Free The Wild Rose by Jennifer Donnelly Page B

him.
    “No one here by that name,” the man said, not bothering to look up from the day’s racing sheet.
    Max looked around. He knew what Madden looked like; he had a picture. He knew what Madden was, too: a thief with a boatyard—which was exactly what he needed. He inspected the faces in the room. Many had scars. Some ignored him, others eyed him insolently. He saw a woman, young, blond, and pretty—despite the faded bruises on her face—sitting alone by a window. Finally, he spotted Madden at the back, playing a game of solitaire, and walked up to his table.
    “Mr. Madden, I’d like to speak with you,” he said.
    Billy Madden looked up. He wore a bright scarf knotted around his neck and a gold hoop in one ear. A scar puckered his brow. His mouth was filled with decaying teeth. He was a large man, physically imposing, but most unsettling were his eyes. They were predator’s eyes—dark, soulless, and keen.
    “Who the fuck are you?” Madden growled, his free hand going to a large flick knife on top of the table.
    Max knew he would have to tread carefully. He’d been warned that Madden was violent and unstable. He wished he didn’t have to deal with him, but he had no choice. The boys from Cambridge were hot on the scent. He had to find some new way of evading them, and fast, or everything would be ruined.
    “My name is Peter Stiles. I’m a businessman. I would like to make a deal with you,” he said, in a perfect London accent.
    “You’re a dead man, is what you are,” Madden said. “You’ve a lot of bloody cheek. Maybe I’ll cut some off. Throw it in the river. Throw you in after it. What’s to stop me, eh?”
    “A good deal of money,” Max said. “I need your help, Mr. Madden. I’m prepared to pay you well for it. If you kill me, we can’t do business.”
    Madden sat back in his chair. He gave a curt nod. He kicked a chair out from under the table. Max sat down.
    “I’ve heard you’ve a boatyard,” Max said. “I need a boat. A motorized one.”
    “For what?” Madden asked.
    “To take a man from London to the North Sea. To certain coordinates there. Every fortnight. I also need a man who can pilot that boat. A man who is well known to the river authorities, who has been seen coming and going on the Thames for years, and whose movements will raise no eyebrows.”
    “Why do you need all this?”
    “I have something that needs passing into other hands.”
    “Swag?” Madden asked.
    “I would prefer not to say,” Max said.
    “If I’m risking my boat, and my man, I’ve a right to know,” Billy said.
    “Jewels, Mr. Madden. Valuable ones. I need to get them out of England, to the continent,” Max said. He took his money clip out of his pocket, peeled off five twenty-pound notes from it, and laid them on the table. He rested his hand on top of them. “I’m prepared to make generous terms with you,” he said.
    Madden’s small eyes lit up. He reached for the money, but Max did not release it.
    “I’m paying you for your boat, your man, and your silence. Are we clear on this? If one word of this gets out, our deal is off.”
    “I hardly go looking for publicity in my line of work. Your secret’s safe with me,” Madden said.
    Max nodded. He pushed the money over to him. “This is a down payment only. My man will bring more each time. His name is Hutchins. He will be on the dock behind the Barkentine two weeks from tonight. At midnight. Have your man meet him here.”
    Max stood up. He tipped his cap to Madden, then left. Madden was a grim and horrible man, and Limehouse a grim and horrible place. He was glad to be leaving both, but the meeting had been productive. Very productive.
    He had something to pass into other hands, yes—but it wasn’t jewelry. And he needed a chain to do it. A strong, unbreakable one stretching between London and Berlin.
    And tonight, the first link had been forged.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    “Votes for Women no?” Seamie said, reading aloud the words on a