Demon's Bride

Chapter 11

He had to find her. Everywhere was noise, anarchy. Windows shattered and voices shouted. Leo had seen mobs, knew what they were capable of, the sudden violence that razed buildings and caused men to turn to animals. It never took much in London to incite a riot.

Add demons to the mix, and what followed was inevitable.

Demons. Damn him. Demons. Real, and inciting the crowds to violence. He had seen the creatures in the pit. Things with horns and fangs. Yet they were disguised somehow, wearing the clothing of ordinary humans. No one else had noticed, but Leo recognized the beasts for what they were. Part of his bonds with the Devil, he could only assume. It did not matter how he knew the things for what they were. What mattered was getting Anne out of the theater—yet he had been too late.

Now some of the city’s most esteemed residents were brawling in the streets like Saint Giles rowdies, and on the cobbles lay a few insensate people, trampled by the feet of hundreds. Having broken the chain about its neck, humanity went wild.

Leo shoved through the crowd, searching for Anne. He roared her name. The noise was too great to hear if she responded.

Fear unlike anything he’d experienced throbbed through him. Demons were out there. Creatures of darkest magic. They might have her. She could be hurt, or worse ...

No. No. He would find her.

But where the hell was she? He scanned the mob massed on Russell Street outside the theater. There. He caught a flash of light brown hair and ruby silk, before it disappeared into the crowd spilling into other streets.

He plowed through anyone in his path, his gaze fixed on where he’d last seen her. As he did, he cursed his useless gift of foresight, which showed him only financial disasters but could not help him in this, his greatest moment of need.

Nearing where he had spotted her, the rioters still thick around him, he finally heard her, calling his name. He shouted back to her, but could not catch her response or if she even knew he was nearby. But it gave him a sense of where she might be. Off Russell Street, and into the twisting, dark lanes surrounding the theater.

He moved into a narrow, shadowed street, where the crowd thinned. At the farther end of the street, he saw her at last. Three men had her, pulling on her arms as she struggled to break free. They tugged her into an alley.

Rage blackened thought. He bolted down the street, shouldering aside anyone in his way, seeing nothing but where Anne had been a moment ago. He did not pause at the entrance to the alley. It was almost pitch black, and stank of rotting mutton, but he plunged in.

Four darker shapes revealed where Anne battled against her captors. Judging by the sounds of struggle, she was putting up an admirable fight.

“Filthy rogues,” she snarled. “Swine.”

He could not see, but so long as she kept talking, he knew where she was. And his presence had not been noticed by the bastards who had her. That gave him one advantage. His other advantage lay in his coat pocket, but he had only one shot, and in dark, close quarters, he could not run the risk of missing and accidentally hitting her.

He merged with the shadows, slipping forward unseen. Then, at the precise moment, he launched himself into the fray.

Tackling one of the men, Leo grappled with the assailant, getting a sense of the man’s size, his position. Leo rammed his fist into the man’s face, and his opponent went down with a groan.

Anne cried out a warning as two others rushed him. Darkness helped and hindered as he repulsed their attack. He grunted as one man’s fist connected with his shoulder, but Leo knew the ways of street fighting. Long before he began training at the boxing salon, he had been a hot-tempered young man in countless brawls.

He wrestled now with the attackers in rough, ugly combat. No art here, only the desire to hurt, and survive. In the darkness, they fought, threw punches, kicked. But the assailants did not have Leo’s motivation, for he fought not just for himself, but Anne. He punched one of the men in the side of the head. The attacker formed a dark lump as he crumpled to the ground.

Leaving Leo with two remaining opponents. He heard Anne’s angry curses as she continued to fight against one of the men.

He could not wait for the next attack. His hand brushed against a broken board lying on the pavement, and he grabbed it. Noting the sounds of his adversary’s shoes on the cobbles, he shot forward, swinging the board. It must have connected with the man’s stomach, for he made retching sounds. Using the noise as guidance, Leo struck the gagging man under the chin, knocking him backward. The board broke in Leo’s hands as the man groaned. He did not rise again.

Only one bastard left. The son of a bitch who had Anne. But Leo could not attack—he might hurt her in the process.

“Don’t know who you are, bloke,” the man sneered. “But I’m taking this here piece.”

“I’m the piece’s husband.” Leo’s old, coarse accent had returned but he did not give a damn.

The man chuckled. “Tonight she gets a new man.”

“No she bloody won’t,” Anne spat.

“Anne, with your free hand, grab his little finger,” commanded Leo.

By the sounds of the man’s grunting, Leo understood she had done what he asked.

“Now pull back. Hard.”

Her attacker yelped. “No—”

Anne did not hesitate. A sharp cracking sound filled the alley, followed immediately by the man’s scream.

“Get to the wall,” Leo directed.

“I’m there,” she said a moment later.

As soon as the words left her mouth, Leo attacked. He threw himself toward where he suspected the man would be. And he was not wrong. Finding him in the darkness, Leo rained punches down on him, mercilessly hammering at Anne’s would-be attacker. The injury to the man’s hand made him reckless and angry, and while his punches weren’t accurate, they packed a great deal of power. Leo lost his breath as he took a fist to the chest. He recovered, gasping, his own fury blazing.

He riddled the bastard with hits, until Leo felt his own hands wet with the other man’s blood. It wasn’t enough. Leo wanted more. He kept up his barrage. Finally, Leo heard the man fall to the ground. Leo continued his assault, the demand for more and more blood urging him on. Nothing would satisfy him but destruction. He picked the man’s head up, ready to smash it to the pavement.

Anne’s touch on his shoulder stopped him. “He’s not hitting back.”

“Don’t care.” Leo’s voice was rough in his throat, someone else’s voice.

She tugged on his coat. “The way is clear.”

Reluctant, he loosened his grip on the man’s head. Though he did not smash it on the cobbles, he did let it drop, and it hit the ground with a thick, meaty sound.

He straightened, his body screaming with demands for more violence. Only Anne’s arms around him kept the beast within at bay. She urged him toward the entry to the alley, stepping over the prone bodies of the other men.

At the entrance to the alley, Leo stopped. He heard one of the men stagger to his feet behind them. A metallic hissing echoed in the narrow space—the sound of a knife being drawn. And then footsteps rushed toward them. Leo whirled around.

A brief flash lit the alley, followed by the bark of a pistol. Powder scented the air. There was a groan, and then the sound of a body tumbling to the ground.

Leo lowered his pistol.

“Is he dead?” asked Anne.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

A brief pause, then: “I don’t, either.”

Leo tucked his gun back into his coat. He threaded his fingers with Anne’s. Together, they ran off into the night.

Dawn lightened the sky to the color of ash. Leo watched the coming of day from a wing-backed chair in his study. He still wore his clothing from the night before, though there were tears at the shoulders and elbows. A gentleman’s finery was not cut for brawling. But despite the plush carpets at his feet or the morocco-bound books lining the shelves of his study, he was not and never would be a gentleman.

He was glad.

Curled into a ball in the other wing-backed chair, with a blanket tucked around her, dozed Anne. She had not changed out of her gown, either. In the half-light of morning, her face was pale, and her lashes formed dark fringes against her cheeks. At her feet tipped a half-empty glass of brandy, the same he had pressed on her as soon as they had returned home last night.

The flames in the fireplace burned bright and hot, casting warmth. Though she had fought bravely, she shivered the whole way back to Bloomsbury. Yet she refused to go to bed. So he tried to make her as comfortable as possible here, in the study, which meant a strong fire and brandy. He had moved her chair close to the fireplace so she might warm quickly. At least her shivering had stopped.

Leo studied the raw patches on his knuckles. His hand ached a little. He welcomed the ache, for it meant that he had done exactly what he needed to in order to secure Anne’s safety. He had not fought like a gentleman. He’d broken men’s faces and splattered their blood upon the ground. He had shot someone. Perhaps killed him. And left the scene without a blemish of concern on his heart. Not the actions of a man of genteel birth.

He did not care. All that mattered was that Anne was safe.

Leo pushed up from his chair. He stoked the fire, then strode to the window. He braced his hands on the inside casing and stared out at the approach of morning. There had been a time when he knew this hour of the day because it meant he was just coming home from his night’s revels. It had left him enough time to bolt down some coffee before heading back out again to the Exchange. Little reason to keep him home, for his house in Bloomsbury was costly but empty.

Never did he think he would be awake at this hour because he had battled through a riot.

He glanced over his shoulder. Anne still slept. Fitfully, but deep enough.

