Page 88 of Surrender Your Grace
The door creaked open, and Henry climbed in, windblown and flushed.
“He comes at four sharp every day,” he said without preamble. “Same tavern. Orders two fingers of whiskey. Always sits with his back to the wall. He’s gone in fifteen minutes, leaving by the alley.”
The hack lurched as Andrew moved to get out. “Then let’s greet him properly at the back door.”
***
The alley was dark and damp, hemmed in by two leaning stone walls slick with moisture. It stank of soured beer, piss, and fish guts. Broken crates littered the ground. Somewhere nearby, a gull shrieked over the clank of chains and the slap of water against pilings.
Duncan lounged against the wall like a man idly waiting for a smoke. Henry stood opposite, one foot braced on a crate, eyes fixed on the back door.
Andrew didn’t pace—he prowled. His rage burned slow and deep, like coals banked behind his ribs.
“You’re sure we don’t need to cover the front?” Duncan asked.
“He’ll come this way,” Henry said. “He’s a creature of habit and always does.”
Sure enough, the tavern’s rear door creaked open, and the man emerged. Wiry, fidgety—just as Cici had described.
Andrew stepped into his path.
The man startled. “Who are you?”
“Men in search of answers.”
“Please, I don’t want no trouble.”
“Good,” Andrew stated succinctly. “Then we agree on something.”
The man pivoted to flee—but Henry blocked his exit, Duncan cracking his knuckles on the other side.
“Do you remember the opera a few months back?” Andrew asked, voice low. “The duchess. The stairs. The blood.”
“You’ve got the wrong man!”
Andrew seized him by the collar and slammed him into the stone wall so hard his boots left the ground. “I don’t think so,” he snarled, nose inches from his. “You tried to kill my wife. You did kill my child.”
The man’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. “I didn’t know—”
Andrew slammed him again, harder. “You had a problem murdering an unborn child, just not my wife?”
“I— It wasn’t supposed to go that far! She said to frighten her, that’s all—”
Duncan’s voice turned lethal. “You expect us to believe tripping her at the top of a marble staircase, toppling a bookcase on her, and shoving her in front of horses wasn’t meant to kill? You’re a liar.”
Andrew’s fist cracked into the man’s jaw. His head hit the bricks with a thud. He moaned in pain, but Andrew showed no mercy—no more than had been shown to Cici. He pressed his forearm against the man’s throat.
“Do you need more persuasion?” he growled. “I’ve got all evening.”
“All right, all right!” the man gasped. “She paid me. Said to make it look like an accident. I needed the money—”
“You needed the whiskey,” Henry spat.
“How much?” Andrew demanded.
“I—”
Andrew leaned harder, watching the man’s eyes bulge. “How much?”
