Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
“You wait here.” Bellamy dragged an armchair to the far corner of the room and settled Cora in it, partly behind a small screen. She wouldn’t be immediately noticed there.
For his part, Rhys took a seat on a threadbare divan and propped one boot on the small, square table before him.
Bellamy did not approve. “You’ve been sitting in the carriage all day,” he said. “Do you have to sit down now? You’re supposed to hulk in the corner and look threatening. Menacing, not … cozy.”
Ignoring him, Rhys stretched his arm across the back of the divan and surveyed the meager furnishings and cobwebbed corners. “I thought this was supposed to be a well-heeled dandy we’re chasing. Perhaps all his fortune is sunk into gold embroidery. It’s certainly not poured into the furnishings.”
“He’s in hiding. Why else would any man of means live all the way out here, in such humble accommodations?”
“Perhaps because he enjoys the bracing sea breeze?” An unfamiliar, cultured voice.
Rhys’s gaze jerked to the doorway. There stood Peter Faraday, he presumed. And God, he could see what Cora meant. Faraday truly was the spitting image of Julian Bellamy. Or at least, a strikingly close resemblance. On examination, Faraday’s hair was a dark brown, not jet black. He stood an inch or two shorter than Bellamy. His complexion was notably more pale. But in a darkened alley, the two would be virtually indistinguishable from one another.
“Gentlemen,” Faraday said, leaning against the doorjamb, “to what do I owe this pleasure?” He wore a simple banyan over a shirt and loose-fitting trousers. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles. He looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed to greet them and had no intention of going anywhere, anytime soon.
From the looks of him, Rhys would wager he hadn’t been out of bed in weeks.
“Believe me, there’s no pleasure in it,” Bellamy said. “And if you’ve seen the token, you know exactly why we’re here.”
Faraday’s gaze sharpened. He remained absolutely still. “Do I?”
From his seat on the divan, Rhys shook his head. “If the two of you mean to be coy, we’ll be here all day. Faraday, it’s your house. Have a seat.”
“Thank you, I’ll stand.”
Rhys leaned forward, eyeing the man. “Not for much longer, you won’t.” Faraday looked ready to swoon. So much for any plan of pummeling the truth out of him. Rhys might be a violent brute, but it simply wasn’t in him to beat invalids. Faraday had obviously already taken his share of blows.
He said casually, “Sit down. Does that old fellow rattling his chains around know how to make tea? We’ll all gather round and talk this out.”
Bellamy shot him a look. “In case you’re wondering, that would be a complete and utter failure,” he whispered, “at being menacing.”
“Oh, come along,” Rhys said. “Look at him. The longer he stands there, the more color drains from his face. The man won’t even move, he’s so stiff.” He nodded at Faraday. “How many bones did you break, when you and Leo were attacked?”
The man paused. “My hipbone. Three ribs.”
“That all?”
“My left wrist.” Faraday raised the appendage before his eyes and peered at it. “I think there was a small fracture in one of the bones, but it seems to have knitted well on its own. Lost a few teeth. Other than that … just bruises, but they’ve long faded now.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “I was the lucky one.”
Surveying the man’s posture and pinched expression, Rhys could tell he wasn’t lying. If anything, he was understating the extent of his wounds. In that moment, Rhys was convinced of the man’s innocence. Of all people, he knew what a trial it was to recover from injuries so severe. There was no way a man would willingly incur them just to mask his own involvement in a crime.
He stood up and crossed the room. Without a word, he slid a hand under Faraday’s arm and lifted, transferring the wounded man’s weight from the doorjamb to his own shoulder. Then he slowly walked him the three paces to a chair and helped him sit.
“Thank you,” Faraday said, giving Rhys an amused look. “That was rather forward of you.”
“If I’d asked, you would have refused the help.”
“True.”
Rhys went back to his own chair. “The mending hurts worse than the breaking, I know. I’ve snapped a bone or ten myself.”
“So I gather.” Faraday tilted his head a fraction. His gaze trained on the scar on Rhys’s temple, then slid to the fresh split in his lip. “You must be Ashworth, the great war hero. Still doing battle, it would seem. Any teeth left?”
“Most of them.”
“Good. Giles makes excellent shortbread.” He called over his shoulder. “Giles!” When the ancient manservant appeared in the doorway, Faraday instructed, “Tea, Giles. And shortbread, and a few sandwiches if you can muster them.”