Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

“I’m good friends with the son, but have reason to believe my father was in debt to you. That he arranged the attack to steal valuables but was betrayed by his partners in crime.”

Mr Manning contemplated the information. “And this son won’t be friends no more, not if he finds out you’re the daughter of the man who killed his parents.”

“Precisely.” There’d be no more passionate kisses in candlelit rooms. No more making love until the early hours. “It was a long time ago, and I doubt you’ll remember.”

“I remember every man who tried to diddle me, missy. I have their faces etched into my eyeballs, carved with the blade I’d gut them with if they failed to pay. But why should I tell you anything?”

“Perhaps we might barter, trade information, sir.”

What could a man like Manning possibly want?

“Barter?” He laughed, the sound wholly unpleasant. “What I want ain’t possible with these shackles. Happen you could drop to your knees and show your gratitude. Take my cock in that pretty mouth of yours and suck it hard.”

A year ago, the comment would have shaken her to her core, brought tears to her eyes. After her experiences at the Bull in the Barn, she simply sighed.

“With the hygiene practices being quite lax here, I fear I must decline your charming offer. But perhaps you might like to hear my harrowing stories. Perhaps I might tell you how I’ve suffered, why I cry myself to sleep at night.”

Mr Manning had no conscience. He liked inflicting pain, and no doubt liked hearing the sordid details too.

The reverend shuffled sideways, putting himself in her line of vision. He glared and shook his head by way of a warning.

“I’ll need your father’s name if I’m to remember anything,” came Manning’s cunning request.

“Henry Watson,” she said, much to the Reverend Jenkin’s dismay.

“Eighteen years ago, you say?”

“He lived in Hampshire, near Hartley Wintney Common. He worked as an enquiry agent and often came to town on business.”

Mr Manning glanced up at the windows, at the grim faces pressed to the bars, and they scurried back like frightened rats. “I know the name, but he didn’t owe me money.”

“Then how—”

“Not before you tell me what’s the worst thing that’s happened to you.” His gaze moved past Beatrice and settled on Miss Trimble. “The nightmare that keeps you awake.”

Miss Trimble jumped to attention. “Who? Me?”

“There’s something wicked hidden inside that stony shell.” He seemed excited at the prospect of discovering her secret. Probably would have tucked a napkin into his collar and rubbed his greedy hands together were they not bound in irons.

Beatrice was about to reply when Miss Trimble suddenly said, “My husband tried to kill me.”

Mr Manning’s cold eyes glistened. “How?”

“Tell me how you know my father first,” Beatrice interjected. “Should my chaperone find the topic too distressing, I will tell you about the terrible thing my uncle did.” Though by Mr Manning’s standards, a drunken grope was hardly horrific.

The reverend cleared his throat and reminded them that Christians should fight for the Lord, not make pacts with Satan.

“Henry Watson came to plead for clemency. Not on his behalf, you understand, but for a weaker man—his client.”

His client!

Beatrice didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Thank heavens her father wasn’t in debt to the moneylender, though he must have acted on Alessandro’s behalf. Oh, the thought of telling Dante, of ruining his idealised vision of his parents, cut deep.

“You wish to know what my hu

sband did to me?” Miss Trimble said coldly. “He drugged me, beat me and left me half dead in the woods.”

Beatrice swung around to face Miss Trimble. How she hoped it was all lies to appease a monster. And yet she saw distress in the woman’s eyes, saw her struggle to maintain her austere facade.