Chapter Thirty-Five

J ack Collinsworth eyed the case of brandy with some disappointment. "That's all you could get?"

"No, sir. That's all I could sneak this way for now. I'll be sending the rest of it one crate at a time. Seven in total," the captain said. "There were things going on at the docks what made me nervous."

Jack started to lift his head, remembered they were in the cellar beneath his club, and quickly corrected before braining himself on a beam. "What sort of things?"

"Lots of blokes about. Some looked official, and some looked—well, they looked like me, sir. Criminal," the captain explained.

Thinking of the note he'd received earlier from Joss Ettinger, Jack took a shot in the dark. "You didn't happen to see one escorting a pretty-ish young woman... a proper one? Works as a lady's maid and has been taken as a hostage of sorts. Incentive might be a better description, I suppose."

"Did see something that was a bit odd," the man said, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "He were dressed rough, clothes soiled and ragged. But he moved like a gent, if you ken?"

Intrigued, Jack put down the bottle he'd been inspecting. "I do ken. Go on."

The captain nodded. "Had a girl with him. Didn't pay much mind to how she was dressed, except to note she looked out of place. Not exactly the sort a man looks at twice. Pretty-ish, as you said, but not available, if you get my meaning. Weren't no doxy, for certain."

"Your meaning is quite clear, and your information most welcome. You'll be getting a hefty bonus on your seven crates of contraband," Jack said, feeling that very familiar tingle. Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was something more than that. He could not say. But he could predict the turn of a card or the roll of the dice. He could, at a glance, know whether or not he ought to walk down a certain alley. It was more than street sense, though he had that in abundance. And in that moment, he knew, without question or hesitation, that the smuggler had seen Dagliesh and the maid. "Where did you see them?"

"They was near Fincham's, the textile mill and warehouse."

"If you see either of them again, send me word immediately. As for the remainder of the brandy, just hold onto it for the night. We'll settle up tomorrow. This takes precedence... and if I'm not here, get word to the Hound."

The captain nodded vigorously. "Oh, aye. It's big doin's for the both of you to be in the thick of it!"

"That it is, Captain. That it is." Jack climbed the steps out of the cellar and went directly to his office. There, he dashed off a note to Joss Ettinger directing him to Fincham's but with the need for discretion. After all, they didn't want to spook the man and send him running once more. It was very likely that he'd find the man before the note did, but as he couldn't be in two places at once, it was the best option. Giving a boy a coin to deliver it to the Hound's club, he made his way toward the docks and Fincham's.

*

Hettie met Sally Dawson's worried gaze. "All will be well."

The only slightly older but significantly more weary woman shook her head. "With respect, my lady, it rarely is. And when dealing with the sort of man the new Lord Ernsdale is, 'tis even less likely. But I'll help because I owe the both of you." She jerked her head toward Honoria. "I know what you've both done for me. And for the other girls. They'll be marching and rioting in the streets of Mayfair if aught happens to either of you. On that score you need not worry."

Hettie breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Sally. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to know that I will have your assistance."

"Never doubt it, m'lady. Never doubt it."

Hettie rose from the small and rickety wooden chair that flanked the table. It was one of the only bits of furniture in the squalid little room. "I fear, Sally, that we have not done enough for you. Do you have money for food? Money to heat the room when it grows colder?"

"I'll be all right," Sally insisted. "And if I'm not, I'll not be taking to the streets again. I'll come to Mrs. Carrow or yourself before I take such a risk. This world is hard enough even with a mother's love and protection. I can't take the risk of leaving my wee ones to fend for themselves."

It was an instinctive thing for Hettie to place her hand protectively over her still-flat stomach. But it was a gesture that spoke volumes. "I can't imagine it."

Sally's eyes widened, and then her expression settled into one of knowing. "I suspect you'll be finding out soon enough."

Hettie did not confirm or deny it. But there was no need. They all, every person in that room—from the youngest to the oldest—understood the ways of the world very well. "I suppose I will. One hour, Sally. And not a moment later. Timing must be precise."

"It will be, ma'am. It will be."

Hettie walked toward Honoria, where she cuddled the youngest of Sally's children. The little girl was an angel-faced hellion of four, and Honoria adored her.

"It's time to go," Hettie said.

Honoria sighed and gave the little girl another squeeze. "I will come visit you again very soon, Mary, and I will finish telling you the story of the princess with yards and yards of golden hair."

"I like that story very much," the little girl said. The word very sounded like "vewy," and it was impossibly endearing.

Honoria rose and settled the little girl on the simple pallet on the floor that served as her bed—a bed she shared with her two sisters and one brother. For all that they lived in poverty and for all that the world had been beyond unkind to Sally, she managed to give her children the kind of love that both Hettie and Honoria had been denied as children. And as adults.

Honoria raised up and took Hettie's hand. "Let's go. Before I lose my nerve entirely."

"You're not the one who will be going into that house," Hettie pointed out.

"No," Honoria said. "And that's rather the problem. I can't be with you. I can't protect you. Not from Arthur Dagliesh and not from his rotten nephew."

"It's a good plan," Hettie insisted. "A solid one. He won't dare harm me in that house, for then he'd have to explain it. One death, certainly. But for both Arthur and I to meet such an end? No. He'll force me to go elsewhere, and that is where you and Sally come into play."

"If we survive this, Vincent and Mr. Ettinger may well kill us for it. And rightfully so... but I couldn't live with myself if we did not at least make an effort to save Annie Foster. We'd be the worst sort of hypocrites then," Honoria reflected.

"And you are many things, sister, but hypocritical has never been one of them."