With no eyes on him, Leo at last gave in. His head hung down between his outstretched arms, and a shudder passed through him.

God. God. He had come so bloody close to losing her.

His mind reared back from the possibility. Thinking it felt like a cold knife cutting him into large, bleeding pieces.

And with Whit out there, somewhere, last night’s dangers were but a foretaste of possible disaster. He might have even been in the mob, waiting for his moment to strike, to steal her away.

Leo swung away from the window, lest he smash his fist through the glass.

A soft tap sounded on the door. Leo strode over and opened it, careful to keep his steps quiet.

The head footman, Munslow, stood in the hallway, and Leo moved out to meet him. “Brought a morning paper, as you asked, sir.”

Leo took the newspaper and scanned the front page. Wet ink smeared on his fingers, but he could still read it. Most shocking Violence and Disorder at Drury-Lane Theatre transpired yesterday evening, the Cause of which is yet Undetermined. Three Deaths are reported with greater numbers of Injury, including a Sergeant of His Majesty’s 15^thRegiment of Light Dragoons. It is noted by the Author of this article that lately such grievous Events are occurring with greater and greater Frequency in this noble City ...

Reading on, Leo found an extensive list of localized disorders, from fights all around town to an increase in arson, theft, and even murder.

“What do you know of this?” He held the paper in front of Munslow, who peered at the type.

“Can’t say if that’s all true, sir.” The footman scratched beneath his wig. “But it has been rough out there. On his half-day, Davy Jenks, who waits for the gent across the street, he got beat by a gang with truncheons. And the fire brigade were summoned only two nights ago when someone tried to burn down Mrs. Lee’s pie shop on Smithy Street. Lately, seems like all of London’s become Bedlam. Don’t need to pay to see lunatics—not when everyone’s mad.”

Leo frowned. “I haven’t heard any of this.”

The footman offered a half smile. “Well, sir, seeing as how you been busy with the missus, it might’ve missed your attention.”

Leo thrust the newspaper back into Munslow’s hands. “Bring coffee. And something to eat for when Mrs. Bailey wakes.”

The footman bowed and hurried off. Quietly, Leo went back into the study, picking over what Munslow had said. The footman had no cause to lie. And Leo remembered how, not very long ago, he’d been caught in a melee on his way to the Exchange. He had been wrapped too deeply in his own concerns to notice, but thinking on it now, images flickered through his mind. Of thrown fists and broken windows and weeping women and slack-faced men, spread all throughout the city like rot. London’s going mad.

Why now? What was the cause? It was never a peaceful place, but something was stirring up poison.

Across his back, his flesh grew heated. Unease tightened his belly.

Despite the heat on his back, the room itself felt chilled. And no wonder. The fire had gone out. It had been blazing not a few minutes prior. Now it was cold, its embers faintly smoking.

He crossed and pulled the tinderbox down from the mantel. Using a flint, he lit some tinder, and so brought the fire back to life again. He crouched, watching the flames for a moment, their shift and dance.

Turning his head, he saw Anne gazing at him. They stared at each other, mute.

At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell her everything: the gift he had received from the Devil, the true threat that Whit represented. No more secrets between them. Only the truth of themselves.

Yet even if she did believe him, he could not predict what her response might be. Disgust, horror. Terror. All possibilities ended with her fleeing. None with her cleaving to him, swearing eternal devotion.

She must never know. Her innocence had to be preserved.

He stroked his hand down the side of her face. She leaned into his touch, but her gaze stayed fixed on his.

“That trick you showed me last night,” she said. “With the man’s finger—breaking it so he would let me go. I want you to show me more.”

He knew dozens, if not hundreds, of ways to hurt a man. Part of his less-than-genteel education. Ladies did not know how to jam their thumbs into a man’s throat or ram an elbow in a man’s groin. He did not care if Anne was a lady. Keeping her safe—that was all that mattered.

“We’ll start later today,” he said. “After you get some rest.”

She clasped his wrist. “Show me now.”

Before he could speak, another tap sounded on the door. It must be the breakfast he’d sent for. He straightened up from his crouch. “Enter.”

Munslow opened the door, but he did not have a tray with him. “Beg pardon, sir. Lord Wansford is come calling.”

“My father?” Anne glanced at the clock on the mantel, which showed the hour to be barely past seven. “He is never up this early.”

