"I mean yer friend 'ere 'as been cheatin' ye," Fuller taunted, his eyes blazing. "Ye really think 'e's been satisfied with the meager sums ye've been collectin' on the cargo that ain't there? Ye believe 'e 'ad me attack the ships that wasn't yers just to throw everyone off-track? Think again, ye fools! The bastard's been paying me extra to sell the sailors from those ships ... made a pretty penny, too. Enough fer me t' take more than my 'alf without 'is knowing it. 'Ow's that, Summerson? Ye're being cheated, too!"
Summerson's pistol emerged in a glint of steel. A shot rang out. Fuller gasped and fell to the floor, dead.
"Dear God!" Hartley had gone white. "Are you mad? You just murdered a man!"
"Obviously human life isn't a priority of our partner's." Anders spat out the word, blood seeping slowly through his handkerchief. "Nor is loyalty." A vein throbbed at his temple. "You swindled us, you filthy son of a bitch."
"Anders, do you realize this means we're implicated as well?" Hartley interrupted, his breathing irregular. "Condemning those sailors to lives of bondage is now our crime as well. We could hang—" He broke off, unsteadily loosening his cravat.
"Neither of you would have had the backbone to do what I did. You were both content believing Atlantis was some two-bit insurance fraud." Summerson stepped unconcernedly over Fuller's lifeless body. "Look at you." He gestured toward Hartley. "You're a quivering nervous wreck, old man; more trouble than you're worth. And you," he pivoted toward Anders. "You're the lowest form of hypocrite. You want it all—but you don't want to dirty your aristocratic hands. So I did it." Summerson threw Anders a contemptuous look. "I did the work. I took the risk. All that Atlantis truly signified was through my doing, my plan. So why the hell shouldn't I keep the money for myself? Besides, you'd only squander it away on your weaknesses—gambling and women. You're of little more use than Hartley."
With a low oath, Anders bent, his uninjured arm reaching for his pistol.
"Don't touch it," Summerson commanded, leveling his gun on Anders. "I've killed once. There's nothing to stop me from doing it agai—"
A shot exploded through the room, striking Summerson's weapon and sending it crashing to the floor.
"You're wrong, Summerson. There is something to stop you from doing it again. Me."
Rem loomed in the doorway, a rigid, uncompromising predator, his own flintlock cocked and ready. "You heartless bastard—you're going to experience, firsthand, exactly what those enslaved sailors did. As of now, you're imprisoned for the rest of your life." Rem stalked Summerson, his expression lethal. "Unless of course the magistrate elects to hang you by the neck. Which would befit another of your crimes—the one you just committed here." Rem gestured toward Fuller's inert body. "Right before my eyes."
"Gresham ..." It was Anders who uttered Rem's name, belatedly reacting to Rem's unexpected intrusion.
"You, Anders, are scum." Rem cast the viscount a venomous look. "For reasons of my own, I'd like to shoot you where you stand. Unfortunately, Summerson just obliterated my grounds for doing so with his admission. If only you'd assisted him and Fuller in peddling those men, I'd have no qualms about ending your wretched life here and now."
"Who do you work for? Who are you really?" the viscount managed, clutching his wound.
"I'm the man who's going to ensure you never steal another penny. You sicken me."
"This wasn't about Samantha then, was it?" Anders realized aloud. "All this time—"
"Don't ever speak Samantha's name again. In fact, don't even think it. If you do, I'll make certain you hang right alongside your conniving merchant partner."
A sharp intake of breath from the Marquis of Hartley made Rem avert his head, raking Hartley with contemptuous eyes. "You are my gravest disappointment. Why, Hartley? Was the money that important?"
"I was losing my company, Gresham," Hartley choked out. "It was all I had—a legacy to pass on to my heirs. How could I face myself if I threw it away? How could I face the ton?"
"You're going to have to do both. Only now you not only have a floundering company to explain, but your own reprehensible behavior. You've disgraced your family name far more unforgivably than mere poverty ever could."
A lightning-quick motion caught Rein's eye, but he merely glanced up, unruffled, as Summerson lunged past him en route to the door, desperate to make his escape.
"Where are you headed, Summerson?" Boyd inquired, stepping into the merchant's path and grabbing him, locking an iron forearm around his neck. Holding him securely, Boyd stood patiently while Harris bound Summerson's arms securely with a thick piece of rope.
That task completed, Boyd strode toward Anders.
"I'm wounded," the viscount whimpered pleadingly, pointing to the blood seeping through his makeshift bandage.
"A pity." Rem seized Anders's uninjured arm and shoved him at Boyd. "Get him the hell out of here, before I reconsider and kill him. Once for me. And once for Samantha."
"So," Anders muttered with a speculative look over his shoulder, "this does concern your feelings for—"
"Speak her name and you're a dead man." Rem turned his back on Hartley and stalked the viscount, pistol raised.
"Don't bother, Rem." Boyd dragged Anders toward the door. "He isn't worth a bullet."
Rem halted, lowering his arm. "You're right. Take Summerson and Anders to Bow Street. I'll finish up here, then follow with Hartley. Tell Templar to come down and dispose of Fuller's body."
"Done." Boyd propelled Anders out into the night, simultaneously calling instructions to Harris.