Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(73)

He stiffened. Acting on information from American operatives, they had raided Vanreid’s ships on four occasions, only to be met with legitimate goods each time. Not a hint of dynamite or dynamite-making ingredients to be found.

“Do you mean to suggest I shared sensitive information with Daisy?” he calmly asked, his pen still scratching away on the ledger. It was better to involve himself in such tasks than to dwell on the growing doubt his best friend levied his way each passing day. As their mission had proved increasingly fruitless, the strain between them had only gotten worse.

“I would never question your loyalty, Bast.” Griffin’s tone was quiet, contemplative. “That, I think, is rather the point. Is your loyalty to her as strong as your loyalty to the League?”

He didn’t know the answer to the goddamn question, nor did he wish to consider it. Ten carboys of nitric acid, he read, and then he froze. “Did you arrange for a large sale of nitric acid today?”

“No,” Griffin snapped. “Don’t seek to distract me, Bast. It’s high time we had this out between the two of us. You haven’t spoken a word about her since the night I arrived.”

No, he had not. Daisy was a private matter, and to his mind, she had nothing to do with his obligations in Liverpool. She was, simply, his. And he would not discuss her as if she were an enemy or a suspect when she was the woman who owned his heart. But that was neither here nor there at the moment, for he was staring at a blank line where the scrawl of their assistant shop boy, James, indicated an inordinately large purchase of nitric acid, along with fourteen carboys of sulfuric acid.

They were to be delivered the following day to an address not far off. The lure had finally worked, damn it.

He jerked his head up to find Griffin pacing the shop floor, a scowl hardening his features. “I believe we need to pay a visit to one Reginald White.”

“What are you on about?” Griffin stalked over to him.

Sebastian pushed the ledger toward his friend, pointing to the entry in question. “Have a look for yourself. It seems to me that Reginald White purchased far too great a quantity for a mere painter. Indeed, it rather seems to me that the bastard bought enough to make dynamite.”

Griffin scanned the ledger, his jaw clenching. “Bloody hell. What do you know? It looks like we may have found our canary after all.”

Sebastian raised a brow. “Let’s go.”

The sun had long since set, all storefronts closed. Liverpool’s night denizens had come out to play in full, raucous effect. It was nigh onto midnight, which meant they hadn’t a moment to waste. Working with haste, they closed down the shop for the night, locked everything away, doused the lights, and moved on foot to their destination.

Number three Castle Street was a fairly nondescript building. No lights burned within. By the streetlight, Sebastian read the sign hanging over the small storefront. Reginald White, Painter & Decorator. They had reached their quarry, and he knew a moment of pure, unadulterated thrill. Here was the part of his work in the League that called to him, that felt like home. Danger excited him.

And yet, for some reason, tonight the excitement felt, after its initial rush… hollow. Perhaps it was because he knew that back in London, the most exquisite woman he’d ever known was organizing his library and wondering where in the hell he’d gone. Jesus, she was probably cursing him, hating him. When he finally did return, there was no telling if he would be able to win her back.

But this wasn’t the time or the place for that thought. For now, he was a pledged member of the League, and he had a mission to see through. For Daisy, and for every other innocent who would be an unwitting victim, he needed to cast Vanreid into gaol forever.

That’s it, old chap. Wits about you. Time to move.

“We’ll canvas the perimeter, make certain no one’s within,” he told Griffin lowly. You take the east, I’ll move from the west, and we’ll meet in the rear.”

“Done,” Griffin agreed, his hand going to the pistol he kept beneath his jacket.

“God go with you, brother,” they said in unison.

And then, they parted ways and sank into the night. Some twenty minutes later, they reconnoitered by a locked back door.

“No one’s inside,” Griffin grunted Sebastian’s thoughts aloud. “We need to gain access, see what’s within.”

Sebastian lit a match to illuminate the lock on the door. “Have you your bloody keys?”

“Does a stag shit in the woods?” Griffin asked triumphantly, extracting the ring of skeleton keys he always kept at the ready from his pocket.

He would have laughed had the situation been any less dire. Griffin’s gift was picking locks. He had seven keys, and if none of them fit a lock, Griffin could muscle the closest match into working. He’d never seen a door the Duke of Strathmore couldn’t break through with his innate feel.

Griffin turned his attention to the door. Sebastian’s match sputtered out, but it little mattered. In less than two minutes, Griffin had the door open. They stepped inside, shutting the portal behind them, and lit the gas lamps on low, walking with as much care as possible lest anyone let the rooms above the shop. The storefront seemed innocent enough.

Sebastian followed Griffin into the back room, and that was the precise location where innocent morphed into something decidedly evil.

“Carboys of nitric acid,” Griffin reported quietly. “Seventeen, in all.”