Page 89 of Surrender Your Grace
“Twenty pounds!”
Duncan swore viciously. “Bloody bastard.”
The man choked and sputtered as Andrew kept the pressure on.
“Your Grace,” Henry said calmly, “if you want answers, he’ll need to stay alive long enough to give them.”
Andrew let up just enough for the man to wheeze in air. “Who is she?”
“No name,” he rasped. “But I’ll never forget her. Blonde. Green eyes. Elegant. Cold. The kind who doesn’t lift her own parasol. She said the duchess stole something that was hers. That she never should’ve been born.”
“That’s Elizabeth,” Duncan said darkly.
“Every inch,” Andrew agreed.
He let go. Too weak to stand, the man collapsed into a murky puddle.
Andrew stared down at him with contempt. Wanting to be gone from his repugnant presence, but they weren’t quite done with him yet. “Can you read and write?”
He nodded.
Andrew motioned, and Henry produced a folded parchment and pencil stub.
“We have witnesses to the bookshop and Bond Street attempts. You’ve just admitted to the opera. It’s all here. All you have to do is sign.”
“Cooperate,” Duncan added, “and maybe you won’t hang.”
Trembling, the man scratched out his name in a crude scrawl. Henry passed the confession to Andrew and hauled him to his feet.
Duncan stepped to the mouth of the alley and flagged down a constable patrolling the quay.
“Here!” he called.
The officer approached, wary but alert.
Duncan gestured to Andrew. “You’re in the presence of His Grace, the duke of Sommerville. This man”—he jabbed a thumb at the sniveling figure—“just confessed tae three murder attempts. The intended victim was the duchess of Sommerville.”
The constable’s eyes widened. He snapped his hat off and bowed. “I’ll see him locked up at once, Your Grace, but I’ll need a formal report to charge him officially.”
Andrew handed over the parchment. “It’s all there. Signed. Try not to lose it.”
The officer blew his whistle. In minutes, two other patrolmen converged on the alley.
As they hauled the twitchy man away into the mist, Duncan exhaled a long breath. “One snake down.”
“And one serpent left.” Henry concluded.
Andrew’s jaw tightened as he started for the waiting hackney. “Not for long.”
Chapter 26
The grandfather clock at the top of the stairs struck four as Cici arrived at her childhood home for tea with her mother—a ritual so ordinary and steeped in routine, it belied the storm seething beneath her calm exterior.
The drawing room smelled overwhelmingly of lavender, as always. That cloying scent never changed, nor did the perfectly symmetrical arrangement of rose-colored cushions or the heavy drapes in the most hideous shade of green covering the tall windows.
“Mama,” she greeted, inclining her head. “I trust you’ve recovered from the other evening.”
“Do not speak of it,” Lady Benton replied, lifting a hand to her brow as though the mere mention summoned a relapse. “My head aches at the thought.”
