CHAPTER14
TWO DAYS LATER
Archer Tierney was still a despicable arsehole, and he was also still one of the last men who had seen Logan alive. But this time, Hart Sutton was not going to wait politely for Tierney to welcome him to his lair. No, indeed. This time, Tierney was going to bleeding squeak when Hart said so.
A harsh-looking cull met him at the door to Tierney’s dubious establishment. A different one, he thought, than the one on the previous occasion. Didn’t matter who he was or whether or not their paths had crossed. If the bastard refused to budge from the threshold, Hart was going to give him the basting of his life.
He had just come from a most illuminating meeting with the Earl of Haldringham, a man who may be a poor gambler and a sad drunkard, but who had vowed he knew nothing of anyone by the name of Logan Sutton. Further, he had never gone to Tierney for funds; the ruthless moneylender had bought up the earl’s vowels as he did so many others, amassing a fortune in debts he could call in as it pleased him.
“Mr. Tierney ain’t seeing callers,” the man said.
“Get the bleeding hell out of my way if you want to keep your teeth,” he returned.
To his credit, the man did not flinch. “Missing half my cogs already.” He flashed a smile that revealed a gaping hole where his teeth formerly were.
“I’ll knock out the rest of them,” he promised.
Although his quarrel was not with the man before him, he knew he needed to threaten his way inside. This meeting would not await Archer Tierney’s leisure. He had much to answer for.
“I’ve been given orders,” the guard countered, grim. “Tierney ain’t about anyways. Only Mr. Martin is.”
He was not certain the guard was to be believed any more than Tierney had been.
He pinned the man with a narrow-eyed glare. “Who the devil is Mr. Martin?”
“I am.”
The voice was familiar.
Unmistakably so.
Everything in Hart froze as, from the shadows behind Archer Tierney’s guard, his brother emerged.
“Loge,” he said, disbelief warring with relief as he surged forward.
The guard extracted a pistol with such sleek haste, Hart almost failed to see him move.
“Stop where you are,” the guard commanded.
Logan’s hazel stare met his, the recognition there undeniable. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“The hell you’re not,” he ground out.
All this time, fearing the worst, nary a word from Logan, and he was here.
In the East End.
Alive.
“I’m not,” Loge insisted.
Same eyes. Same nose. Same auburn hair. Same stubborn chin every Sutton had.
“I came here to speak to Tierney about—”
“Haldringham,” his brother finished for him.
What the bleeding hell? “You know.”
His brother nodded. “Aye.”
“Let me speak to you instead,” he said, heedless of the pistol the guard continued to aim in his direction.
“No,” Loge denied.
“Yes,” he ground out. “Damn it, you’re my brother.”
“Your brother is dead,” Loge said calmly. “You’d do best to forget him. Do not return.” He nodded to the guard. “Close the damned door.”
The entrance to Tierney’s slammed in Hart’s face.
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