Dauntless (Gentlemen of the Order 1)

They were about to step inside when the doors of the rundown tavern burst open, forcing them to jump back.

“What the devil?” Noah complained.

“Clear out of the way, gov’nor,” cried a scrawny chap pushing a lifeless body in a wheelbarrow. “Though I’ve room for another cadaver.”

With more strength than he looked to have in his spindly arms, the miscreant pushed the barrow into the alley and returned seconds later with an empty cart.

Noah turned to Cole. “You know they’ll take your swordstick.” The Turners employed a man to frisk every patron for weapons.

“Yes, but carrying a weapon sends a clear message.”

“What, that we’re not cowards?” Noah said.

“Precisely.”

“Come. The sooner we get this business over with, the better.”

Inside The Compass Inn, the atmosphere was subdued. The Turners ran their criminal operation with an iron fist. The small group of sailors and lightskirts seated around the crude wooden tables sat quietly sipping ale, listening to a one-armed man sing a maudlin ballad about a ship sunken in a storm.

Through the dim candlelight, Noah peered at the round table in the far corner of the room. The Turners were seated amid the swirling mist of smoke rising from their cheroots.

Another spindle-thin fellow blocked their path. The scar running from his forehead to his cheek said the man was more formidable than he looked.

“State your name and your business,” the lout said as if he stood guard at St James’ Palace.

“Noah Ashwood. I have an appointment.”

A gentleman did not arrive at The Compass Inn without seeking permission. Thankfully, one of Daventry’s men—an ex-sailor whose brother had served the Turners for years—had arranged the meeting.

The man glanced at Cole’s cane. “Leave all weapons at the door,” he said, lifting the lid of a wicker basket on the floor beside him.

Cole deposited his cane. Then he raised his arms and allowed the fellow to rummage in his pockets and slip his fingers into the tops of his boots. After giving Noah a good frisk, and once satisfied they were not about to slit the brothers’ throats, the man gestured for them to pass.

The journey to the table was like the walk to the defendant’s dock. People glared at them like riled members of a jury, assuming their guilt. The Turners were waiting at the bench, ready to don their black caps and deliver the grim verdict.

“Ashwood, is it?” said the ugly brother with beady eyes and a high forehead, the one who looked like the snarling bull terrier sitting in the basket. “You’ve come to pay a debt, you say.”

“I’ve come to enquire after the health of Mr Howard Dunn and to settle his account.”

“We’re not nursemaids,” replied the brother with golden hair and angelic good looks—the one said to be doubly dangerous. He puffed on his cheroot. “What makes you think we know anything about the man’s ailments?”

Cole cleared his throat. “Because the two men seated at the table closest to the hearth are the ones who stole Lord Benham’s purse and signet ring. The same men who snatched Howard Dunn off the lord two weeks ago.”

“No one has seen Howard Dunn since,” Noah added. “I need to know what happened to him before I settle his debt.”

The brothers’ expressions darkened. So much so, the dog’s ears pricked, and the animal bared his teeth. The ugly Turner silenced the beast, then whispered something to his brother. Muttered curses followed. The air turned volatile, as if the men were getting ready to whip up a storm.

Noah waited, his heart thundering in his chest. But these men had no respect for cowards. “I think it a fair request.”

The angelic brother turned to Cole. “The lord who told you about his purse and signet ring, do you take him for a liar?”

“He had no reason to lie.”

“So, it’s as we thought,” one Turner said cryptically.

The angel snapped his fingers at a burly man standing guard nearby. Then, quietly and calmly, three men rounded on the table near the hearth. Both suspected kidnappers were dragged to their feet and escorted through a door near the bar. At no time during the event did the crowd stop sipping their ale or the one-armed man stop singing.

“Let no one say the Turners suffer traitors.” The ugly brother’s sinister chuckle revealed a mouth filled with rotten teeth.