Free Maggie MacKeever by The Tyburn Waltz

would suit,” retorted Tony, “if it could trail along after Maman like a tantony pig and carry her falderals and listen to her complain. Which is what I’m doing, isn’t it? Complaining, I mean.”
    Yes he was, and there was precious little point in it. Pritchett said, “Talking won’t pay toll.”
    Maybe it wouldn’t, but Tony saw no reason why he shouldn’t complain, if he was so inclined. “Tell me this: why me? It ain’t like I’m the only punter to be a trifle scorched.” He gazed wistfully in the direction of the card-room. “I would have come about if that damned fellow hadn’t shoved in his oar.”
    Why the viscount? Expedience, perhaps. Cap’n Jack wasn’t one to let an opportunity pass.
    Tony was still bemoaning his ill luck. Pritchett would never understand the fascination of risking something valuable in the hope of winning more. But why should he understand? Gaming was the vice of the wealthy and high born.
    Pritchett strolled around the perimeter of the crowded room. With the end of the French wars, officers fresh from continental battles were rushing to the tables, playing hard and raising stakes.
    He did not go unnoticed. Some observers saw merely a neat, fastidious little man with thinning hair and spectacles, for his Manton pistol was not on display, nor his gilt-headed baton. Others knew exactly what he was. Pritchett had a reputation, and it wasn’t for fair dealing. Aspiring criminals gave him a wide berth.
    Tony trailed behind him, talking all the while. “Lower your voice,” Pritchett interrupted. “You never know who may overhear.”
    Tony stopped, mid-sentence, and moved closer. “Is he here?”
    “Is who here?” Pritchett asked.
    Tony looked nervously over his shoulder. “Cap’n Jack.”
    Pritchett suspected that the Cap’n was indeed present, result of the small hairs on the back of his neck standing up as if to salute. “No one can say when the Cap’n will put in an appearance. He has eyes and ears everywhere.”
    “Don’t want to see him,” muttered Tony. Or hear him or even know about him. I’d blow out my brains out except Maman would really cut up stiff in that event.”
    Pritchett sighed. “Go home, Ashcroft.”
    Tony’s thoughts had been heading in a different direction, specifically the card room. “But it’s early yet.”
    “Home,” repeated Pritchett. “Go.”
    Tony was too well trained by his mama to argue with orders issued in so authoritative a tone. “I may not be a downy one,” he said with dignity, as he turned away, “but that don’t mean you may try and bamboozle me. I’ll lay odds you know more about this business than you are willing to say.”      
    The viscount would lay odds on a fly crawling along a windowpane. Pritchett followed Tony through the crowd, watched to see that he headed for the exit and not toward the card room, though it was no skin off Pritchett’s nose if the young fool dug himself in more deeply than he already had.
    He felt the menace hovering behind his right shoulder. It drawled, “I would be very displeased if you were to develop scruples at this late date.”
    “I was just protecting your investment, sir.” Pritchett had no desire to turn around. “Ashcroft will be of no use to anyone if he blows out his brains.”
    The voice was smooth and dark and dangerous. “You did not tell me Dorset spotted the girl at Carlton House.”
    The girl, the viscount, the thief taker. Pawns each one of them, being set in place for some specific purpose, which Pritchett doubted was the pilfering of some society matron’s jewels. “I didn’t know. The earl will be wanting his statue back.”
    “The earl will also want to know why she took it,” said the Cap’n. He was briefly silent. Pritchett held his breath.
    “As do I.” The voice was thoughtful. “Dorset may prove to be of use.”
    Pity Dorset, then. “You asked to be notified when the house in Curzon Street was ordered opened up.”
    “So I