Free Blackstone's Bride by Kate Moore Page B

if one couldn’t swim. He would have to find another way to make a closer inspection. A burned-out building might make a good hiding place, and he looked for signs of recent entry.
    Retracing his steps, he let himself slip back into his old ways. He’d once been a Bredsell boy. Before the Reverend Bredsell’s arrest for fraud and manslaughter, the larcenous vicar had run a school for orphan boys that trained them in thievery and spying rather than in honest trades. In his three years with the school, Nate had learned to work a street. In those days it had been his ambition to become a high mobsman with a purple silk waistcoat and a gold watch the size of a turnip. Now that he had the finest coats to wear, that ambition seemed hollow. He didn’t know yet how far he could go in his new profession, but he was sure he would beat the best mobsman all to pieces. He might even get a “Sir” to his name like Xander and Will Jones, men who had once been his enemies, but who had become steady friends.
    Nate had come over to Goldsworthy’s operation from Will Jones’s employ. Sir William, as he was now called, was working with Peel on plans for a true Metropolitan Police Force, and when those plans hit a snag in parliament, Jones had found a place for Nate with Goldsworthy. Nate knew he would go back to straight police work in time, but for now he could not complain—the clothes, the digs, and the close proximity to Miranda Kirby—filled his days.
    As he slouched along, he tried to put the pieces together the way he’d learned from the copper Will Jones. Somewhere between the dock and Waring & Sons’ ruined tea warehouse, Frank Hammersley was confined. That meant money had changed hands. A landlord or a watchman had been paid to look the other way, to lock a door, keep a watch on the prisoner, bring a plate of food. And someone had to empty the prisoner’s piss pot, the sort of someone who wouldn’t be above trying to make a little extra coin on the side for his trouble. A familiar sign caught his eye up a narrow lane, as promisingly disreputable as any in London, with the name Cat’s Hole painted on the bricks at the corner. Coming out of the lane was a small neat man in threadbare finery whistling a shrill, sour tune. It was second nature to Nate to notice others without being noticed, so he made himself part of the scenery until the fellow passed. When Nate looked back, the man had disappeared off the high. Nate turned up Cat’s Hole Lane to have a chat with the proprietor of the pawnshop. A friendly conversation today could mean needed information tomorrow.
    * * *
    Violet took up her vigil in Frank’s room at the end of the second day of his absence, or the beginning of the third day, depending on how one looked at it. Frank’s trunk still stood in the middle of the room next to his leather bench. Tonight there was no danger that she and Blackstone would end up on the bench again. She saw now how he meant to play the role of fiancé—ever politely solicitous and close, while flirting with the little countess. What she did not see was how his act helped them find Frank.
    Papa had gone straight to bed after the prince’s dinner for the officers of the bank. He did his best to appear hospitable before the prince, but when the prince said anything particularly thickheaded about Frank’s absence, Papa’s expression flickered between mild annoyance and naked rage. Earlier in the day he had tried to enlist Bow Street, and the magistrate had refused to help, claiming the matter was a foreign office affair.
    From the door Violet surveyed Frank’s room with care. She wanted to be sure Blackstone was not ahead of her, lurking in a dark corner. Last night when he had taken charge and acted like an investigator, she had hoped for Frank’s immediate recovery. Whatever pain their past history might bring, she had been sure she could endure it to see Frank safely home. But during the day, that hope had slipped away. In