My Bratty Wife
Chapter 37 - Thirty Seven

Chapter 37: Chapter Thirty Seven

"Your Grace," Roger, the steward, approached him cautiously, his voice laced with a hint of urgency. "There’s been a development concerning Luke."

Ryan’s head snapped up, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. "A development? What is it?"

Roger cleared his throat, his face etched with concern. "Luke... he requested a sick leave a day before. Didn’t come to work."

Disappointment washed over Ryan, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Sick leave?" he echoed, his voice low and dangerous. "Two days too late, wouldn’t you say, Roger?"

Roger stammered, his eyes wide with fear. "I... I apologize, Your Grace. I wasn’t aware..."

Ryan cut him off with a sharp gesture. "It doesn’t matter now. Luke’s probably miles away by now, hiding like a frightened rabbit."

He slammed his fist on the desk, the sound echoing through the tense silence. The trail, so clear just moments ago, had gone cold. Luke, the potential key to unraveling the Viscount’s murder, had disappeared into thin air.

Just then, the study door creaked open, and Thorne entered, his face uncharacteristically grim. "Your Grace," he announced, his voice devoid of its usual composure. "We’ve found Luke."

Ryan’s head shot up, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Found him?" he echoed, disbelief lacing his voice. "Where?"

Thorne took a deep breath, his eyes filled with a newfound determination. "He’s been holed up in a small tavern on the outskirts of town."

A triumphant smile spread across Ryan’s face. "Excellent work, Thorne," he declared, his earlier frustration replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. "Prepare the horses. We leave immediately."

Moments later, Ryan and Thorne thundered out of Viscount Conrad’s residence, their horses kicking up dust as they galloped towards the outskirts of town. The setting sun cast long shadows as they reached the outskirts, and the air hung heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and ale.

As they reached the outskirts of the city, Thorne steered them towards a dusty, ramshackle tavern nestled by the side of a deserted road. A lone lamp flickered above the entrance, casting an eerie glow on the weathered sign that proclaimed the establishment as "The Rusty Nail."

Ryan dismounted, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Not exactly the most discreet hideout, is it?" he remarked, throwing the reins to a waiting stable hand.

"Apparently, Luke isn’t the brightest bulb," Thorne chuckled, his gruff demeanor momentarily softened. "He must have thought he’d be safe amongst the usual lowlifes here."

They entered the tavern, the heavy door creaking open with a groan. Inside, the air hung thick with the smell of stale ale and desperation. A motley crew of patrons filled the dimly lit room, their gazes shifting towards Ryan and Thorne with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

Ryan adjusted his cravat, a steely glint in his eyes. "Find the barkeep," he instructed Thorne in a low voice. "We need some information."

Thorne nodded, disappearing into the throng of patrons. Ryan, meanwhile, scanned the room, his sharp eyes picking out every detail – the nervous twitch of a gambler’s hand, the bloodshot eyes of a drunkard, the fear that flickered in the eyes of a young runaway seeking refuge.

But Luke was nowhere to be seen.

Thorne waded back through the throng of patrons, a grimace twisting his face. "Your Grace," he whispered, leaning close to Ryan. "I found out where Luke is."

Ryan’s eyebrows shot up. "Where?"

"He’s in the... ’Scarlet Den,’" Thorne replied, his voice barely audible over the raucous laughter and drunken shouts.

The Scarlet Den. Ryan knew the place all too well. A notorious establishment known for its... unconventional forms of entertainment. A place where men paid exorbitant fees for a night of fleeting pleasure with women of questionable reputation.

"Scarlet Den, huh?" Ryan smirked, a glint of steel in his eyes. "Looks like Luke has a taste for the finer things in life, even on the run."

"Stupid boy," Ryan muttered under his breath, a touch of exasperation lacing his voice. It looked like Luke had underestimated his pursuers.

He straightened his jacket and met Thorne’s gaze. "Let’s pay the barkeep," he said, his voice firm. "We haven’t got all night."

Thorne nodded curtly, and they approached the portly barkeep who surveyed them with a cynical glint in his eyes.

He tossed a hefty pouch of coins onto the bar counter, the clinking sound cutting through the din of the tavern. "Here," he said to the barkeep. "Keep the change. Just tell me which way to the Scarlet Den."

The barkeep’s eyes narrowed as he pocketed the coins. "Upstairs, second door on the left," he grunted, his voice gruff.

Disgust flickered across Ryan’s face, but his mission took precedence. With Thorne at his side, he marched towards the staircase, the rickety steps groaning under their weight. A wave of stale perfume and cheap liquor assaulted their senses, momentarily blurring their vision.

