nathan and Verity trotted after him, cautiously easing open the door and peering inside. The large building was empty but for a few crates, all coated with dust. A set of sagging stairs led upward, but the ruffian had passed the stairs, continuing toward the opposite end of the building.

Nathan and Verity glanced at each other. There was no cover for them here, but they had to follow. It seemed unlikely that the imposter they sought was here, but it did seem like a perfect place for a prisoner to be hidden. Verity slipped across the floor, noiseless as a cat, and Nathan emulated her as best he could. Hill, ahead of them, still seemed completely unaware of their presence.

Just then there was the sound of feet and a short square man rounded the corner, saying, “Bloody ’ell, man, I thought you was never com—”

Shoemaker! Verity and Nathan froze at the sight of him, but there was nowhere to hide nor time to do it. Shoemaker saw Verity and Nathan, and yelled, pointing his finger at them. “It’s them! Hill, you bloomin’ idiot.”

He charged toward them as Hill swung around, gaping. Shoemaker pulled out a knife as he ran, and Nathan rushed forward to meet him.

“Duck,” Verity called out and Nathan hit the ground instantly. He heard a whizzing sound above his head and looked up in time to see the knife Verity had thrown hit Shoemaker in the arm. The man roared, turning toward Verity at this attack, and Nathan used the distraction to leap forward the last few feet, crashing into Shoemaker and taking him to the floor.

The two men grappled, rolling across the ground, and Verity dived for her knife. There was the sound of footsteps running—apparently Hill had taken the opportunity to flee, leaving his companion to fend for himself. Out of the corner of his eye, Nathan glimpsed Verity half rise, twisting, and fling her knife at Hill, but the knife clattered onto the floor and Verity cursed. The outer door crashed open, and Verity took off running.

Nathan hadn’t the time to look over to see where she went. He was too busy struggling to his feet, pulling Shoemaker up with him. Shoemaker swung, but Nathan dodged and the man’s meaty fist only grazed the side of Nathan’s ear. Nathan punched him in the stomach, following it with a forceful jab to the jaw. Shoemaker’s head snapped back and he staggered, windmilling his arms to avoid falling. Nathan risked taking his eyes off the man to glance over, looking for Verity.

Neither she nor Hill were there, only her knife and pieces of a smashed meat pie on the floor. Nathan’s opponent took advantage of his momentary inattention and darted for the door. Nathan pursued, but before he could catch Shoemaker, Nathan saw Verity limping back to the warehouse, and he ran to her instead of chasing his man.

“Verity! Are you all right?” He skidded to a halt beside her.

“I’m fine,” she said in a disgusted tone.

“You aren’t fine. You’re limping.”

“I broke the heel on my shoe, that’s all. I fell, but I couldn’t have caught him anyway. That blasted Hill is fast.”

“I know,” Nathan said drily. “Sloane and I chased him through Cheapside.”

Verity sighed, putting her hands on her hips, and looked around. “So they’re in the wind again.”

“’Fraid so. But...” Nathan took her arm and started back into the warehouse. “I think we may find Malcolm here. There’s bound to be a reason they’re hanging about in an abandoned warehouse. It’s not a pleasant venue, but a good place to hold a prisoner. No one around to hear him or see him. Shoemaker sounded impatient, as though he’d been waiting for Hill. Maybe Hill was coming to take over his watch. And bringing the prisoner’s meal.”

Verity grimaced. “That blasted meat pie. I threw my knife at him and it hit the pie. I ask you, what are the chances of that?”

They walked through the warehouse, stepping around the splattered pie, to the hall where they’d seen Shoemaker emerge. It had three doors. Two of them stood open, revealing empty rooms. But the last door had a wooden bar across it.

With a mixture of excitement and trepidation, Nathan lifted the bar and pulled the door open. They peered into the dim room, lit only by two barred windows high on the wall. They could see a bed with a thin mattress and a chain attached to its heavy iron frame.

The chain stretched out of sight, and when they stepped farther into the chamber, they saw that the chain led to the ankle of a tall thin man with shaggy blond hair and a reddish beard as unkempt as his hair. One eye had a fading yellow bruise beside it. He was dressed in a shirt and breeches, both liberally sprinkled with dirt and stains. Even though he was thinner and wilder looking, he was clearly the man in the portrait of Malcolm Douglas.

He held a wooden bucket above his head, clearly about to throw it, but at the sight of them, he stopped, looking astonished, and lowered the bucket. “Who the devil are you?”

“Well, actually, I’m your brother,” Nathan said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN