Directly across from him stood Bow Street Magistrate, Sir Richard Ford, stationed at the farther end of a polished table. Ford snapped shut a pocket watch and tucked it inside his waistcoat, then skewered him with a piercing gaze. “Prompt as always, eh Moore?”
“I try, sir.”
Flipping out his coattails, Ford sat, then shook out a folded linen napkin and covered his lap. “Put that weapon away and have a seat. I invited you to dinner, not a skirmish.”
The butler stepped forward, offering his arm to collect Alex’s coat.
Alex sheathed his knife, then shrugged out of his woolen cloak and handed it over with a whispered warning. “You might want to shut that front door.”
Across the long table, Ford chuckled. “Your concern for Underhill is admirable, but quite unnecessary. Though my butler’s appearance leaves much to be desired, his service is impeccable. As for the door, by now it’s not only sealed but would take a two-ton battering ram to break it in.”
Sinking into the chair, Alex cocked a brow.
“You doubt me?” Ford’s question dangled like a noose.
“Never, sir. Just curious, is all. Seemed a simple enough slab of oak.”
“Oak, yes. Well, mostly. As for simple?” Ford shook his head. “Pulleys, gears, a generous portion of iron reinforcement. Try putting in a monstrosity like that without attracting attention from one end of the neighborhood to the other.”
The magistrate paused to ring a small silver bell sitting next to his plate. Before the last of the short chime cleared the air, a housemaid entered with a tray.
Ford ignored her as she set a steaming bowl in front him. “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here.”
Only a thousand times. The retort lay dormant on his tongue. To admit he’d anguished over this meeting would show weakness—a trait he’d vowed never again to embrace. He followed the sleek movement of the girl as she placed his bouillon on the table, then returned his gaze to the magistrate. “The thought crossed my mind that, perhaps, I was to be the main course.”
A thin smile stretched the magistrate’s lips. “Not that you don’t deserve to be after your unorthodox capture of Ned Dooley.”
And there it was. What this entire charade was about. Alex leaned forward, bumping the table and rippling the wine in his glass. “Regardless of how it was accomplished, sir, Dooley’s conviction ended that smuggling ring, saving countless lives, not to mention the expense spared to the Crown. How you can possibly say—”
Ford’s hand shot up, cutting off further comment. “You already know my thoughts on the matter. I daresay neither of us will sway the other’s opinion, so let us officially consider this topic closed to discussion. There is a much larger scheme prompting this meeting.”
“Must be spectacular.” Alex sank back in his chair. “Inviting me here is a singular event. As far as I know, not a runner has ever uncovered where you live, and though I begged you time and again as a lad, you never relented.”
“Indeed. Sometimes extreme measures are necessary.” Ford shooed away the serving girl with a flick of his fingers, then sat motionless until she disappeared through a hidden panel in the wall. He took a moment to sample his soup. “I would like you to go incognito for a while.”
Taking the magistrate’s lead, Alex picked up his spoon and downed several mouthfuls of his broth, tasting nothing. Something was not right about the magistrate’s request. Ford could’ve asked him the same thing in his office without the pretense of dinner. In fact, he could’ve asked any number of other officers or—suddenly understanding dawned bright and clear.
He shoved back his chair. “With all due respect, I’ve hardly forgotten the assignment you handed Brentwood last year. Am I the only available officer for you to proposition?”
The more he thought of Nicholas Brentwood’s previous mission, the hotter his blood ran. He’d sooner quit than be saddled with the care of a spoiled rich girl, as had his friend—even though it turned out well in the end.
Rising, he frowned at the napkin as it fell to the carpet. Let the impeccable butler pick it up. In fact, let Underhill have the assignment. “My thanks for your hospitality, sir, but if that is the case, my answer is no. A firm and emphatic no.”
“Alexander, wait.”
Ford’s tone—or was it the use of his Christian name?—slid over his shoulders like a straight-coat, pinning him in place. Suddenly he was ten years old again, compelled to do his guardian’s bidding.
