His mouth went to a grim line. “It’s not a joke, Laney. This thing is beyond what you think it is. Beyond what I think it is. Your brother found that out—he was obsessed with the box.”
Her eyebrows slanted inward. “What truly happened to my brother, Wes? Do you know how he died?”
The sharp clank of the door knocker cut through her last word.
Both of them jumped and Wes flung the box into Laney’s hands, then quickly tugged on his trousers and his lawn shirt. “Stay in here.”
Laney nodded at him and closed the box, setting it on the side table, her hands quick to sift through the piles of black fabric to find her shift.
Wes left her in the room, closing the door behind him, and strode in his bare feet to the front door. He yanked it open, the growl on his face dissipating when he saw the clerk from Mr. Filmore’s office on his step, nervously clutching his hat in his hands.
“Filmore is back?”
The man shook his head. “I came straight with the news, sir. No, Mr. Filmore is dead, sir. Dead.”
“Dead? How could that be?”
The man’s voice shook. “His body was just delivered to his sister—she sent word to the office. I do not know the circumstances.”
“Bloody hell.”
“I thought to bring the news to you straight away, as Mr. Filmore would have wanted it so.” The clerk inclined his head. “Good day, sir.”
The man turned to walk down the stairs.
“Wait—your next employ?”
He shook his head. “I will stay to help his sister clear out his business, inform all his clients, but I do not have any prospects...didn’t imagine I would need any prospects for some time.”
Wes nodded. “Contact my man on Jermyn Street. Mr. Hammington. Tell him I sent you once the business of Mr. Filmore’s office is complete.”
“Good.” The clerk’s head bobbed up and down. “Thank you, sir. So very kind.”
The man stepped onto the walkway and Wes closed the door slowly, his stare on the dark wood.
Filmore was dead.
It wasn’t just that someone knew full well that Laney had the box—they’d just killed for it.
Again.
More blood at the altar of that blasted chunk of wood, stone and metal.
London wasn’t safe anymore.
He needed to get Laney—and the box—away from London and somewhere secure. Somewhere he could defend.
{ Chapter 16 }
Laney stared at the back of Wes as the fine drizzle started to collect on her cheeks, chilling her face. His wide shoulders swayed back and forth with the rhythm of his horse’s steps, impervious to the spotty rain that had haunted them during the last hour.
In a single file on their horses, behind her rode a man she’d just met, Rune Smith, an old friend of Wes’s that he’d dragged out of a tavern by the docks as they made their way out of London. Or rather, Wes dragged him from a room above the tavern, if the man’s disheveled clothes and the overwhelming cloud of cheap rose perfume hanging in the air around him were any indication of what he’d been doing at the moment Wes required his presence on this blasted trip.
Five hours she’d been on the horse set between them, her backside on the sidesaddle rubbing raw, the box from Morton thumping against her thigh in the pocket of her skirt. They’d changed horses only once and Wes had only given her five minutes of reprieve from the pace he’d set for their journey.
After the incident on the bridge, she hadn’t questioned Wes when he’d stormed into the drawing room from the front door, reported Mr. Filmore’s untimely death, and then declared they were leaving London.
Immediately.