They reached the landing, the sounds of laughter and muffled moans leaking out from behind closed doors. Ryan grimaced, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. He had never been one to shy away from the underbelly of society, but there was something inherently wrong about this place.

Pushing open the second door on the left, Ryan and Throne were met with a scene that would stay etched in their memory for a long time. Dimly lit oil lamps cast an orange glow on the gaudily decorated room. Women, barely clad and heavily made-up, mingled with men, their laughter tinged with a hint of desperation. On a plush chaise lounge, a man sprawled halfway across a young woman, his mouth on her nipples while her back etched forward feeding him more as a soft moan escaped her lips, an indulgence in sex playing out in plain sight.

"This is... disgusting," Throne muttered under his breath, his face a mask of disgust.

Ryan ignored him, his eyes scanning the room with practiced efficiency. There, in a corner booth, sat Luke, oblivious to the pandemonium around him. He had a half-empty mug of ale in one hand, his other arm draped around two naked women, their faces plastered with fake smiles.

Their presence, however, hadn’t gone unnoticed. As soon as Luke’s gaze met Ryan’s steely stare, the smile vanished from his face. Panic flickered in his eyes, his hand jerking away from the women as if they were hot coals.

With a strangled cry, Luke lunged out of the booth, knocking over a table and sending drinks flying. He scrambled towards the back of the room, his eyes searching frantically for an escape route.

"There!" Ryan shouted, lunging after him.

Thorne followed suit c, the commotion quickly attracting the attention of the other patrons. Men started bellowing, women shrieked, and the previously jovial atmosphere turned into a chaotic mess.

"Stop him!" Thorne bellowed, his imposing stature clearing a path through the crowded room.

Ryan followed close behind, the urgency of the situation fueling his movements. He couldn’t let Luke slip away, not now.

"There!" Thorne barked, pointing down a narrow passageway. Luke’s stumbling figure, a beacon of desperation in the flickering candlelight, rounded a corner and disappeared.

Ryan sprinted after Thorne, their boots pounding on the uneven stone floor. They navigated the confusing corridors, each twist and turn taking them further into the bowels of the tavern. The air grew stale and thick with the smell of spilled ale and something vaguely unpleasant that Ryan couldn’t quite place.

Finally, they reached a dead end – a heavy wooden door barring their way. A single, rusty iron handle adorned the worn surface.

"Blast it!" Ryan cursed, slamming his fist against the door. "He must have known about this!"

Thorne scanned the wall beside the door. With a grunt of exertion, he ripped a loose brick from the decaying mortar. "There!" he declared, pointing to a narrow opening behind the brick. "A secret passage."

Without hesitation, Ryan squeezed his lean frame through the opening, followed closely by Thorne. They found themselves in a dusty crawlspace, the stench of damp earth and mildew assaulting their nostrils. The sound of muffled hoofbeats echoed faintly from above them.

"He must have known a back way out," Ryan muttered, pushing himself forward on his hands and knees. They crawled for what felt like an eternity, the cramped space making each movement a struggle. Finally, after several agonizing moments, they emerged into a moonlit alleyway.

A lone figure on horseback, silhouetted against the pale light, was just disappearing into the distance. It was Luke.

"There!" Ryan roared, scrambling to his feet. He sprinted towards the nearest stable hand, urgency lacing his voice. "Horse! Now!"

Thorne, already ahead of him, snatched the reins of a powerful black stallion from a startled stable boy. Ryan swung himself into the saddle, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Follow him!" Ryan yelled, his voice hoarse.

They launched forward, their horses thundering down the cobbled streets. They chased Luke through the deserted night, the clatter of hooves echoing through the stillness. The air grew colder, the houses thinning out as they left the city behind.

Minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity. Just as Ryan began to worry he might lose Luke, a gunshot tore through the night, shattering the silence. They both flinched, a sense of dread settling in their stomachs.

Ryan pulled on the reins, his horse skidding to a halt. Thorne reined in beside him, his face etched with concern. They followed the sound of the gunshot, their hearts pounding in their chests.

There, in a clearing bathed in moonlight, they found Luke. He lay sprawled on the ground, motionless, a single bullet wound staining the back of his head. His horse, whinnying in panic, stood a few feet away.

Ryan dismounted, a cold knot of dread tightening in his gut. He knelt beside Luke, his fingers brushing against the lifeless body. There was no pulse, no sign of life. Luke, the key to unraveling the Viscount’s murder, was dead.