Page 51 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
Fawkes told himself not to ask. Told himself Thorne’s opinions didn’t matter.
That didn’t stop his damned tongue. “What?”
“That ye’re still working for him.”
Thorne tipped his hat and slipped out of the door.
Fook.
Closing the door, Fawkes dropped his forehead to the wood.
Fooooooook.
Once again, he should’ve kept his mouth shut.
When Thorne had shown up tonight, Fawkes hadn’t thought anything of it. He’d met the man through Alistair, Duke of Effinghell, one of Fawkes’s few friends from school. Fromanywhere, truthfully. The viscount had always seemed irreverent and cheerful, ready with a dick joke or an insult.
A fun fellow to have around, in other words. Except in a lab.
But once Demon had recognized Fawkes as being in Blackrose’s employ, they—the men working to bring down Blackrose—must’ve become suspicious. Aye, Blackrose had done a fair job of wiping all his agents before he escaped, and Thorne was one of the few who’d gotten out of the business before things had become too dangerous.
Apension. Fawkes snorted.
Thorne hadn’t come here to discuss money, or Fawkes’s work.
He’d come here to learn if Fawkes knew anything about Blackrose’s whereabouts.
Ye’re still working for him.
Fawkes squeezed his eyes shut and allowed his forehead to pound against the door twice more.Christ.If Thorne suspected that, especially after Olivia’s brotherhadbeen working for Blackrose all these years…
Was Mother in danger?
Nay, Fawkes had been so careful to keep his mother’s name from his business. He’d made no mistakes. She knew nothing of what he’d done to protect her from the bastards who’d ruined his life, and it would continue that way.
If Thorne and the others guessed Fawkes was still doing Blackrose’s bidding…
They’d be right.
Sighing, he planted his palms against the door and pushed himself upright. Later tonight he’d write to his mother, because she always liked to hear stories about people he helped with his concoctions. She wasproudof him, which was strange as hell.
He’d never told her his sobriquet, or the whispers behind it.
Fawkes had signed that contract to protect her and he’d do it again, even though it had cost him his soul.
Swallowing down anger, Fawkes reached for his greatcoat on the rack. Hedidhave a delivery to make. Auld Gus was the normal go-between for these sorts of transactions—when clients couldn’t find “the Duke of Death” themselves. It would be simple enough to drop the pennyroyal decoction at the tavern and come back to Tramp and his letter writing.
His fingers lingered atop the wrapped parcel. These medicines would dogood. This is what he’d wanted, as a young man, trying to make his way in London; he’d wanted tohelppeople. Damn Blackrose for seeing his talent and perverting it!
Perhaps ye should’ve admitted the truth to Thorne. That ye killed Bonkinbone, and why. Under whose orders.
Cursing himself, Fawkes shoved the hat onto his head.
He didn’t want to be involved in the investigation. He just wanted to keep his head down, protect his mother, and keep the damned dog fed.
And see Ellie.
What? Nay, Ellie had her path all mapped out, he wasn’t a part of her journey. She’d raise his bastard as the next Viscount Cumnock, and Fawkes would read about it in the papers and try to be happy for them both.
