Nick shoved his shoulder, forcing the man further off-balance again. Fitchley stumbled, his coat trailing on the floor. Nick stepped on it and hooked his other foot around the man’s ankle to sweep his feet from beneath him, sending the baron crashing face-first to the floor. In a flash Nick was on his back, one hand fisted in the baron’s hair, yanking back Fitchley’s head to expose his throat to the wicked little knife Nick held in his other hand. Blood streamed down the baron’s face from his nose.
“How dare you come into my club,” he said for the audience, “and threaten my patrons and employees. If you have a disagreement with me, approach me like a man, not a coward.” He leaned more of his weight onto his knee, on the man’s lower spine. Fitchley cried out in pain and enraged terror, scrabbling with his hands as he tried to retreat from the knife. Nick let the tip of the blade prick Fitchley’s skin, just below his chin.
“Did you attempt to burn down my house tonight?” Nick whispered. The baron jerked, trying to twist away, and Nick dug the tip of the knife a little deeper. A scarlet rivulet of blood trickled down Fitchley’s throat, and he went still, except for the violent shudders of his breathing. His eyes were wild, rolling from side to side. “If you make the slightest move toward my family ever again, I’ll dissect your innards into bait for the sharks, while you watch.” He put his full weight on Fitchley’s spine, ignoring the high-pitched sound the man made, and added in a quieter-still whisper, so that only Fitchley could hear him, “Emilia Greeneborough is not yours, and never will be—and neither is Lucinda Sidney.”
He released the baron with a shove and rose to his feet. “Lord Fitchley, your membership has been revoked, and you are banned from the Vega Club.” Expression composed once more, he turned to face the room, cleaning his blade on his handkerchief before replacing it in his jacket.
Dozens of pale, stunned faces stared back at him. The room was utterly silent. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the disruption. Mr. Forbes, open the cellar and see that everyone present has a glass of wine, with my compliments. Louis, if you please?”
Furious whispers began as he and Louis heaved up Lord Fitchley and dragged him into the Cold Hold. Nick left Louis guarding the man, crumpled in a chair, and sent for one of Forbes’s boys to fetch a constable.
Lord Heathercote intercepted him as he left the Cold Hold. “Allow me to escort Lord Fitchley.”
Nick hesitated. He’d meant to send Fitchley to the prison, which would prevent him from fleeing England until any charges could be brought. However, Heathercote’s family had been one of the victims of Fitchley’s actions. He had an interest. If Heathercote took the man, no one could blame Nick for whatever befell the baron. He would be blameless, or near enough.
Before he could reply, the front door opened. Frank must not have barred it again after—inexplicably—allowing Fitchley entry. Nick tensed, but his apprehension swiftly turned to alarm. It was Emilia, streaked with grime, her hair falling down and her face flushed, with James hard on her heels.
“Oh Nick,” she gasped, out of breath, “the girls—the girls have gone missing.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
Nick stared at her. Emilia, her chest heaving after the exertion of running all the way here, could only nod. “Someone threw a stone—there was a fire-bomb—”
He jerked, as if roused from a trance. “I know about the fire. Were the girls hurt?”
She shook her head. “No, we managed to put it out. I left them in the kitchen with Mrs. Watson, but when I went back for them, they were gone.”
“Gone? Where?” he demanded.
She put up her hands helplessly. “I don’t know! No one saw them leave, but they aren’t there. We searched the entire house.”
Nick stepped backward, his face blank. “Charlotte? Is gone?” Moving jerkily, he turned and opened a heavy wooden door behind him, disappearing inside.
I will not lose my sister again.She could still hear his words, spoken low and fiercely in a quiet Dorset night. The thing Nick feared most, and she had allowed it to happen. Emilia’s stomach plunged.
As she stood paralyzed with shame and fear, a gentleman standing nearby craned his neck, peering into the room after Nick, then sidled toward the doorway. She didn’t know who he was, but nervously she followed.
The room within was small and spare, all in shades of gray. The tall young man named Louis, who had come to them in Dorset, stood with arms folded in front of a bricked-up fireplace. There were two large leather armchairs, and Nick knelt in front of one.
“Do you know?” he was asking, his voice flat and emotionless, as Emilia slipped into the room.
To her surprise, it was Emmett Fitchley huddled in the chair. He looked nothing like he had that day in Portland Place; his face was ashen and bloody, his hair stood out in all directions, and his clothes were a mess. Fitchley prided himself on his appearance. Emilia glanced sideways at Nick, wondering if he had done that.
“Sod off,” said Fitchley thickly. Blood had clotted around his nose and was smeared over his left cheek, as if he’d tried to wipe it away.
Nick tilted his head. “If you know, and don’t tell me...”
“You’ll do what? Ruin me?” Fitchley sneered. He caught sight of Emilia and a spark of hatred flared in his eyes. “You’ve already done that.”
“There’s quite a lot I could still do,” replied Nick in a terrifyingly quiet voice.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” interjected the stranger. “Allow me.”
“If you’ve taken those girls, you’ll prefer his company to mine,” Nick said, still staring at Fitchley.
Fitchley twitched before turning away. “I don’t have them. Keep the brat, and welcome to her.”
Nick said nothing for a minute, then rose to his feet. “If you have nothing to tell me, Lord Fitchley, then I have nothing more to do with you.” Fitchley hunched his shoulders. “He’s yours,” Nick told the unknown man, and he strode out of the room without looking at anyone.
