Chapter Twelve

C hapter T welve

S econd gaming hell of the night, and Hunter was already tired of the patrol.

His fellow players at the tables were not nearly as shrewd or alert as he needed them to be in order to be in any way useful to his investigation.

The first club had been a complete waste of time, which was why he had moved on to the second. His men were scattered all about this corner of London in the various gambling institutions, officially sanctioned or not, and he could only hope that they were having a better night than he was.

For information, that is.

He was doing quite well at the gambling. He always did.

Years of training and practice had enabled him to win and lose in an unsuspicious pattern based on what he needed to accomplish for any given night. Whatever would serve the mission or assignment and the character he was playing. He never lost enough to ruin his reputation or his night, and he never won enough to attract unwanted attention.

He'd have to lose again shortly. He'd won several hands in a row by now, but never blatantly.

The player to his left, an unshaven, burly man who reeked of tobacco and seaweed and kept his cap down low over his eyes, sniffled noisily before making a coughing, choking sound in his throat and spitting upon the ground beside him. Then he tossed out a card and picked up another, shuffling through his cards with pursed, stained lips.

The dealer sighed and turned the discarded one over.

The man to Hunter's right groaned. "Ye ain't returned me trump lead, man. What are ye playin' at?"

His partner belched. "Shut it. I know what I'm about."

Hunter looked across the table to his own partner, who only widened his eyes and shook his head very slightly in disbelief before returning his attention to his own cards.

It was destined to be a poor night at cards for many if the inconsiderate player continued to be so. He'd have to content himself with other card games that did not require four players when word spread that he did not play well with others.

Hunter played his card to end the hand and cleared his throat. "Just in, mate?"

The man to his left nodded once.

"Where from?"

"Calais."

Hunter already knew that, as he had been tipped off by his contact in this particular club, but he was still pleased to have the man admit it. "Been there several times. Bringing in brandy?"

"What's it to you?" came the snappish retort, along with a quantity of snorted snot.

Hunter chuckled to himself. "Just someone who prefers to purchase his liquor from the source rather than bother with legalities. It always tastes purer, and paying those who bring it in seems better than putting more coin into the pockets of fat and silly merchants."

Hunter could see the man's eyes shift in his direction, though they were shielded by his cap. "What makes you think I'd be the sort of man to engage in private purchase?"

"I've a contact who keeps an interest in the shipyards, and particularly anything coming out of France," Hunter mused as he pretended to look through his cards. "Lanky fellow with a deceptive air of authority. He hinted I might find a man at the tables tonight. But if that man isn't you, I'll take my investigation and investment elsewhere."

The man was silent while another hand was played, ending the game in triumph for Hunter and his partner. Then he turned to Hunter only slightly. "We can talk at the hazard table."

Hunter nodded graciously and rose from the table, collecting his winnings and following his new comrade over to the hazard tables. He signaled to the barman to bring them a few drinks, which was acknowledged with a wave.

There were a dozen or so men already at the table, and the caster was currently throwing after a chance.

"How much brandy might a body be interested in purchasing from a private source?" Hunter's companion asked in a low voice.

Hunter kept his smile slight and smug. "How much might a body be able to spare without suspicions rising?"

The man grumbled. "Martin is putting me in a great pickle with this, sir. The risks…"

"Of course," Hunter said when the man trailed off, "additional funds would be paid for the trouble. And if there were, say, other items that might have come across the Channel in the same ship that weren't strictly listed on the ship's manifest…"

He could almost feel the man's intake of breath. "I am not aware of what you speak."

Was he not?

"If Martin told me about such things," Hunter went on in a much lower voice, "do you not think I know very well of what I speak? As should you?"

There was a dark cursing while the gathered men groaned as the caster rolled the chance, thereby winning his stake. Further bets were placed before his next throw, but Hunter and his new friend offered none themselves.

"Well?" Hunter pressed, holding his breath that he was not pushing too hard.

The burly man shook his head. "Martin hasn't indicated those were for private sale. Seemed to think everything was spoken for and desperately needed with each shipment. They might have already been unloaded."

"So take me to the warehouse and let me haggle with the manager," Hunter suggested with a shrug. "Brandy is my main interest, but if I find the chance to protect my next branch of investments without having to venture further afield, all the better."

"As though Martin would have any of the ship's crew know where the warehouse is," he scoffed with another hacking spit on the ground. "You should have asked him more questions, mate."

Damn. Hunter had been afraid of that, but he had to try.