“You,” the magistrate continued, “are my first and only choice for this position. This assignment is nothing like Brentwood’s. Anyone can be a guardian, but only someone with specialized training may fill the role I’m looking for. All I ask is that you hear me out. You owe me at least that after keeping your hind end out of trouble the past decade and a half.”
The few sips of soup, the glittery sparkle of the room, the pleading in Ford’s voice combined into a wave of nausea that sank to the pit of his gut. He was indebted to Ford, more than he could ever pay back. Had not the man taken him in as a ten-year-old orphan, he’d have perished on the streets … or become like the criminals he hauled in. He sagged into the chair like a rheumy old man and locked eyes with his benefactor and superior. “All right. Let’s hear it then.”
Sconce light glimmered in Ford’s eyes. “You will pose as a gambling rogue to ferret out a suspected traitor. A dangerous, highly connected traitor.”
“Traitors instead of smugglers, eh?” He chewed on that for a moment. “Might be a nice change of pace.”
“Nice? Hardly.” Ford downed another mouthful of soup, then pushed the bowl away and stood, his gaze unwavering. “You should know that once I’ve told you the details of this particular mission, I will deny ever having said anything about it. And if this operation fails, I shall refute any knowledge of this conversation, to the point of watching you swing from a gibbet if necessary.”
Denial? This was new. The danger in the magistrate’s proposal crept down Alex’s backbone. He straightened his shoulders, counteracting the eerie feeling. “Then, as always, I shall make it a point not to fail. Go on.”
Ford grunted as he strolled to a narrow trestle table. He pounded twice on the top then twisted a knob on the middle drawer. Below the table, about knee height, a hidden panel in the wall slid open. Bending, the magistrate retrieved a leather pouch. By the time he crossed over to Alex, the wall looked as solid as ever.
The bag thwunked onto the table with a crashing jingle. By the sound, he didn’t have to open the drawstring to know it wasn’t a bag of measly farthings sitting next to his plate.
“As you can see, you are now a wealthy man, Mr. Morton.”
Alex’s gaze shot from the bag to the magistrate. “Mor … ton?”
“You heard correctly. From now on, you are no longer a Moore, but a Morton, less chance of a slip up if your alias is a close cousin to your true surname. You are a dealer in fine wines, a buyer and seller for your father.” Ford reached inside his waistcoat and withdrew a sealed envelope, the new pseudonym engraved in gold on the front. “This coming Saturday, you shall attend the finest Oak Apple Day soiree Dover has to offer.”
“Dover? I can’t possibly go back there. My face is known.”
“True. A detriment, that. Yet you shall travel in a higher echelon of society this time. This invitation”—he handed over the envelope—“is your ticket into the estate of the Viscount Lord Coburn. How you maintain connection afterwards is your affair, which I am sure will be no problem for you. Nor do I want to know how you operate. In truth, until you discover who is involved in this mess, I give you full and free rein.”
Alex’s brows lifted. Free rein? This was some scheme, and an enticing one at that, even though he’d left behind a few enemies in that part of the country—enemies whose anger likely still festered. Returning to Dover now might be a death warrant.
He slugged back a drink of claret, the challenge of it all leaving a bittersweet aftertaste. Setting dow
n the glass, he gazed at the magistrate. “What exactly is this mess, sir?”
Ford’s mouth hardened into a grim line. “Someone’s been communicating with the French. I’m not at liberty to say how I know. Merely that I know is enough. To what extent military intelligence has been shared, and for what purpose, is up to you to find out. There is a traitor in our midst, and I want him brought to me at any cost. The MP funding this mission has deep pockets. Survive this assignment and you’ll be able to retire from the force—in style.”
Alex blew out a long, low breath. He’d purposely distanced himself from anything smacking of French intrigue or the military. The London streets were what he knew best.
But how could he refuse Ford’s earnest gaze bearing down on him? If it weren’t for the magistrate, he’d most likely be moldering in a pauper’s grave by now. And retirement at his age? Other than his life, what did he have to lose? He raked a hand through his hair. “Very well, but what if I should need backup?”
“Officer Thatcher will be your only means of communication with me, though he, too, will be under strict instruction to deny you should your true identity become discovered. You’ll both be under a vow of secrecy, sharing information between yourselves and me alone. No one else. Do you swear it?”
