Page 72 of The Viscount of Shadows

Chapter 25

Oliver felt restless. The stitches were taken out this morning, and Doctor Drew stated the infection and fever had passed and that his recovery was remarkable. Thank God he was young and fit enough to bounce back from the injury swiftly.

But much had been left unresolved.

What to do about Bryan. What to do about Danaher.

And more importantly—Claudia.

He tapped the wrapped parcel sitting on his desk. He had bought Claudia leather-bound editions of The Picture of Dorian Gray and a Sherlock Holmes novel, The Sign of Four. Lady Ainsworth mentioned the fictional detective to Claudia. Claudia told him about stopping at Mitchell’s place, meeting Lady Ainsworth, and how much she liked her and promised a visit soon.

Claudia lamented about not having any books or time to read. Oliver should send a note, but what should he say? Should he pour his heart out? The message should be short and concise, giving her something to contemplate without encroaching on her time. Perhaps he shouldn’t have it delivered, for sending a gift could smack of trying to buy her affection—which is not his intent. Frustrated, he pushed the books away as Rett strode into the room.

“What is wrong, Cousin? Woman troubles?” Rett teased.

Oliver snarled in response. “Yes. And I will not be discussing it. To change the subject. I have an idea.”

Rett plopped into the seat before his desk. “What?”

“The two of us? We go into Notting Dale.”

Rett’s eyes widened. “Has the fever cooked your brain? What if we run into Bryan, or worse, Danaher?”

“I contemplated us stumbling into Notting Dale as drunken swells, but I soon set that aside. Especially after Claudia said that Danaher would question any well-to-do person who crosses into The Piggeries. She mentioned to Danaher that she was following someone for a wealthy client. I do not wish to come face-to-face with Danaher. Not yet. And we could run into Bryan, as you say.”

“Very well. But more importantly, why do you propose this?”

Oliver sat forward, clasping his hands on the desk. “Why? Bryan is in danger whenever he steps into The Piggeries. Danaher will question him if he hasn’t already. The miserable bastard will no doubt compile a list and start methodically checking each name to find Claudia because he believes she will lead him to The Sentinel.”

“Then it was wise for her to stay at Watford’s,” Rett observed.

Perhaps. But it didn’t make the ache in his heart hurt any less by her absence. “Sooner or later, Danaher will have to be dealt with.”

“And that is for the police. You know this.”

“Yes. But Danaher must also pay for his treatment of Claudia—in the past, and most especially in the present.”

Rett shook his head. “You are out for revenge. How bloodthirsty of you. I never thought you had such an overt, violent side, but I was mistaken. It is why you became a vigilante, isn’t it? Anger at the injustice in the world. Or, more specifically, here in London.”

Oliver frowned at Rett’s description, for he went out of his way to avoid violence. Or did he? No, not really. He had been involved in plenty of scuffles since donning his vigilante disguise. “You have to admit the city and the world at large would be a better place without Danaher. Come now, I am not suggesting murder. You know me better than that. I want us to go into Notting Dale disguised as working-class blokes to get the lay of the land. You heard Mitchell when he was here yesterday. Danaher’s men were released, and Inspector Stanhope told Mitchell to stay out of Notting Dale.”

“For the time being. Again, I reiterate. This is a police problem.” Rett folded his arms in defiance. “Mitchell said they will be dealing with it—and soon.”

“Yes, but when? We cannot wait. I cannot sit here and do nothing when Bryan and Claudia are involved.”

Two hours later, in complete disguise, Oliver and Rett made their way toward Notting Dale. They had taken a hansom cab as far as a few streets away and would walk the rest. They had stopped at a pub, ordered cheap gin, then spilled it all over each other. Oliver wore a fake bushy mustache, and Rett wore a long-haired blond wig under his peaked cap. They wore gloves because their smooth hands would be a dead giveaway about not being working-class men out for a lark. Rett carried a giant pickaxe, not only for protection but also as a prop. Oliver had a claw hammer tucked into his coat.

Their fabrication? A fancy town house near the Notting Hill-Notting Dale border was undergoing a renovation to turn it into small flats. Oliver and Rett would pretend to be laborers on their way home, stopping to imbibe along the way. As they came upon the border of the new park area, the cousins halted.

“Look there,” Rett whispered. “Men guarding the entryway into The Piggeries. No doubt the ones who were released. There are some even in the next alley over. Do you think they will question everyone who crosses the street?”

“Yes. Claudia said Danaher is thorough. I know we knocked at Bryan’s flat, and no one answered, but even if we see them here, Bryan will not recognize us, especially after we rubbed dirt on our faces,” Oliver replied sotto voce.

“I still say this is madness.”

Oliver smiled. “But you are here.”

“It appears I have a sense of adventure after all. If allowed in, we go to the pub, order a drink, then circle about and leave, correct?”