The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(121)

Dell had been here many times before, but as himself.

Mason Hale had been training him for years. The former prizefighter had not only taught Dell how to hold his own with his fists, but had also trained him in a variety of wrestling holds and escapes, throws and pins, and even some street-fighting techniques. All of which had come in handy over the years.

It was always a bit tricky when Dell encountered someone he knew personally while in the guise of one of his characters. There was a brief few minutes when he could not be sure if he would be recognized. To date, he had never been discovered. But there was always the chance of a first time.

Though the neighborhood was not the safest, Dell was not worried. He’d grown up running through dark alleys and gritty streets. But he was not Dell Turner right now. He was Mr. John Black, a solicitor to the middle class. And Mr. Black would be very anxious.

He slowly exited the carriage, casting nervous glances in all directions as he stepped to the street outside Hale’s place of business. Mr. Black’s work rarely brought him to these rougher areas of London. Luckily, the solicitor possessed just enough sense to be cautious when venturing so far outside what was familiar to him.

Dell glanced upward.

No lights shone from the windows on the upper level where Hale had his office and training space. The main level of the narrow building was also dark, except for one window that glowed with a pale light.

Making a show of tugging his coat into place and smoothing his waistcoat, Dell cast a quick look toward Morley, who sat holding the reins with a practiced air of distraction. The man would keep his eyes and ears perked for any trouble. Dell walked purposefully to the front door and knocked with the bold arrogance of a man who thought himself more clever and intimidating than he actually was. Anyone with any sort of streetwise awareness would take one look at Mr. Black and know right away that whatever he was doing, he was in over his head.

When no one answered his first round of knocks, Dell knocked again. Louder and longer.

Finally, there was a skittering of noise from within. Then some jostling of the doorknob preceded the opening of a narrow crack along the doorjamb. The sharply angled face of Mr. Smythe, Hale’s clerk and general servant—a pale and nervous man of indeterminate age—pressed into the crack of the doorway.

“What do you want? Don’t you know it’s the middle of the night?”

“I know that very well, sir, but it does not change the fact that I must speak with Mr. Mason Hale immediately. I understand this is his residence as well as his place of business?” Dell said the last with a proper sneer of disgust.

“He ain’t here.”

Dell’s instinct told him the man was not lying.

“And when do you expect him to return?”

“I’ve no idea. He could be gone hours or days. Hale does what he pleases. Now, be off with ya.”

Smythe leaned back to slam the door shut again. He didn’t make it that far. Dell gave a swift shove, which sent the door and the servant flying back. Dell stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him as he waited for Hale’s man to finish whimpering and get to his feet.

“Damn me,” Smythe cried, both hands covering his face, “I think you broke me nose.”

Dell seriously doubted it.

“Are you aware of the business Hale conducted earlier this evening?”

Apparently so, judging by the sudden panic in Smythe’s watering eyes and the way he braced for flight. Before Smythe could bolt, Dell grasped him by the shirt and spun him up against the wall, pinning the smaller man with a minimal press of his forearm across Smythe’s chest.

“Where did he take the girl?”

“He didn’t take her nowhere—hasn’t seen her in weeks.”

That confused Dell, but his gut told him there was a connection. He trusted his gut.

“He stole a young lady off a street in Mayfair a couple of hours ago. Where did he take her?”

The trembling man’s eyes widened.

“You know what I am talking about,” Dell insisted, ignoring the surge of disappointment he felt at discovering that Hale was involved in the abduction after all. He pressed his arm a bit more firmly to the man’s chest, compressing his lungs, just short of cracking his ribs, as he leaned into him. “Where did he take her?”

“I…can’t be sure,” Smythe choked out, his eyes going buggy. “But earlier…I sent a message round to Pendragon’s. Hale said it was urgent.”

Dell released the clerk immediately, then reached down to grasp the man by the shoulders and haul him to his feet after Smythe crumpled to the ground. The little man coughed and sputtered for breath as Dell propped him against the wall.

“Thanks, mate,” he said once he was assured the man had his feet. Then he stepped back to open the door. “No need to apprise Hale of our little conversation. He need never know of your disloyalty.”

If Hale were to find out, the scrawny clerk would not fare well beneath the bare-knuckle fighter’s fists.

But that was not Dell’s problem.

Pendragon’s Pleasure House was some distance away, located much closer to the nabobs it served. At worst, the Chadwick girl had been sold into an overseas sex trade. She may already be aboard a ship bound for a foreign shore. There were organizations that specialized in the sale of young women. Mostly the women were tricked into thinking they were being sent for gainful employment; others were already prostitutes, who had displeased their pimps and were traded for a profit. On occasion, a young woman might be stolen off the street if she had a certain look that was prized by the slavers.