A Wayward Man: A Prequel to A Dangerous Invitation (The Rookery Rogues) (4 page)

He no longer had the
bottle, but he still had a glass. Daniel brought the gin to his lips,
filling the silence with his sips.

Atlas's eyes
narrowed. “How many shots have you had today?”

“Two.”
Daniel gave the answer too quickly, when he should have stopped to
think. He had a sinking suspicion that the real amount would prolong
this increasingly uncomfortable conversation. “Listen, I
botched something at the office. Morgan doesn't know, but when he
finds out, it'll be catastrophic. You don't understand the pressure
I'm under—”

“I've been
chased by six Runners, I'm acquainted with pressure. It's not my
right to judge you, chap, but I can't help but wonder if you need a
bit of a holiday.” Atlas cupped his chin in his hand, thumb and
forefinger tracing across his pale skin. “Perhaps you and the
new Missus take a nice tour to Dublin after the wedding. I'll front
you the funds, of course. Consider it my consolation prize for you
and your cock's soon to be stagnant life.”

Daniel sputtered,
gin spraying out his lips. “Christ, must you speak so?”
He’d no urge to discuss his cock with his friend. Some bounds
of propriety he didn’t cross, even if two years ago Atlas had
fished him out of the Thames River bare naked during one of his
drinking bouts.

Atlas leaned his
head back and laughed. “You're quite prudish. Marriage may be
good for you after all.”

“That's the
hope.” Daniel focused on Atlas's previous statement. “A
holiday away from Emporia...it would be all the crack.”

Once the wedding was
over, he'd appreciate going home to Ireland. It didn’t feel
like home—he could barely remember his childhood there before
the death of his parents—but intrinsically he knew it should
be
home.

He put the glass of
gin back down on the tureen and turned to Atlas. “Fancy offer
and I'll take you up on it soon.” He was dreadfully fortunate
to have a friend so willing to accommodate.

At the soonest
possible opportunity, he'd introduce Kate to Atlas. He shouldn't hide
behind his worries about what people would think. Kate was smart, and
she'd seen him for who he was. The same could be said for Atlas.

Daniel nodded
firmly, resolution made. He'd find balance between his two lives.

Tendrils of fog
laced the windows of the Morgan townhouse. Placed on the coffee table
in front of Kate was a silver tray with a teapot, sugar, and an extra
cup should her father wish to join her later. With her pinkie looped
around the handle of her steaming cup, she didn't share the plight of
those who shivered in the East End tenement houses.

Yet she couldn't
shake the recollection of the wounded soldier she’d seen
outside Emporia’s office today, a torn brown greatcoat wrapped
around his thin frame. He held out one hand in supplication, the
other gripped around a sign declaring he’d been injured in
battle and required funds. There had been many such beggars in the
years after the war against Napoleon ended.

His hair was red,
his skin pale and freckled. Their eyes had met for a second too long.
That gave him hope. With chapped lips starting to split, he’d
spoken softly, his brogue touching a tender spot in her heart. “Miss,
if ye got a penny to spare...” She'd reached for her pocketbook
automatically, but her maid had quickly pulled her away.

Would Daniel have
been reduced to that same fate if Papa hadn’t hired him? He’d
been a porter down at the docks before coming to work in Emporia's
warehouses. It was an uncertain life, out in the blistering cold all
day, working for whatever company required an extra hand. Sometimes
there’d be no work at all for days when shipments were down and
no help was needed.

Footsteps echoed in
the library. Kate twisted in her chair to peer behind her. Papa came
into the room, moving to his desk. Taking a key from his coat pocket,
he unlocked the top drawer and deposited a leather-bound book, held
closed by two ties. Many times, she’d walked in on Papa writing
in that journal. He’d always claimed that was how he got his
best ideas for the company—quill to parchment, scratching until
something came to him.

Turning the key in
the lock, he stood back from the desk. Why would he lock up the
journal in his own house? He’d always been particular about
confidentiality in the office, but this was their home. No one but
family entered the library without his permission.

She sat up
straighter in the chair. “Papa?”

He jumped at the
sound of her voice. Swiftly recovering, he ran his hands down his
coat, his expression carefully bland. “Yes?”

Kate blinked. “What
are you doing?”

“I was about
to go over some paperwork.” Papa walked toward her. Once he
strode speedily, but with age aches had set into his joins, causing
him to favor his left leg.

She shook her head.
“That’s not what I meant. You locked away your book. Are
you worried about the safety of the neighborhood? I haven’t
heard of any break-ins recently.”

He eased himself
onto the sofa across from her. “One can never be too cautious.”

She knew his every
tone, and his words lacked authenticity. Papa wouldn’t lie to
her, would he? No, they’d vowed to always tell the truth after
her mother had left.

Leaning forward,
Kate poured another cup of tea. She deposited a lump of sugar into
the cup and passed the tea to him. “Are you quite all right,
Papa?”

The question caught
him by surprise. “Of course I am, love. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“If you’re
worried that I’ll be beside myself when you marry, you needn’t
be so.” Morgan smiled at her fondly. “I shall miss you,
Katiebelle, but I’m an old man and I expect I’ll revert
nicely to bachelordom.”

“The thought
had crossed my mind,” Kate admitted, pushing the locked drawer
to the back of her mind. He must have a good reason for it. “It’s
not as if I am moving far, just out of Bloomsbury.”