"No matter," he hedged, clearing his throat and looking over the shoulder of the man in front of him to see the result of the second throw and place his bet for the third. "I'll be content with the brandy, and you can check as to the other items remaining on board. With some additional payment for your investigation."

The man heaved a noisy sigh. "Fine. But only because of your connection to Martin. I really should check with him first."

"If you must. He might lie, though, to keep others from doing what I am." Hunter took his drink from the wench who approached with them on a tray, and took a long swig, hoping the distraction of a drink would lure his new contact into some semblance of comfort.

He reluctantly accepted his drink, but only sipped. "He does change his mind and moods…"

Hunter scoffed, nodding with a sage firmness. "That he does. You should have seen him ten years ago, mate. Bleeding nightmare to get any straight answer."

That earned him a wry smirk. "I can only imagine. How much will you give me to check?"

Cheers rose from the gathering as the bets on a third throw were successful, and Hunter took his amount from both whist and that round and tucked it into the man's pocket. "How's that for a start?"

A cough and a series of nods were the reply, and Hunter clapped him on the back before downing the rest of his drink. "I'll see you back here in two nights. Will that be enough time?"

"Yes."

"Good." He patted his back once more and slipped away from the hazard table, knowing he wasn't going to get anything else out of the man without raising suspicions.

He didn't like the idea of coming back so soon, especially if Lucy were still in his custody, but he could not miss the chance to confirm with this bloke if his shipment still contained weapons. After the mass mission a few weeks ago to find out where weapons were going and who in the city might be sympathetic to the Faction, the warehouse where such goods were occasionally kept had changed, and it was only a careful investigation that would uncover it. The homes of sympathizers were watched closely, and an entire shipment never went to one location, but it was not exactly the weapons Hunter was after.

It was Martin.

And with more frequent shipments of weapons and operatives coming across the Channel and directly into London, he was certain Martin was going to take a more vested interest in the delivery of each. The man had once worked in the London League, after all. He knew how capable they were and how quickly information could be discovered and dispersed among the other operatives.

He could only pray that the idiot wouldn't check with Martin on his story. It might wind up with the fellow being killed, not to mention it might make the rest of the shipments shift to another docking place.

It wouldn't be that big of a deal if that did happen, though. Briar's team had their thumbs on the pulse of the docks themselves, and it wouldn't take much for them to discover which dock was used.

He'd touch base with her before tomorrow night to see about the warehouses. With her capable assets, they might already know and have eyes on them.

If they'd been able to properly discuss matters last night, he might already have that information.

But there had been Lucy…

Hunter smiled to himself as he made his way down the stairs of the club and out the door, heading to his next one.

Lucy. What a character she was, considering her station and situation. What a beauty she was, without any effort or finery. What a lovely creature, fascinating companion, comforting presence…

He'd never met anyone like her in any of his assignments, or even before he was an operative. She was truly unique, and finding someone like her was such a rarity that he felt himself drawn to her to such an extent that…

That…

Well, he wanted to know more. Wanted to know her better. Wanted to understand the way her mind worked and the way she saw the world. Wanted to see her features change with every emotion and during every time of day.

What would the glow of sunrise to do her exquisite countenance? Would sunset look the same across her skin or would the shades alter? Were her lips always that tempting shade and shape or were her nerves making her bite them more often and giving them that appearance?

His stomach clenched as he strode down the street, and he began counting to twenty in Latin silently, needing the image of Lucy and her lips in the rosy light of sunset to be far away from his mind. He couldn't be thinking of her right now. He needed to be thinking about that traitor, Martin. Needed to be making connections that would help him find the man. Needed to find some idea of where he was and whom he trusted enough to confide in.

There had been the house that Ears had infiltrated last year, but no one was living there at present, as far as his contacts could tell. That was the trouble with this lot—everything was always shifting and moving whenever progress was made. It was one of the main reasons why Hunter was given this assignment alone. One person could make less of a fuss than a team of operatives, and he would not be arranging any great mission based on what he found. He worked alone and only passed on information to those who could act and order others to do so.

Martin. The skinny, ginger-haired former member of the Foreign Office and clerk of the London League. The one who had fooled all of them and worked his way into the most secret, most trusted ranks in England, and then disappeared from the face of the earth, leaving them all to wonder if they had lost another operative. And then to discover that there was no rescue that need to be mounted, but a hunt to secure him and keep him from bringing the Faction into the highest powers of the land.

Hunter had to find him.