“I would’ve told him you weren’t taking callers, sir, but he seemed insistent, and you and the missus are awake.”

Leo frowned. Of all the times to deal with his father-in-law, the morning after escaping a deadly rampage ranked at the bottom of a very long list. Still, if he was here this early, it must be important.

“Give Mrs. Bailey a moment to retire, and then show him in.”

Anne rose. “I want to stay.”

“Show him in now. And bring that coffee.”

The footman bowed. “Yes, sir.”

When they were alone, Anne looked at her reflection in the pier glass over the mantel. During the night, the pins had escaped her hair, and now it spilled over her shoulders and down her back in tangled caramel waves. She briefly fussed with her hair, but the struggle did not last long. “I look like I was in a riot.”

He came to stand behind her and gathered up the mass of her hair so he might press a kiss to the back of her neck. “You were. And you look beautiful.”

“Like a ruffian.”

They stared at each other in the glass, their mirror selves. His own hair was undone from its queue, stubble roughened his cheeks, his clothes were torn, and his hands curved over her shoulders showed red, raw knuckles.

“A well-suited couple,” he said, and as he’d hoped, she smiled.

The footman’s reflection appeared in the mirror. “Lord Wansford.”

A moment later, the baron stepped into the study. He visibly started when he saw not only Leo, but Anne, both of them looking ragged.

“Good God,” Wansford exclaimed. “Were you accosted by bandits?”

“There was a riot at Drury Lane last night.” Leo did not bother bowing. “It’s in the papers.”

“We do not receive the newspaper,” murmured Anne.

“He doesn’t get the paper,” Leo said. “We do.” He drew a breath. “Tell me your business, Wansford. It’s late, or early, and my wife and I are tired.”

The baron tugged on his threadbare waistcoat, pulling it across the expanse of his belly. From his pocket, he pulled a coin. “I came to bring you this.”

Leo stared at the penny for a moment. His mind was both acutely sharp and also misty, but he recalled his purpose. From the corner of his eye, he saw Anne frown. She clearly did not expect Leo’s coin-collecting “pastime” to extend to her own family.

He was too weary and tense to provide an explanation. Instead, he strode across the study and plucked the coin from his father-in-law’s hand.

A falling sensation as the vision pulled him in. It was dark, and oppressively close. On every side was solid rock. Veins of glinting ore threaded through the rock, and by the light of flickering lanterns he recognized the ore: iron. A mining tunnel. Grimy-faced men wielded picks, the sound a relentless chip-chip-chip as they hacked the ore from its prison. No sense of day or night in the tunnel, or any time at all passing, for there was always iron, and more iron to be pried free from the earth.

Someone shouted as a tremor passed through the thick stone walls. The tremor grew. It turned into a hard buckling, rock sifting down in larger and larger chunks. Men yelled, shoving each other in their haste to flee. But most could not escape. The walls collapsed. The ability to breathe vanished. The lanterns went out, and everything became darkness and sound and choking airlessness and the grind of rock upon the fragile bodies of men.

“Leo?”

A touch upon his arm, and he snapped back into the room. No crushing rock. No darkness and the screams of those trapped. Only his study in Bloomsbury, with its paneled walls and indifferent furniture.

Anne gazed up at him with concern, her hand upon his forearm. Her father also stared at him, anxious.

Leo dragged air into his lungs and pushed back the suffocating remnants of the vision. It lingered, though, in black tendrils wrapped through his mind and body.

He offered a smile to Anne. “Only tired.”

“You have your coin,” said Wansford, “for whatever reason. Now will you invest in that iron mine on my behalf?”

Leo opened his mouth to tell the baron that he would not sink money into a venture that would suffer a catastrophic collapse. “The weather continues to be damp,” he said instead.

Wansford gave him a puzzled frown. “Usually it is, this time of year. But what of the mine?”

Again, Leo tried to speak, to warn the baron against the mining venture. “Will you stay for breakfast?”

“I’ve taken mine already.” Wansford scowled. “See here, Bailey, you must say at once whether you will serve as my intermediary. You agreed to it already, and I shall look unkindly on it should you renege now.”

“Perhaps we ought to get some rest,” suggested Anne, “and we can resume this conversation at another time.”

“It must be today,” her father said. “For it is the last day the venture will accept investors.”

