The dreaded feeling of portent once again hit Colin hard.
Distracted, he failed to anticipate the blow that came to the back of his knee, tumbling him to the ground. By instinct, he rolled to the side, avoiding another assault from Cartland, but coming up against the corpse and the pool of blood quickly spreading around it.
Cartland scrambled for his discarded knife, but the other man was there first, sending it skidding across the cobblestones with a well-placed kick. Colin was struggling to his feet when alarmed shouts sounded from the nearby street. All three of them turned their heads.
Discovery was near at hand.
“A trap!” Cartland hissed, leaping to his feet. He stumbled toward the low stone wall and threw himself over it.
Colin was already in motion, running.
“Halt!” came a cry from the alleyway.
“Faster!” urged Leroux’s would-be rescuer, fleeing alongside him.
Together they took a different alley than the one Colin had arrived through . . . the one that was presently filling with authorities who pursued with lanterns raised high.
“Halt!”
When they reached the street, Colin ran to the left in the direction of his waiting coach; the other man fled to the right. After the explosion of activity in the small courtyard, the relative stillness of the night seemed unnatural, the rhythmic pounding of his footfalls sounding overly loud.
Colin weaved in and out among various buildings and streets, taking alleys whenever possible to lessen his chances of being apprehended.
Finally, he returned to Cartland’s mistress’s house and caught the eye of his coachman, who straightened and prepared to release the brake.
“Quinn’s,” Colin ordered as he vaulted into the carriage. The equipage lurched into motion, and he hunched over, tearing off his blood-soaked cloak and tossing it to the floorboards. “Damn it!”
How the hell could such a simple task spin so far beyond his control?
Keep Cartland from returning home too early. A bloody simple task, that. One that should not have involved witnessing a murder and the drawing of his blade.
The moment his carriage drew to a halt before Quinn’s door, Colin was leaping out. He pounded with his fist upon the portal, cursing at the lengthy delay before it opened.
A disheveled butler stood with taper in hand. “Sir?”
“Quinn. Now.”
The urgency in his tone was clear and undeniable. Stepping back, the servant allowed him entry and showed him into the lower parlor. He was left alone. Then a few moments later Quinn entered wearing a multicolored silk robe and bearing flushed skin. “I sent for you hours ago. When you did not reply, I assumed you had boarded your ship and gone to sleep.”
“If you’ve a woman upstairs,” Colin gritted out, “I think I might kill you.”
Quinn took in his appearance from head to toe. “What happened?”
Colin paced back and forth before the banked fire in the grate and relayed the night’s events.
“Bloody hell.” Quinn ran a hand through his inky locks. “He will be desperate, running from both us and them.”
“There is no ‘us,’” Colin snapped. He pointed at the longcase clock in the corner. “My ship sets sail within a few hours. I’ve come only to wish you good riddance! Had I been caught tonight, I might have been delayed for weeks or months while this mess was sorted out.”
More pounding came to the door. They both paused, hardly daring to breathe.
The butler rushed in. “A dozen armed men,” he said. “They searched the carriage and took something from inside it.”
“My cloak,” Colin said grimly, “soaked with Leroux’s blood.”
“That they would come for you here would suggest that Cartland has offered you up as the sacrificial lamb.” Quinn growled as commands were shouted from outside. “Answer that,” he said to the waiting servant. “Delay them as long as possible.”
“Yes, sir.” The butler departed, closing the parlor door behind him.