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The carriage began to move. The last time Andrew had picked him up, Jasper had believed he was going to be killed and dumped into the Thames. He supposed there was still a chance of that, but he didn’t see why his cousin would dispose of him before even trying his hand at extortion.

“What do you want?” Jasper asked.

“Lower your hackles, Jamey. I’m helping you.”

“In what way?”

Andrew’s coy grin vanished. “By not telling my brothers what I know about you. You should be grateful I didn’t, especially after you disappeared to Liverpool.”

“I was seconded by the police, and it is hardly disappearing if you knew where I was.”

Andrew lifted his chin and flared his nostrils. “Well, now you’re back. Lucky me. Especially since now, I have a use for you.”

Jasper braced himself.

“Sean’s only son hasn’t been seen in six days,” Andrew said. “Cillian’s a troublemaking wanker, and I’d be just as happy if the little shite never turned up. But you know how Sean is, or have you been out of the family fold for so long you don’t remember your oldest cousin?”

Try as Jasper might, it would be impossible to forget his cousins. The sons of Patrick Carter, the late head of the East Rips, had grown up as privileged bullies who’d always known that they would inherit their father’s criminal empire. Sean was the eldest and at least twenty years Jasper’s senior. He was followed closely by Brian, then William—the black sheep of the family who’d tried to divest himself of the Carters but wound up shot and killed last January. Rory was next in the succession of brothers and was the closest in age to Jasper. Then, there was Andrew.

“Get to your point. What is it you want me to do?” Jasper asked.

His youngest cousin tapped his foot impatiently. Then stilled it. He didn’t seem to like that Jasper wasn’t cowering before him. Andrew has always been the quietest of the five brothers. The most observant and patient, and Jasper suspected he was also the most intelligent. Instinctively, he knew there was only so far that Andrew would allow himself to be pushed.

“I want you to find Cillian,” he answered.

Jasper exhaled, the knot in his stomach loosening if only a little. The request didn’t make sense. “You could approach any detective at the Metropolitan Police Force. You could hire a private inquiry agent.”

“But I’m not asking any detective, am I?” Andrew replied. “I’m asking you.”

Jasper regarded him another moment, his mind churning with questions. “How does it benefit you if I find him?”

The carriage slowed and turned. It had done that a few times, and Jasper determined they were circling Whitehall.

Andrew clasped his hands together in his lap. “It’ll make Sean happy. And a happy Sean is a stable Sean. He’s been ill lately. It’s put him in a foul temper. More foul than usual, at least.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’d like to put our new relationship to a test.”

“We have no relationship.”

Andrew wagged his pointer finger. “Wrong there, Jamey. We share blood. And as Cillian is also your blood, you owe it to him to look for him.”

“Who else is looking for him?” Jasper asked.

“Sean’s not sitting on his thumbs, and Brian has some of his trusted men scouring Cillian’s known haunts,” Andrew answered. “He had a piece of muslin whose husband might have caught wind of their affair.”

“Who is the husband?”

“An Angel,” Andrew answered casually, with an arched brow.

“A Spitalfields Angel?”

“No, the kind sent down from heaven. Yes, a bleeding Spitalfields Angel,” he said with a scoff. “And before you ask why we haven’t approached him, no Carter is at liberty. There’s an accord in place between Sean and Barry Reubens. Sean’s adamant about it—at least until we have proof one of Barry’s men has done for Cillian.”

That Cillian and his mistress had run afoul of the woman’s husband seemed the most likely possibility. The request Andrew was making wasn’t illegal. It wasn’t immoral, either. And yet, Jasper’s instinct was still to say no. But that was something he couldn’t do, unless he was prepared to face the consequences.

As the carriage came to a stop again, and the hollow moan of a train whistle cut the air, he determined he was back at Charing Cross.

“If I am going to find him, I’ll need the husband’s name,” Jasper said, chewing words as though they were gristle.

Andrew’s puckish grin returned. “That’s what I’d hoped to hear, detective.”