Hillbrook glanced at the others. “Good luck, gentlemen. I’ve wanted to take Greengrass down since last year.”
Sedgemoor and Harmsworth looked ready for murder. Leath wasn’t surprised. Now that he knew the full details of his uncle’s crimes against them, crimes committed with Greengrass’s aid, he finally admitted that any grudge he’d carried against these men was unjustified.
He left the shabby coach and strode toward the Laughing Bullock. A good ten paces behind, the coachman Brown followed, armed and ready.
Leath pushed his way into a taproom buzzing with afternoon trade. He’d deliberately dressed down in breeches and a plain buff coat, but speculative stares indicated that he still didn’t blend in.
He looked over the sea of heads and quickly located a man fitting Greengrass’s description. Despite the crush, the fellow sat alone at a table for four. Clearly the other patrons recognized the wisdom of giving this hulking thug a wide berth.
Greengrass glanced up, as if sensing Leath’s eyes on him. Ugly as sin indeed. The piglike eyes narrowed with gloating pleasure and he made an exaggerated gesture of welcome toward one of the empty chairs. His other hand hoisted a tankard of beer.
“Your lordship, how kind of you to come.” The rough voice had an Essex accent.
Leath stared down his nose. “I realize you want to savor your triumph, Greengrass. But let’s get this over with.”
Greengrass’s fleshy lips stretched in a nasty smile. “Lord Neville always said that you think your shit doesn’t stink.”
“Charming.”
“Sit down and take your medicine, my boy.”
Leath raised his eyebrows in contempt and sat with a nonchalance designed to tell Greengrass that he didn’t have the upper hand. The man’s eyes lit as they leveled on Leath’s satchel. “Is that it?”
“Yes. Let’s end this.”
“Not here. If anyone gets wind of what’s in that bag, we’ll have a bloody riot on our hands.”
“I don’t trust you away from witnesses,” Leath said coldly.
“We’ll not go far, just the alley behind the inn.” He licked his lips in anticipation. “But give us a look first.”
“First show me the diary.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Call me a cynic.”
With a slowness that grated, Greengrass reached into his surprisingly smart dark green coat and produced a leather-bound book. “Here it be.”
Heart racing, Leath took the pestilential journal. He’d never doubted that the diary was real. Greengrass had sent a few pages of filth when he opened negotiations. And it was just the sort of touch his uncle would give his villainy, keeping a detailed record as if his victims formed part of his collections.
Greengrass snatched it away. “Uh-uh. Show me the color of your gold.”
Carefully, Leath cracked open the satchel to give Greengrass a glimpse of the handful of ten pound notes that rested on top of piles of cut newsprint.
“Paper?” Greengrass spat in disgust.
“Use your head, man. I can’t lift that amount in coin.”
“Paper money can be traced.”
Leath laughed drily and lied. “Once I’ve got the diary, you can disappear with my blessing. Do you think I want you and your flapping gums before a judge?”
Greengrass took a swig from his tankard, then banged it down on the noisome table. One beefy hand splayed over the book. “That makes sense. Although don’t imagine I’ll keep quiet if you gyp me.”
“Prove that’s the diary,” Leath snapped.
“You’re mighty pushy for a bloke whose reputation hangs by a thread.”