Leo heard their voices as if from a great distance. Words formed in his mind, words he intended to say, and yet as much as he fought, he could not get them into his mouth and spoken aloud. It felt like a vise, crushing him, and his vision swam.

He must tell Wansford to avoid the investment, but for some reason, he could not speak. The room tilted as he staggered to his desk. Anne’s concerned voice floated around him, yet he grabbed a sheet of foolscap and a quill. A dip of the nib in ink, and he readied his hand to write his warning.

The sharpened nib touched the paper. He moved his hand, willing the words to move from his thoughts to his pen.

ABCDEFG. There are ships at anchor in Portsmouth. O, what a jolly lad is he.

Spattering ink like black blood, the quill fell from his fingers. He stared at his hand as though it belonged to someone else. Powerless in his own body.

Anne appeared at his side, a pleat of worry between her brows. She looked at the sheet of foolscap, the nonsense he had scribbled there, and her face paled. “I should summon the physician.” She ran her hands over his torso. “Perhaps you suffered an injury last night. You need to be attended.”

“I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. The Devil had given him a gift, a gift that he had always exploited to his own benefit. It had never failed him, not once. And indeed, it worked perfectly this morning. Save for one critical element: he couldn’t warn Wansford about the mining disaster.

He had never needed to caution anyone before. Never knew this one fatal flaw in his gift. Now he did.

As he stared at his wide-eyed wife and her father, coldness seeped through him. If this vital failing existed in what he once thought infallible, what other damned defects existed in his agreement with the Devil? Of a certain, they must be there. Any investor knew that one flaw led to another, and another. Until what had once appeared to be a perfect opportunity became merely the presage to disaster.

She did not want him to go out. Something clearly was not right with her husband. Not illness, precisely, but a profound sense of wrong, as if he found himself inhabiting another man’s life. Surely it was on account of their exhaustion. Yet he would not remain at home.

“I have to get to the Exchange.” Standing by the glass in their bedchamber, he shrugged into a coat of dark blue wool. His hair was still wet from his bath, yet he had not shaved, and he looked as dangerous as a primed pistol, ready to fire.

“Then I will come with you.” She plucked at the ribbons fastening her wrapper. A few minutes was all she required to change from her dishabille into something suitable for the outdoors.

His hand stayed hers. “I need you to stay here.”

“Because it is scandalous if a lady goes to Exchange Alley?”

He scowled. “Don’t give a damn about scandal. I only want you safe.”

“The safest place for me is with you.”

Yet he shook his head. “Not after last night. Not with London verging on chaos.” He stepped back, and she felt the strained brittleness of the connection between them. “You’re safer at home, behind these walls. Munslow is here, and a dozen footmen. No one will be able to hurt you.”

His concern touched her, though a little, venomous voice whispered, Is it the rioters he fears, or Lord Whitney?

She had no answer. She could not explain what had transpired in the study with her father, the strange humor that had gripped Leo. He had spoken of inanities, written nonsense—alarming in and of themselves. But most frightening was the look on his face, the confusion and angry powerlessness. So utterly unlike him.

Something was happening, something strange and terrible, and yet nowhere could she find meaning.

Leo brushed a kiss across her mouth, and she saw it again, fleeting, in the gunmetal of his eyes: doubt. A doubt that unnerved him deeply.

“I’ll return soon. And when I get back, we’ll begin your fighting education.” Then he was gone, his footsteps sounding in the hallway, down the stairs, and finally out the door.

The fire in the bedchamber sputtered, and died.

God, why could she not keep a fire lit? She grabbed a china figurine of a drowsing shepherd, and threw it into the fireplace with a frustrated cry.

A moment later, a footman appeared at the door, drawn by the sound of shattering porcelain. “Madam?”

“An accident. But don’t send a maid to clean it. Not yet.”

The footman bowed and retreated. Anne sank down to the carpet, exhausted, despairing. She felt herself in a cavern. All around her was darkness, and she had neither candle nor lantern to light her way. Her only option was to stumble forward, hoping she did not fall and suffer a fatal injury.

They had just finished dinner. The servants had cleared away the dishes, and the candles burned low as a distant clock struck the hour. It had been a meal marked by silence, the sounds limited to the clink of knives against china, wine poured in goblets. She had tried to speak, to draw Leo out, yet every thrown lure was met with distracted responses. A word or two was all he had managed, his gaze withdrawn and preoccupied.

