How to Steal a Thief's Heart - Bree Wolf Page 0,109

Ruthledge—disheveled, drunk, desolate—the most fitting one was haunted.

“Good evening, Mr. Ruthledge,” Pierce greeted him, then closed the door and walked over to where the man leaned onto the backrest of an armchair. It seemed Mr. Ruthledge could barely stand. Why he didn’t simply seat himself was beyond Pierce.

“Are you the solicitor?” the man demanded with a slight slur. “Your man said this was about an inheritance.”

Pierce chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” He met Mr. Ruthledge’s unsteady gaze. “This is about your cousin, Lord Coleridge.” All color drained from Mr. Ruthledge’s face. “In fact, it concerns the night the two of you as well as the Lords Amhurst and Kearsley attacked a young family on a road outside London.” Pierce drew in a slow breath, fighting to remain calm. Nothing would be gained if he lost control now. “Do you recall that night, Mr. Ruthledge?”

Staring at Pierce as though he were seeing a ghost, Mr. Ruthledge scrambled backwards as Pierce moved toward him, then he all but stumbled and fell over the chair’s armrest, which landed him square in the seat. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man stammered, his gaze clearing as the shock of Pierce’s words seemed to force the alcohol out of his system. “I don’t recall anything.”

Leaning forward, Pierce braced his hands on the armrests of Mr. Ruthledge’s chair. The stench of the man’s breath was difficult to endure, but Pierce focused his thoughts on the task at hand, forcing himself to temporarily ignore his own discomfort. “Lies will not serve you, Mr. Ruthledge,” he snarled, his gaze hard as he watched the other man squirm. “I know you were there. I know because there was a witness. I know what you did.” His own hands tensed so hard on the armrests that he feared they might snap like kindling.

“I-I did n-nothing,” Mr. Ruthledge stammered, naked fear now clear in his gaze as he leaned back in his chair as far as possible, trying to escape Pierce’s wrath. “Nothing happened. We rode back to London. We got soaked on the road. We encountered not a soul.” The words rang of repetition, of practice, as though Mr. Ruthledge had whispered them to himself over and over again, hoping one day he would believe his own lies.

“Someone saw you,” Pierce whispered and watched with satisfaction as Mr. Ruthledge nearly fainted at the shock. “Someone saw what you did.”

“No!” the man exclaimed, wild panic now in his eyes. “I did nothing. It was him. It was—” His lips clamped shut, and he covered his mouth with his hands for good measure, afraid the truth would fly from his lips.

Pierce felt every muscle in his body tense. “Who?” he snarled into Mr. Ruthledge’s face. “Who shot the doctor? Who raped his wife?”

Mr. Ruthledge blinked before his brows drew down, confusion showing in his gaze. “You…you don’t know?” He stared at Pierce. “You said…you said there’d been a witness.” His jaw hardened. “You’re trying to trick me!”

Straightening, Pierce inhaled a deep breath. “There was a witness,” he whispered, his voice soft. “A three-year-old girl. She was in the carriage with her parents when you attacked them.”

Mr. Ruthledge’s jaw dropped and his eyes filled with tears. Something resembling compassion sparked in his eyes, a vague memory of the man he’d once been. “I didn’t know,” he mumbled, his voice so low it was barely audible. Then he buried his face in his hands and wept. “I didn’t know.”

“She deserves justice for what she’s suffered,” Pierce said gently, afraid to push the man beyond his limits. “And the monster who stole her parents needs to be punished.”

Slumped in his chair, Mr. Ruthledge looked up at Pierce with a tear-stained face. “He is my cousin.”

Pierce sighed. “And you’re her last hope.”

*

Suppressing a yawn, Caroline sipped her tea after adding more sugar than she cared for. The previous night had exhausted her in many ways, making it hard for her to stay awake.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly from across the breakfast table, and Caroline quickly gave herself a painful pinch under the table to appear more awake. Then she smiled at her mother. “It is a beautiful day,” she exclaimed, adding a longing sigh for good measure. “I believe a stroll would be wonderful.”

After another second, her mother finally nodded, her gaze returning to her own teacup. “Indeed,” she agreed. “However, do remember to rest before the Hawthorne ball tonight.” Her gaze connected with Caroline’s father’s as he peeked over the rim