A queer chill shivered across his shoulders. This was quite an affair, for he’d never been asked to pledge such a vow before. He shoved down the foreboding quaver and lifted his chin. “Yes, I swear it.”
“Good. Then Thatcher will check in with you regularly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Whatever you want it to.” Ford walked the length of the table and reclaimed his seat, leaving his cryptic answer floating on the air.
But gnawing upon a bone was a trait Alex had perfected. “Where shall I connect with Thatcher, or rather, he with me?”
Amusement lifted one side of Ford’s mouth. “You will station yourself at the Blue Hedge Inn.”
A groan ripped from his throat. “You’re jesting.”
Ford quirked a brow. “I take it you are familiar with the establishment?”
Alex pressed his lips tight before harsh words escaped. No longer hungry, he pushed away his bowl of soup. The Blue Hedge Inn.
He’d rather sleep in a pig wallow than that dilapidated hovel.
CHAPTER TWO
The driver tossed down Alexander’s bag from the roof of the coach. With a grunt, Alex caught it before the canvas hit the cobblestones, then turned to face the Rose Inn—the last stop on the London-to-Dover run. Sunlight glinted off two banks of windows draped with oak leaf bunting. Deep red bricks, too new to be coated over with soot, contrasted with the green foliage. The building stood like a proud soldier, pinned with honorary banners for the upcoming Oak Apple festivities. A patron exited the front door, patting his belly with a smile and a sigh, the aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet cider wafting out with him.
Alex’s mouth pulled into a scowl. Was it too much to ask for lodging such as this if his life was to be on the line? Apparently, yes, though he’d done his best to talk Ford into changing his mind through the remainder of last Monday’s dinner.
Turning, he stalked down New Street, then headed south on Canon. As he travelled from city center toward the outskirts, buildings cowered in the shadow of the old castle on Tower Hill. But even here, sporadic vendors had already set up their wares for the upcoming holiday. Across the road, one hawker claimed his oils and tinctures cured everything from gout to gluttony. To his side, cinnamon-spiced nuts roasted over an open fire. Ahead, a gamer ran a coconut shell scam, promising a cash prize for anyone who could pick out the shell with a pea hidden beneath.
In front of that booth, a scrawny-limbed lad jammed his hands into his pockets, then turned and began shuffling away. Behind the boy, a wicked grin slashed the face of the gamer. Alex clenched his jaw. It didn’t take a Bow Street officer to figure out the low-life had stolen the boy’s last farthing.
“You, boy!” Alex waited until the lad cast a glance over his shoulder. “I’m looking for a strong arm to carry my bag.”
The boy’s steps slowed, not completely, but enough that he turned and faced him, walking backward. “Ye willing to pay?”
Alex paused in front of the gamer’s booth. “Aye.”
The boy stopped. The gamer leaned forward. Alex smirked. With one word, he’d purchased their attention. A few more, and he’d own them. “I’ve a coin or two I can part with.”
Immediately, the gamer threw his shells into the air, juggling them into a merry circle. “Step right up! Try yer luck! Are you smarter than a coconut?”
It was hard not to groan at the poor verse, nor smile at the boy as he ran back and tugged his sleeve. “I’m your lad, sir. Thomas is me name. Where we going?”
The gamer shouted louder, adding the pea into his juggling mix.
Shrugging the bag off his shoulder, Alex handed it to Thomas, then nodded sideways toward the gamer. “First stop is right here.”
The boy’s face paled. “I don’t recommend that, sir.”
“While I appreciate your advice, the truth is,” he squatted nose-to-nose with the lad, “I am smarter than a coconut.”
Thomas shook his head, the gravity of his puckered brow adding years to his youth. “That’s what I thought, too, sir. But I were sure wrong.”
Righteous anger curled Alex’s fingers into a tight fist. Vengeance is the Lord’s he reminded himself, but it still took a conscious effort to keep the grin fixed to his face. “Perhaps, boy, it wasn’t the coconut you were competing against.”
The lad’s nose scrunched, bunching his spray of freckles into a clump.