Anne rose from the table. Leo did the same. They went up together. In the hallway, he guided her toward the parlor.

“I’m for bed.” Weariness oppressed her.

“You should have rested when I went out.”

“Rest was impossible.”

“The bedchamber door was closed, else I would’ve come in.”

She could only manage a shrug, unwilling to tell him that she needed distance to make sense of the uncertainty twisting within her. Gazing up at his hard, handsome face now, gentled slightly with concern for her, she wondered how the plays she used to watch from the theater gallery could have been so very misguided. They ended when the two lovers pledged their devotion to each other, and with that, all obstacles fell away. As though love were the answer, demolishing every impediment.

What lies those sentimental dramas were. For her heart cracked and bled.

Leo frowned—he was an astute man. He had to feel it, too.

“Sir,” said an approaching footman. “Lord Wansford has returned. He would speak with you.”

“Bring him up to the parlor.” He turned to Anne. “I’ll see you in our chamber.”

“I’ll join you in the parlor.” She had not forgotten the strange scene from that morning.

His gaze turned opaque. Yet he offered her his arm, and together they went to await her father.

He came into the chamber, bearing the cold air of evening and an angry expression. “The deuce, Bailey?” Her father’s gaze shot to her, as if too late remembering he was not to use such language in the presence of a lady.

“Wansford.” Leo did not get up from where he was draped against a settee. Nor did he offer her father a glass of brandy.

“You said you would invest in that iron mine. And yet you did not.”

“No.”

Anne stared at her husband. He kept his gaze on the brandy in his glass, contemplating it. His face was a mask.

“Why the Devil not?” demanded her father.

She could not stop her small flinch at those words, and saw Leo’s mouth tighten, as well. Still staring at his drink, he seemed about to speak, but whatever he meant to say appeared to lodge in his throat. He took a drink, swallowing hard, then set the glass down on a low table.

“I made a better investment.”

“We agreed—”

“I said I would investigate the Gloucestershire mine. I did not consent to invest in it.”

Her father reddened. “The opportunity is lost.”

“If Leo did not make the investment,” Anne said, “he must have a good reason for doing so.” That was one reliable truth about her husband: in matters of business, he always acted in the best self-interest.

“You will still earn a profit, Wansford,” said Leo. “I made a counterinvestment in another iron mine.”

“Why not the Gloucestershire mine?”

“I don’t need to explain my decision.” Leo’s voice was sharp, his gaze likewise cutting. Her father recoiled at the tone. “But mark me, you will make a profit. That is a certainty.”

A look of confusion crossed her father’s face. He seemed uncertain how to respond. Leo continued to stare at him, his gaze unblinking and cold.

Ultimately, her father said, “I will respect your judgment.”

Leo’s mouth twisted. “How gratifying.”

“These past hours have been very taxing.” Anne rose up from her seat and urged her father toward the door. “It’s time for you to go.”

His head jerked like a puppet. “Yes. Yes, I should ... I ought to ...” But he did not know what he should or ought to do. He peered around her, and produced a smile for Leo. “My thanks.”

The response was merely a flick of Leo’s wrist. Though he continued to lounge on the settee, tension coiled through him, as though he were a hairbreadth away from tearing the chamber apart.

“Good night, Father.” Anne gave him a dutiful kiss on the cheek, catching a thread of his scent of reboiled tea and adulterated tobacco.

He muttered a farewell, then followed a footman down the corridor. As his footsteps retreated, Anne shut the door to the parlor, then pressed her back against it, facing her husband. He stared into empty air.

“That was kind of you to make a better investment.”

Once more, that bitter twist of his mouth. “Nothing kind about it. It was my capital.”

“Against his estate. If the venture had not succeeded, you nonetheless would have emerged the richer.”

“As I said, a more advantageous opportunity presented itself.”

She studied the long lines of his body, her gaze moving up to trace the clean delineation of his profile, the curve of his lower lip. A sweet agony to look upon him.

“I wish you would let me into your confidence.”

His gaze snapped up to hers. “You know everything.”

“Who can we be honest with,” she said quietly, “if not each other?”

He stared at his hands, the rows of healing wounds on his knuckles. “I’ve told you everything I can.”

Which was not an answer, and they both knew it.