“I think it’s possible, especially if he’s meant to report back that he was successful and what Chelmsford’s response to it is.”

Without needing to coordinate, they began looking around the grounds, behind hedgerows and buildings. They didn’t have to look long. Behind an outbuilding, tucked into a shrubbery, they found a man dressed in the livery of a footman, his right sleeve blood-soaked.

Fletcher yanked him none-too-gently out of the hedge. “Wanted to see your handiwork, did you? Feeling satisfied with the pain you’ve caused?” He held fast to the man, looking at him with a degree of cold anger Barnabus had never before seen on Fletcher’s face.

“I did what I were told to do.” Though Claud seemed unpleasantly surprised to have been found, he didn’t look remorseful or afraid. “And I’ll be rewarded for it.”

“Rewarded with a swing on the gallows,” Fletcher growled.

“The Mastiff’ll spring me.”

“I’d not waste my breath making that wager,” Fletcher said. “The likes of the Mastiff’d sooner cannibalize his own than rescue ’em.”

“Come now,” a voice drawled from behind them. “That’s a horrid thing to say.”

Barnabus spun about. Fletcher turned enough to look without losing his grip on the murderer.

There, no more than a few strides away, was the man they’d been chasing for months. The infamous Mastiff, who had ended and upended so many lives. He and Claud made two. Barnabus and Fletcher evened those odds. This was their chance. If Gemma had eluded the Mastiff, here was the moment to make that permanent.

Barnabus took a single step toward the man.

“Don’t be a cod,” the Mastiff growled. “Just because I’m the only one you can see don’t mean I’m the only one here. The odds ain’t at all leaning your way, Doc.”

“Deed is done,” Claud said quickly, proudly. “Did exactly what you told me to. But these blokes mean to see me swing.”

The Mastiff looked at him like he was a simpleton. “It ain’t such a bad way to go.”

For the first time, Claud looked nervous. “But it ain’t how I’m gonna go.”

The Mastiff gave him a look of pity.

“You’re tossing me to the wolves?” Claud sounded frantic.

“It ain’t the wolves you should be worried about,” the Mastiff said. “The Tempest is coming.”

In a tense and terrified whisper, Claud repeated that all-too-familiar warning, “The Tempest is coming.”

The coming storm, be it a person or a criminal enterprise, brought fear even to a cold-blooded murderer. How much worse was this going to get? What more could the Mastiff and his comrades possibly have planned?

He smells blood. He has to be stopped.