Resisting the urge to laugh, Alex rose and stepped up to the booth. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a penny, and slapped it down on the plank separating him from the gamer. “I’ll give it a go.”
“Very good, sir. Very good.” One by one the coconuts collected onto the gamer’s open palms, the pea being the last to land. Above his bony wrists, the hems of the man’s sleeves were threadbare, more so than the rest of his dress coat. If nothing else, the gamer knew his trade. Given the chance, Alex had no doubt the fellow could hide an entire pianoforte up that sleeve, and by the appearance of it, perhaps he had a time or two.
“Let’s see if ol’ fate smiles on you, eh sir?” With much swirling and swooping, the man made a great show of arranging the shells into a neat row in front of Alex. He lifted the middle coconut, then set the pea beneath it. “All ye gots to do, sir, is watch carefully.”
Thomas planted his feet beside him, pleading with wide eyes. “Ye won’t win, sir. He’s good, he is. It’s not too late to take yer coin back.”
Before Alex could yield to the boy’s warning, the gamer snapped into action, sliding shells one way and another, even tapping and clacking their edges now and then. Thomas leaned closer, his gaze fixed on the man’s hands. Alex ignored the showman’s flourishing fingers and instead studied his eyes. The content of a man’s soul could be summed up in a blink—or lack of one. Snakes never blinked.
Neither did the gamer.
“There you have it.” The man swept one hand back and forth over the top of the shells. “Which one hides the pea? Say the word, and if ye’re right, you’ll walk away with a jingle in yer pocket.”
Alex looked down at Thomas and cocked a brow. The boy bit his lip then edged one finger up to point at the farthest coconut.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Aye, sir. This time I know I’m right.”
“Well then, I choose …” Alex slanted his gaze back to the gamer, whose hand hovered over the far shell.
“This one.” He shot his arm across the plank and grabbed the gamer’s other wrist. The man screeched like a little girl, but to his credit, he didn’t open his hand. Alex squeezed harder, grinding the man’s bones to within a hair’s breadth of snapping. Tears leaked out the gamer’s eyes, and finally, his fingers sprung wide.
There sat the pe
a.
Thomas flipped open each of the shells. All were empty. “Dash it! You’re a flamin’ cheater! Gimme back my money!”
“It’s the way of the game, that’s all.” The gamer plied and pried and tried to wriggle free of Alex’s death grip. “Let me go!”
“Be a shame to break these delicate bones. Why, you’d be out of commission for all of the Oak Apple Day festivities. Yes, sir”—Alex dug his fingers in deeper and leaned closer—“a shame too, if we spread word about how your little game is played, hmm?”
The gamer’s face turned an ugly shade of purple. “All right! All right. I’ll give the street-rat back his money.”
Alex let go. The gamer recoiled, rubbing his wrist and whimpering on the exhale. Alex folded his arms, waiting until the fellow handed over not only Thomas’s farthing, but his own coin as well.
Snubbing the man behind the booth, Thomas flashed Alex a smile, wide with teeth he’d not yet grown into. “Thank ye, sir.”
Alex couldn’t help but mirror the boy’s grin. “My pleasure, lad. Shall we?” He nodded down Canon Street, then waited for Thomas to tuck away his money and heft the canvas bag over his shoulder.
The boy fell into step beside him, two paces to his one. His words flew just as fast as his legs. “That were something. That’s what. Why, ye needn’t pay me nothin’ fer carryin’ yer bag, sir. Ye got me my coin back and all. Oh, and you must stay at the inn my family runs. Ye’ll be treated like a king. Leastwise by me. Don’t know ’bout my sister. I stay out of her way, mostly.”
“Oh?” Alex continued at the intersection, though his feet itched to turn southward. The Maiden’s Head was halfway down that street—the last of the reputable inns on this side of town. Blowing out a long breath, he glanced down at the boy. “Why is that, I wonder? Is your sister such a shrew?”
“She’s all right, I guess. It’s just that, well …” The boy’s toe hit a rock and sent it skipping ahead. “She’s such a girl, sir. Makes big to-do’s outta nothin’. It’s no wonder she’s not married.”
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