Chapter Nine

Ellie tried to hide her shock. Morris was their thief! But how on earth had Harry suspected that he was involved? She'd have bet money on the perpetrator of the crime having long-since fled the scene, not remained encamped less than fifty paces from the front door.

Despite having confessed, Morris seemed to have no intention of trying to escape. He slumped back against the doorframe with a weary, defeated sigh.

"I s'pose you're going to cart me off to Bow Street now, ain't you? I'll be up before the magistrate, and they'll hang me, for sure. Who'll look after old Mutton then, eh?"

"Oh, I don't think we need to complicate things by involving the authorities at this stage," Harry said easily.

Morris looked up, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Sir?"

"Can you tell me the name of the gentleman who gave you this coat?"

Morris shook his head. "I can't. We never used names. He approached me here, late on Thursday night, and asked if I ever went in the museum. I told 'im I went in there almost every day, to stay warm and get out of the rain. When he told me he wanted some fancy book, I almost said no. I felt bad, stealin' from an honest gent like Mr. Bullock, who's never been nothin' but kind to me, but I didn't 'ave no choice. Mutton 'ere was wastin' away."

"I understand," Harry said soothingly. " Extremis malis, extrema remedia , and all that."

Morris's brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Ellie translated, earning her an impressed, sideways smile from Harry that shouldn't have made her feel as warm as it did.

"Exactly," Morris said, relieved.

"Can you describe the man?" Harry asked. "Judging from that coat, he was fairly tall and broad."

"Never seen 'im 'round these parts before," Morris admitted. "He was English. Older gent, maybe sixty years, with black hair goin' gray at the temples. 'ad a fancy pair o' boots—like yours—and a stick like yours too. Only his 'ad a bird as the 'andle."

"Any particular type of bird?"

Morris shrugged apologetically. "Dunno. One with a beak. Crow? Raven? I didn't get a good look."

"Mind if I take a closer look at that coat?"

Morris obligingly shrugged out of it, revealing a rumpled bottle-green military jacket and pair of ragged trousers beneath.

"Are you hoping the previous owner left a calling card in one of the pockets?" Ellie asked as Harry inspected it.

"I am, but unfortunately there's nothing here to help us." He glanced up at Morris, but instead of giving him back the coat, he handed it over to Ellie. To her amazement, he started to remove his own handsome topcoat.

"I tell you what, Sergeant Morris. Let me take this coat, and I'll give you mine in exchange. We're of a similar size, and you'll do far better in a coat that fits you. This, might I add, is by far the superior garment. The finest cashmere twill, made from goats, not sheep, produced by Ternaux of Paris, and lined with a silk-wool blend." He held it out to Morris, who stroked the sleeve.

"Gawd," he murmured, his tone almost reverent. "That's softer than a whore's—" He snapped his mouth closed, belatedly realizing he was in the company of a lady, and a red flush crept up his neck. "Beggin' yer pardon, miss."

Ellie smiled serenely, having heard such terms, and worse, while investigating some of her previous cases. "Softer than a kitten's fur?" she suggested wryly.

"Aye."

Giving into temptation, she removed her own leather glove and touched the coat herself—something she'd wanted to do from the very first moment she'd seen Harry at her door. The fabric was as outrageously luxurious as it looked, and she marveled at the carelessness with which he surrendered such a treasure.

Perhaps, since his was ill-gotten wealth, it was easily gained, and easily lost, but if she owned such a beautiful thing, she'd have fought tooth and nail to keep it.

Morris threaded his arms into the sleeves and tugged it up over his shoulders, then gave a pleased nod at the better fit.

Harry gave him a jovial slap on the shoulder. "There. An almost perfect fit."

That wasn't entirely true—the ex-soldier was demonstrably slimmer than Harry, both at the shoulders and the waist, and since he was also shorter, the coat reached to his shins, instead of falling just below the knee. It was, however, far better than the mysterious criminal's coat, which Harry folded over his arm.

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a guinea, which he pressed into the sergeant's hand.

"Thank you for your help, Sergeant Morris. Much appreciated. And if you make your way over to Feather Court, in Covent Garden, behind the Drury Lane Theatre, ask for Long Meg at the Traveler's Rest tavern. Tell her you're a friend of Ambrose Cox, and she'll give you a hot meal and a place to stay until you can get back on your feet."

Morris stared at him in disbelief. "What about Mutton?"

"He'll be welcome too. Meg loves dogs."

"Ambrose Cox." Morris nodded, half to himself, as if to remember the name. "I'll do that sir, thank you. Gawd bless you."

Harry waved off his gratitude. "No more stealing, agreed? It's a sorry end for a man, dancing the Tyburn jig."

"I swear to you, sir. Never again. You 'ave my word. Come on, Mutton. We're off to Feather Court. Good day miss, sir."

When Morris had loped off, Harry headed back toward the carriage and Ellie trailed in his wake, buffeted by conflicting emotions.

The scoundrel's observational skills were impressive, but she'd been equally touched by the kindness he'd exhibited. Instead of shaming the ex-soldier for his crime, he'd made him feel understood, and his no-nonsense compassion had left the man with his battered pride intact. He'd made accepting charity easy, instead of humiliating.

Ellie huffed to herself. It was one thing to disapprove of a selfish, unscrupulous scoundrel. It was much harder to dislike a man who showed consideration for others. If she wasn't careful, she might be in danger of liking the man.

Harry tossed the greatcoat inside the carriage, helped her up the step, then clambered in himself.

"Cork Street, please, Carson," he called up to the driver.