Papa tapped a finger
against his chin in thought. “I’ll speak to Daniel again
about that. I understand he wants to do this on his own, but I can’t
have my daughter living in an unscrupulous neighborhood.”

“You’ve
been to Daniel’s flat before. It’s not unscrupulous,”
Kate objected.

“But it’s
not as high quality as here. Daniel is a perfectly rational man. I’m
certain he’ll see it my way.” Papa’s jaw set
firmly, his eyes taking on a colder glint.

That expression was
the one he wore in the boardroom when the directors didn’t
agree with his riskier investments. Richard Morgan was a man used to
getting his way—perhaps that was why she too was so headstrong.

“We discussed
this, Papa,” Kate reminded him. “You said you were
willing to let Daniel and me strike out on our own.”

Papa sighed. “Daniel
is a fine lad, Katiebelle.”

Kate eyed him
skeptically. “I sense that’s not all you want to say.”

“But he has a
tendency to not know what is good for him.” The tilt to Papa’s
lips in a smile didn’t lessen the edge to his tone. “I’m
looking out for Daniel’s best interests. There are certain men
at Emporia who would rather him be…downgraded.”

Kate winced.
Laurence Bartleby, the Board of Directors, and some of Daniel’s
staff had all made insinuations. “It is
your
company,
Papa. You can’t allow such prejudice to persuade you.”

“I made him my
shipping assistant, didn’t I?” Papa bristled, frowning at
her. “I believe in Daniel. His ability to work hard is
admirable. These are tough times, Katie. There are villains in this
world that won’t think twice before hurting you. I merely want
to protect you.”

Kate rose from the
chair and went to sit next to him on the sofa. “I don’t
need protecting, Papa, and certainly not from Daniel.”

“He’s a
good man.” Papa patted her hand. “We will find you a
house to rent nearby.”

Two weeks later

Daniel awoke to
darkness. No, that wasn’t right. A stream of light poured
through, but it did nothing to illuminate where he was. Cold ground
was underneath him, instead of the firmness of his mattress. Where
was he? Last he remembered, he'd been at Emporia updating the
inventory books. The rest of the office had long gone home, but
Morgan wanted the inventory done before the next day's shipment.

He wasn’t at
Emporia anymore. The first thing he registered was an unholy scent,
piercing through his haze. Without thought, he reached into the
pocket of his coat, pulling out his flask of gin. Uncorking the
flask, he wafted it under his nostrils. The crisp, comforting juniper
couldn’t cover the stench. Like a thousand copper pennies
melting in a kiln, the odor burned his nostrils until his head swum.
He placed the flask back in his pocket.

His eyes adjusted to
the light, streaming from a lantern above his head. He recognized
this place, vaguely. One of the many warehouses in the London Docks.
The walls didn’t bear Emporia's logo. Rather, they were washed
with gray...and splattered with red. That was odd. He reached out a
hand and touched something warm, something sticky.

A keening sound came
from next to him, unnaturally high in pitch. He knew that noise, had
heard similar when his uncle slaughtered pigs on the farm. Daniel's
stomach pitched. He realized all too quickly what he’d smelled.

Blood coated his
gloved fingers.
Everything seemed to happen in the slowest of
motions. Why did his limbs feel as though they were made of wood?
Please, he prayed, let this be a fever dream.

He flung himself
forward into a sitting position. There was a man beside him. Blood
bubbled out of his mouth, sick red circles. Daniel scooted over to
him, leaned over his body.

Fuck.
The
man’s throat had been slit. Air hissed through the blood,
burbling outward. As though he was somewhere else entirely, Daniel
registered that the wounds must have been done with a knife. Four
slits, the first two not deep enough to make an impact. The second
two had gone deeper, punctured his trachea. The man's hands were
thrown up to his throat, his fingers drenched. His eyes were open,
but he registered nothing. Not Daniel leaning over him to hear his
heartbeat, not the gasp that tore from Daniel's throat.

“Oh God, oh
God.” Daniel's voice broke raggedly.

No response. The man
breathed, each breath shallower than the last. A shudder broke
through his frame, and then he was gone.

Daniel hadn’t
been able to save him. That failure stuck high in his throat. He
coughed, almost grateful for the hacking sound because it was
something other than the gurgle of the body, air fighting to break
free from the victim’s split throat even after death. If Daniel
had gotten here earlier, if he’d been fully aware…but
there was nothing he could do for the man now.

He forced himself to
examine the man’s face. Somehow he felt he owed that to the
man, cementing the anguish and pain of death into his memory, like
he’d committed a crime against this new corpse simply by being
alive. He noted brown hair flecked with blood, lifeless brown eyes,
wide open and haunted.

He reached over,
closed the man's eyes. The pungency of the gore overtook him, and he
doubled over, heaving out the contents of his stomach. When he had
nothing else inside him, he fell to the ground. A minute passed and
then another. He remained prone to the frigid ground.

Dully, Daniel knew
he should leave, but he couldn’t. His body was transfixed by
this place of death, consigned to bear witness. What if the killer
came back? He must get up.

Damnation, what if
he
was the killer? His head throbbed mercilessly. He couldn’t
remember anything about how he’d gotten here—had he slit
this poor man’s throat in a fit of rage? But with what? The one
knife he owned was a pocket knife, and he kept that in the drawer of
his desk.

Daniel looked at his
hands. Only his right glove was stained with blood. A drop from when
he’d reached for the body. If he’d killed this man, then
he would have blood all over him. Yes, that made sense. He couldn’t
have done it.