How could he forget about that when he was with Lucy? How could he care so much about finding Lucy's father when England was at stake? When hundreds of operatives on both sides of the Channel had been working against the Faction for so long?

He didn't care about Lucy's father; he cared about Lucy. Her happiness and her security. Which meant finding the creature that was her father.

The fact that they couldn't find him easily was almost as irksome as his assignment with Martin. The average gentleman of London ought to be the simplest find in the world, especially one with the penchant for gaming that he seemed to have. And yet…

He didn't want to believe that Lucy's life could be professionally intertwined with his in any way. He wanted Lucy to be completely and wholly personal for him.

And personal to him as well.

Whatever that might mean.

But when someone was as suspicious and elusive as her father, he had his doubts and concerns.

Not about her, exactly. But him. Imagine if Hunter had to have her father arrested for treason or something. She'd not thank him or think kindly of him for that.

Not many things made him question how he would act in certain situations, but the prospect of that did.

Could he do it? Probably. Should he? Absolutely. Would he?

He honestly did not know.

And that was terrifying.

Hunter stopped outside the third club of the night and shook his head, more like a dog trying to get dry than a human doing anything. It didn't push Lucy from his mind, but it did give him a little clarity and reset his thoughts. This club was more renowned for cheating than the last one, which meant he was going to have to be more aware. He was skilled enough to spot even the most talented of cheaters and to decide in a split second if he would let himself be one of their victims, but it did require him to watch.

If he was distracted enough to dull his senses…

He'd never been that far gone. Surely one woman and his present curiosity about her weren't enough to make him lose his focus so much.

He inhaled deeply, letting the pungent smells of the street seep into his very bones, to fill his very veins, and exhaled slowly, almost able to taste the nastiness of his surroundings. He needed that taste in his mouth. He would have picked up a stick to chew on it, if he'd had one, just to make him feel the grit of his character more perfectly. He hated tobacco, but he'd have put some in if any had been available.

Anything to fit in better. Anything to make Trick blend in. Anything to center himself in his current situation.

Dank and tepid Thames air would have to do.

With a quick nod to himself, Hunter entered the club, slouching pointedly and shortening his stride to more of a shuffle. He tapped a finger to the brim of his cap at the doorman, a light-fingered fellow named Skips who did some excellent work for many of the operatives based in this part of the world. Skips clicked his tongue against his teeth and spat to his far side, which Hunter took as the best acknowledgement he was going to receive.

Skips would make himself available later now that he knew Hunter was present. He was good about taking advantage of his breaks, and he heard absolutely everything that went on in the club. Once, he'd helped Rogue find a man who had taken advantage of a butcher's daughter, a girl of fifteen, just from how the man boasted after his fourth gin and a good night at commerce.

Hunter didn't dare hope that he would have as much success with the current location of Martin or any of his more friendly contacts, but he'd take hints towards anything of the sort. A hint of a hint. A speculation he could look into. A rumor he could verify.

He'd even take a lie he could seek to disprove. Anything would do, really.

"Jones," greeted the proprietor when he saw Hunter, using the name Hunter had given him last time. "What do you fancy tonight?"

He looked around without much interest. "Dunno. What's good?"

"Eh, macao seems hot, and my eyes tell me the cheating isn't bankrupting me. You could disrupt some of that, if you like." He pointed to another corner of the room. "Faro has been cold for an hour or so. Means you'd breathe life into it, which I'd appreciate. Give you a pint of ale and a snifter of whiskey for your trouble there."

"Add in a five-pound lead on my bet, and I'll do it," Hunter shot back, pushing his sleeves back above his elbows.

The proprietor whistled low. "Come on, Jones. It's only Thursday."

"Three, then."

He grumbled incoherently. "Fine. But then I'm capping you at fifty."

Hunter barked a hard laugh. "If you think I'll sweep anything near fifty at your faro table, you've had too much to drink already."

"We all have our limits," came the stiff but wry response. "After last week, I'm taking no chances."

Now that was interesting. This man, St. John, wasn't usually one to exert such control over his proprietors, though his dealers all could cheat enough to stop the overt winners neatly. But he usually left that to their discretion and did not get involved himself.

"What happened last week?" Hunter asked with a slow, sidelong look.

St. John sputtered darkly, shaking his head. "One of the regulars hit a lucky streak. Too lucky. Cheating so well my dealer couldn't keep up. Swept us of one hundred before he could be stopped, and one of the other players had demanded triple the call early in the round without any objection from the others, so it was three hundred when he cashed out."

