Page 103 of A Murder on the Thames
Drayton rose with sudden grace and moved toward the sideboard. On its surface lay a scattering of objects: a silver knife, a letter opener carved from ivory, a pair of gloves that had never seen the street.
His hand did not reach for any of them.
Instead, he unlocked a drawer and drew out a pistol.
Even in the firelight, it was unmistakably a gentleman’s piece—well-made, balanced, expensive. Not the crude sort favored bycutpurses and thugs. This was the sort a man might keep in a desk for protection, or carry in a fine carriage when the roads ran dark.
Drayton turned it slowly in his hands, examining the gleam of the barrel with a kind of reverence.
The man watched him. “You kept it.”
“Of course I did.” Drayton’s tone suggested there could be no other choice.
He angled the pistol so the firelight caught the engraving.
A crest.
A rose twined about a flowering sprig—delicate, aristocratic, and entirely damning.
“A family piece,” Drayton murmured. “A gentleman’s piece.”
The henchman’s mouth tightened as understanding dawned. “Rosehaven’s.”
Drayton’s eyes gleamed. “Yes,” he said softly. “The Earl of Rosehaven.”
He lifted the pistol, sighting down its length as if he could already see its future. Then he lowered it again, thoughtful.
“She is remarkably stubborn,” Drayton said, the words almost indulgent. “Remarkably fearless. A lady who refuses to remain in her proper sphere.”
“A lady who could become troublesome,” the man said flatly. “Dangerous, even. Emotion makes men careless.”
Drayton smiled then, faint and cold.
“Do you mistake me for careless?” he asked.
The henchman held his gaze. “No. But you’re human.”
For the first time, a flicker of irritation passed over Drayton’s face. It vanished at once.
He replaced the pistol with careful precision, as though laying a jewel into velvet. His fingers lingered on the crest a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“She is not to be eliminated,” Drayton said.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Drayton shut the drawer and turned the key.
“Because she is useful,” he replied. “And because she will suffer far more when she is forced to watch the consequences fall upon those she loves.”
He crossed back to the hearth and stood before it, hands clasped behind his back. Firelight gilded the edges of his half-smile.
“One day,” he said, voice almost conversational, “the pistol will be found.”
The man said nothing.
Drayton’s gaze did not waver as he spoke the final words.
“And when it is, it will point straight to her brother.”
London is quiet,for now. But at the Royal Opera House, murder takes center stage.
