Fredrick stood in the dark, grimy alley, his mind still reeling from the bizarre encounter with Augusta. He was trying to decide if the promise of her future paynt was worth the loss of his dinner and his bed for the night, when he saw the carriage. It was a dark, imposing shape at the end of the alley, a predator waiting patiently in the dark. He knew, with a sinking feeling, that his night was not yet over.
A man in a sharp, dark clothing got down from the driver’s box. Mr. Rye approached the window. "Your Grace," he said, his voice a low, respectful murmur. "What are your orders?"
Inside the carriage, Eric did not imdiately answer. The rich, aromatic scent of a fine cigar drifted from the open window. In the dim light, he was looking at a letter, its contents illuminated by a small, shielded lamp within the coach. It was a report Aiden had sent over, compiled from Prescott’s detailed notes on Augusta’s movents and known associates, including her long-lost connection to one Fredrick Garrison.
Eric took a slow puff of his cigar, the tip glowing a fiery red in the darkness. He looked past the letter, his gaze falling on the shabby figure of Fredrick standing nervously at the other end of the alley. He asked Rye, his voice calm and asured, "Are you sure this is the place? This is his residence?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Mr. Rye replied, his posture perfectly still. "Prescott’s information was very precise."
"Good," Eric said. He pointed with his cigar toward Fredrick. "I want to talk to him."
Mr. Rye bowed his head, a silent acknowledgnt of the order. He turned and walked with sure, quiet steps down the alley toward Fredrick. The contrast between the Duke’s impeccably dressed man and the squalor of the surroundings was stark.
"His Grace would like to have a word with you, Mr Garrison." Mr. Rye said, his tone polite but leaving no room for refusal. He gestured for Fredrick to follow him to the carriage.
That sa Duke from that day. Fredrick’s mind raced. First, Augusta, him. He felt like a pawn in a ga he didn’t understand, but a ga that was clearly becoming very profitable. A mix of apprehension and greedy curiosity propelled him forward. He walked to the carriage, opened the door, and got inside, the scent of leather and wealth enveloping him.
Eric exhaled a final, contemplative puff of smoke. He offered the silver cigar case to Fredrick. "Cigar?"
Fredrick, wanting to maintain so semblance of control, shook his head. "I’ll pass."
With a small, almost imperceptible shrug, Eric extinguished his own cigar in a small crystal ashtray, the last wisp of smoke curling into the air. The pleasantries were over. He looked at Fredrick, his eyes sharp and analytical in the dim light. "She’s in your house, isn’t she?" he asked. It was not a question; it was a statent of fact.
Fredrick, surprised by the Duke’s directness, let out a short, nervous chuckle. "How did you know she would co here?"
"Because n like you are predictable," Eric replied, his voice flat. "She is in trouble, and you are the only ghost from her past who could possibly help her. Who else would she run to?"
The earlier apprehension Fredrick felt began to evaporate, replaced by a misplaced sense of importance. He sat up straighter, leaning back against the plush leather seat. He was no longer just a common ex-convict; he was a man sought after by the highest levels of the nobility.
He asked Eric, his voice now holding a smug, confident tone, "Why are you looking for again, Your Grace? Surely not just for a friendly chat."
"The sa reason I sought after you the first ti," Eric said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Augusta Ellington."
Fredrick’s smile widened. He felt he was in a position of power, the sole possessor of a valuable commodity: information. "Well, you’ll be interested to know," he said, his voice conspiratorial, "that our dear Baroness has a new job for . She said she will pay fifty thousand gold coins if I kill a girl nad Delia. Delia Ellington, or Carson... I get confused with the surnas. I heard she recently married the Duke of Elinburgh, you see."
As the words left Fredrick’s mouth, the atmosphere in the carriage changed. The air grew thick and cold. Eric’s jaw tightened, a muscle clenching visibly in his cheek. His hands, resting on his knees, slowly curled into tight, white-knuckled fists.
Fredrick, blinded by his own arrogance, completely misread the sudden, chilling shift in the Duke’s deanor. He looked at Eric with an unassuming expression, believing the Duke’s interest was that of a rival or a collector. "So," he continued, his tone turning oily and greedy, "do you also want the Delia girl? Or perhaps you just want her out of the way? I’m a man of business. How much are you willing to pay?"
Eric closed his eyes for a long, deliberate mont. He took a deep breath, the air hissing slightly between his teeth, and then exhaled slowly, a visible effort to cage the violent, murderous rage that had just erupted within him. Fredrick could have sworn he saw a flash of pure, cold hatred in the Duke’s eyes just before they closed, but he didn’t put his mind to it. He was too busy calculating his potential earnings.
When Eric opened his eyes again, they were calm, but it was the terrifying, dead calm of a frozen lake. He did not answer Fredrick’s question. Instead, he reached into a leather satchel by his side and pulled out a small stack of thick, creamy paper and a bottle of ink.
"What are these?" Fredrick asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Special paper," Eric replied, his voice even. "When you write on them with the ink in this vial, they appear empty. The words only beco visible when the paper is dried and treated with a second, special solution."
Fredrick looked impressed. This was the work of a true professional.
Eric then used the toe of his polished boot to push a heavy, small sack across the floor of the carriage until it rested against Fredrick’s feet. "This is a hundred thousand gold coins," Eric said. "It is an advance paynt."
Fredrick’s eyes widened. He bent down and opened the sack. The golden gleam of the coins welcod him, a sight more beautiful than any sunrise. A wide, greedy smile spread across his face. This was more money than he had ever seen in his life.
"You will take Augusta’s job," Eric commanded, his voice as hard as steel. "You will agree to her terms. And you will write down every single detail of her plan on these papers. Who she contacts, where she hides, what she intends to do. Everything." He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Fredrick’s. "If what you write on those papers is sothing good, sothing useful, I will double your final paynt. But if you try to dupe , Fredrick, if you try to play both sides, I will personally make you wish you were back in the deepest, darkest hole in Newgate Prison."
Fredrick, his mind dazzled by the gold, barely registered the threat. He clutched the money, his decision made. He bowed his head. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said. "You can count on ." He opened the carriage door and left, the heavy sack of coins a comforting weight in his hand.
Mr. Rye appeared at the carriage window once more. "Should we leave, Your Grace?"
Eric watched Fredrick’s retreating figure as he tried to fill every hole, every pocket in his clothes with coins. " Yes," he responded, his voice a low growl. "Have soone follow him. I want to know every move he makes."
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