"Bleeding hell," Hunter muttered, running a hand over his face for effect. "Three hundred? Did he move to any other games?"

St. John shook his head. "Left like a bleeding thief in the night. And since others were cheating, too, I couldn't call him out. Took me four nights to recoup the losses."

Hunter folded his arms. "Need me to find him for you? Intervene unofficially?"

"My thanks, but no. The skinny blighter brings in some good meat for us when his ships come in. Poor sots who are too eager and too slow. I can't afford to irk him, even if he is Irish."

"Irish?" Hunter frowned at that. "Recently over?"

St. John shook his head. "Not that recent, he has no accent. Just the ginger hair. Beady eyes, though. Sees everything. I'd hire him if he didn't look like a lad."

Hunter's chest all but burst in anticipation, adrenaline now pumping into his legs. "Has he been in since?"

"Nay, he said he'd be away a bit, but I expect him next week. He's pretty regular." St. John nodded towards the faro table. "You'd best get started, Jones. The table will be ice soon." He left before Hunter could ask him any further questions.

That was well enough, he supposed. Martin frequented this club, and that was decent information.

Of course, he could frequent a number of these clubs, but that was neither here nor there.

Hunter wandered over to the faro table and made his call as he took a seat. Three hundred pounds. Martin could do a great deal with three hundred pounds. The Faction could do a lot with three hundred pounds as well, though they would likely let him use it as he wished. Martin had proved himself to be their man, and perhaps even sat at the top, at least on these shores.

If Martin could cheat like that, how much money was he fleecing out of the other clubs and hells in the area? And what was all that money going towards?

What if he had contacts and assets who were also able to raise that much so easily? The amount of money they could regularly bring in could be astounding. There were plenty of wealthy supporters in Paris and in London, as the Shopkeepers were well aware, and for the most part, they didn't intervene for fear of letting the Faction know how much they were actually aware of. If they had information as to what the money was going for, or it posted an imminent threat to England's shores, they might do something, but the bigger picture was often their aim.

He'd need information from the other clubs about large amounts being won by a single individual. It might be too obvious, and this might be the only club where it had happened recently, but he had to check. Martin wouldn't want to raise any suspicions about himself, so he might have kept his amounts more reasonable in the other locales.

What Hunter wouldn't give for a list of known associates so he could examine each and compare them all.

He shook his head when the dealer asked if he wished to change his bet and took a drink of the ale that had just arrived near his elbow. Then, for good measure, he belched.

Imagine if Lucy could see him now.

He smiled to himself as he imagined the distaste that would wash across her lovely features. It would then be replaced by curiosity, knowing how he had looked before, and she would begin to ask question after question without giving him a chance to answer any of them. She would begin to speculate on who he was and what he was doing, likely getting closer to the truth than was strictly good for her, but only because she was cleverer than she ought to be.

She'd ask about the stains on his shirt and try to guess the different fragrances emanating from him. She'd want to know what games he'd played at the clubs and how he'd fared in the bets. She wouldn't judge him for his bets, once she knew his stakes and his spread, but she would be a little disapproving of gambling in general, given the history of her father's habits and waste. She'd ask what he wanted to know from gaming hells that he couldn't get from other places and want to know the sort of characters he'd want to connect with.

He imagined himself being practically interrogated in some drawing room before a fire as he took his shoes off and simply wanted to rest and recover, but she would be incessant in her questioning, canting forward in her chair with her eagerness. He would wear a tired smile, his eyes closed, and answer what he could when he could, keeping things purposefully vague, which would irritate her. She'd grow cross when he wouldn't budge on the details, and when he reminded her of the conditions, she'd sulk moodily and tell him how much she hated them, which he'd already know.

It was a comfortable, content sort of scene, and he had no idea where it had come from.

He had no such drawing room, and neither did Tilda. And even if he did, Lucy certainly wouldn't be in it upon his arrival in the morning. She didn't know about any conditions that would allow him to answer her questions with a certain vagueness, though she certainly would hate them if she did. And he'd never answered anybody's questions about his missions or patrols with such a smile as he'd worn in his imagination.

What the devil was going on here?

With a growl from the back of his throat, Hunter turned to the gin and downed the entire thing, barely cognizant of the burn to his throat and chest. He looked over at the wench and tapped the rim of his glass, then chased the burn with a deep drink of his ale.

Then he doubled his bet and kept his eyes on the cards, his brow furrowing as darkly as any other man in the room.

And it had nothing to do with maintaining any sort of character for the night.