Page 11 of The Toymaker's Son

I spilled from the carriage so fast I almost fell on my knees in the snow. Thankfully, the inn appeared to be quiet. Most everyone had already ventured home.

Rochefort leaned out the carriage door and made a show of wiping his thumb across his bottom lip. “Tomorrow, then, Mr. Anzio.”

I stumbled back, unable to form the words to tell him to go fuck himself. He laughed and slammed the door, and the carriage horses jolted into motion. I watched the carriage until it disappeared down the street and the sound of the hooves faded into the night.

I’d almost ruined everything. Again.

“Stupid!” I hissed, kicking at the snow.

Perhaps it was some sixth sense, although it was likely just chance, but I looked up, and there stood Devere beneath a streetlamp across the street, his gaze fixed on me. What was he doing wandering the streets so early in the morning. What had he seen?

He couldn’t have seen anything, just my drunken stumble. He couldn’t know how the lord had touched me, and he certainly could not have seen the kiss through the fogged-up carriage windows.

I dipped my chin, acknowledging him, gathered my wits, and entered the inn, glad to be out of the cold and away from Devere’s penetrating glare.

ChapterSix

The Lost PennyInn was generally quiet in the mornings. Although, by the time I crawled out of bed, suffering from a thumping headache and queasiness, the day was already in full swing. I picked a corner at the back of the bar, ordered coffee, and attempted to make sense of the daily newspaper. I would have to visit the lord by midday and offer up my findings to date, which did not amount to much. Certainly nothing he was not already aware of. The more delicate matter was how to tell him that what had happened in the carriage could not happen again.

The inn’s front door opened and, naturally, Lord Thomas Rochefort swept in, looking bright and enthusiastic. He spotted me before I had a chance to hide behind my newspaper and strode across the room as though he owned the place—which, in all likelihood, he did.

“Good morning, Mr. Anzio.” He pulled out the chair opposite mine and sat as though he had every intention of staying.

I opened my mouth to say the typical greeting ofmy lord,but swiftly choked on the words and made a fuss of folding the newspaper instead. Perhaps I had dreamed about how his long fingers had clutched at my dick, and how I’d briefly rubbed his.

“I thought I’d take a brisk ride into town and visit you. I do hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” My face ached, and the smile took more effort than my climbing out of bed had.

“Regarding last night.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’d prefer if the incident were kept between us.”

I had no intention of mentioning any of it to anyone, ever. I laughed, as though the entire escapade were a ludicrous joke. “Sir, I’m afraid I drank so much last night that I don’t recall any of it.”

“Indeed.” He nodded once, and we had an understanding.

I told him what I knew of Jacapo’s case so far, reaffirming much of what he’d already discovered himself. “While we know the man was bound and choked, those incidents might not be what killed him, although they are admittedly suspicious.”

“Are you saying he wasn’t murdered?”

“I’m saying there’s still much we do not know. It was likely murder, or manslaughter, but the evidence is certainly not conclusive. And we have no sign of any motive besides… Devere’s inheritance.” I hated to say it, but it was a fact. Devere gained the most from his father’s death.

He tapped his fingers on my folded newspaper and pinched his lips together. “The son is our main suspect.”

“He is,” I reluctantly admitted. I’d given the man a chance to tell me his side of the story and he’d chosen to throw me out of his store. I could only delay judgment for so long. Eventually, and without any further evidence to suggest a second suspect, he would be arrested.

Rochefort’s fingers stopped drumming. “Hm, speak of the devil and he shall appear.”

Devere stood by the front door. Snow melted in his hair and on the fabric of his dark dress coat. He set eyes on me, then Rochefort, and those eyes narrowed. He stilled as though doubting his decision to arrive, then moved to the bar. A shiver touched my spine. Despite the roaring fireplace and multitude of oil lamps, some of the warmth fled the room, probably from his opening of the door.

Rochefort turned a smile to me. “I do believe you have a visitor.” He stood, keeping his back to Devere. “Perhaps he’ll confess and save my time and expense. I grow tired of this game.” With those slightly dubious parting words, Rochefort strode from the inn, acknowledging Devere with a slight tilt of the chin.

Devere glared in return and tracked the lord’s every step. When the door closed behind Rochefort, Devere continued to stare through it. He never had been very good at hiding his distaste. He’d be terrible at card games.

Catching the eye of the serving lad, I ordered a coffee refill and a second for my guest, assuming Devere had come to the inn to see me. He seemed surprised when the serving lad set a cup down in front of him, and instead of meeting my eyes, he kept his gaze on the drink and danced his slim fingers around the cup.

If the man ever genuinely smiled, it would be a minor miracle.

A few moments passed, the both of us waiting for the other to break the stalemate, until Devere picked up his cup, crossed the room in five long strides, and reclined into the seat Rochefort had vacated.

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