Page 11 of Juliet's Touch

Chapter three

Ericawokeinthelate afternoon, parched and sore. As memories of the previous evening filtered in, he groaned into his pillow. Once again, he had concentrated more on preventing crimes than on finding the villain with missing fingers.

For years, Eric had thought his nemesis was named Marc Antony. When he was about fourteen, Flynn had filled him in on the story of the Roman general and Egyptian queen. Thank God, he’d kept Eric from making a fool of himself. Although Eric was stubborn, his friend always looked out for him.

“Stone, ye have to let go of this obsession, for your own good. ’Tis destroying you,” Flynn often told him. “Not that it makes a difference, but I suspect he didn’t mean to hurt her. Some men have a taste for things such as bondage and cutting off air flow. Besides, ’tis been over twenty years. He probably died long ago.”

Whether his mother’s death was accidental was not the issue. Eric needed to know if this nameless man still lived. If only he had started his search immediately, but having the ladies at ThePink Petal mothering him as a youth had hampered his ability to sneak out at night. Once he was an adult, emotional numbness, as well as a few years working on the docks, prevented him from scouring the city. Then, almost a year ago, his goal of becoming a champion pugilist came to fruition. About that same time, he overheard a rumor about a man with mangled fingers breaking into a tenement in Whitechapel. According to the tale, the man crawled into a woman’s bed while she was sleeping and wrapped his hands around her neck. Her husband came home just in time and chased the reprobate into the night.

Although Eric hadn’t been able to verify the story or find the woman or her husband, he began searching for the monster who plagued his nightmares. Instead of finding his nemesis, Eric discovered all manner of horrors thriving in the darkness. For whatever reason, his conscience refused to ignore wrongdoings, so he single-handedly confronted these bullies and criminals. Protecting individuals who needed immediate help took precedence over a twenty-year-old murder, thus slowing his personal quest.

A few days ago, Eric overheard another rumor.

“Lord Stanley forces himself on his maids,” a bloke in a pub said to the man sitting across from him. “Also has a penchant for prostitutes.”

“Guess he can’t find a willing chit due to his disfigured arm,” the other man said.

“Or due to the fact that he is a rotter of the worst sort.”

Both men chuckled.

A disfigured arm was a flimsy lead at best, but since Eric was desperate, he decided to expand his search to the West End, starting at Lord Stanley’s town house. Last night, he snuck in through the servants’ entrance and stole through the hallways with the intention of checking out the lord’s arms and hands. Unfortunately, he heard a woman’s cries coming from behind aclosed door. He barged into the bedchamber to find a shirtless man, small clothes exposed. Angry burns covered one arm, as well as five of his ten fingers. He had a young woman in a night rail cornered. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“What the bloody hell?” The man gritted his teeth. “I insist you leave this minute.”

This ginger-haired bloke looked nothing like the man in Eric’s memories. Another failed attempt to find his monster that led Eric to an unfortunate situation that he couldn’t ignore.

“Lord Stanley?” Eric asked as he retrieved the rope and dropped his bag onto the ground.

“Who wants to know?”

The fool had inadvertently confirmed his identity. Eric leaped upon him, easily wrestling him to the floor as the poor woman squealed and backed away from the tussle.

“You are safe now,” Eric told the shivering maid.

Stanley growled. “I can do whatever I want with my servants.”

Eric secured the bully’s arms behind his body, shoved a gag into his mouth, and hoisted him onto his feet.

An older man, he assumed was the butler, and a young woman—another maid perhaps—entered the room, their eyes wide with horror.

The maid he’d rescued, flung herself into the new female’s embrace.

Eric grabbed a lit candle from the nightstand, then secured his bag on his shoulder. “I suggest you find new positions,” he said to the women as he pushed his prisoner past the three of them.

Eric shoved Lord Stanley through the hall, and down the stairs. He didn’t let up until they were in the carriage house.

“Sit,” Eric demanded.

A teary-eyed Stanley obeyed.

Eric placed the candle on a bale of hay and searched his surroundings. Although it was a bit cold for a gig, it was the most practical of Stanley’s carriages.

Damnations.Eric hated this part. Even after a year of dealing with miscreants and pounding on his opponents, this type of violence never got easier. Unfortunately, it was a necessary evil, and this aristocrat needed to be taught a lesson. Just desserts and all. He grabbed the whimpering lord and hoisted him onto his feet.

“I will let you live if you promise never to force yourself on another woman,” Eric said.

The truth was, he had no intention of killing the man, but hopefully his threat was enough to scare him into behaving. But, if not, a bit of humiliation should do the trick.