November, 1752
“Well, ’is takes me back to me youth,” said Barnes in a sour voice. “And a wretched devil’s arse of a youth it were too. Bloody Thames.”
John Trent barked out a laugh. Barnes’s vocabulary was amusing in exact proportion to its gross indecency. “Your youth? You mean yesterday?”
“Oh, har har.” Barnes, with his slender face and few stray facial hairs, seemed like a very young man indeed. Until he opened his mouth. “Ya might have been suckin’ the teet at some hoity-toity school when ya was sixteen, but I were a man growed by then.”
John was not surprised to learn that Barnes had scavenged along the Thames as a child. London was full of street urchins who picked the bones of the city clean of anything they could eat or pawn. And Barnes was one of the smartest London rats John had ever known. He wouldn’t trust him further than he could reach. But Barnes was smart, nonetheless.
“I see. Well, use those vastly mature eyeballs and let’s get on with it. That smuggler’s loot won’t find itself.”
“Smuggler’s loot me arse,” complained Barnes, but he continued down the riverbank, sticking a long pole into the water every few feet, as if something might be hiding in the muck. The tide was on its way out, and the edge of mud revealed stank like rotting fish.
There’d been a rash of murders in the taverns around the docks. Judge Fielding was sure it was all wrapped up with rumors of lost smuggler’s loot. Possibly an entire load of crated French brandy had been set adrift when a rival gang had been spotted. Possibly it’d been in an old skiff held together with spit and a prayer. Possibly it was still out there somewhere in the murk.
An awful lot of “possibilities” had let to some very real knifings and corpses. But it didn’t take much more than a hint of riches—or brandy—to make desperate fellows fight to the death. Thus Judge Fielding had thought it worth the time of his Bow Street Runners to look for the missing skiff.
Since Barnes was thoroughly checking the riverbank, John cast his gaze farther out, scanning the water for any sign of something that oughtn’t be there. They’d gone several miles, following the Thames west from Millwall back towards the heart of London, when he saw something was bobbing along in the water, its bright colors catching his eye.
“What the devil?” John muttered to himself.
It was a figurine, a carved figurine of... an angel. Her robe gleamed gold, and her face was turned up to the London sky. Her paint was immaculate, and she looked cheerful and new, even bobbing in the waves of the filthy river. She wasn’t far out, maybe six feet from the bank.
John looked ahead to call Barnes, but the man’s back was to him as he continued down the bank. He decided to retrieve the object himself. He hurriedly kicked off his shoes, undid the buckled garters that held up his stockings, and stripped down to his bare feet. He waded into the water, trying very hard not to think about what was dumped in the river on a daily basis and thus lapping about his calves. The shoreline wasn’t deep, and she was right there. If he could just....
He reached out his hand. He half expected her to slip away downstream, like some teased treat. But no, she surged into his palm as if cast there on a stray current. He closed his fingers around her.
She was light, probably made of wood. He headed back to the bank, not wanting to spend any more time in the water than absolutely necessary. He winced as stones along the river’s edge dug into his tender soles. He hadn’t had the luxury of going barefoot since his boyhood. He found a patch of gravel and sat down. There, at last, he turned the treasure around in his hands to examine it.
She was around eight inches high, about the length of his hand from wrist to tip. She wore a gown of gold that was so rich and true he wondered if there was gold dust in the paint. Her wings were a creamy gray with more gold along their upper arch. She had long hair in curls painted a lovely golden red. Her brown eyes seemed to be lit from within and they looked right through him. Marvelous effect, that.
“Hells bells! Where’d ya nab ’at?”
Barnes’s shadow fell across him and John looked up at his avid expression.
“She was in the river.”
“In the river? The like! I never found nuffin’ like ’at in me life. How’d it get in the drink?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“A beaut, ain’t she?” Barnes leaned down to trace a finger along her cloak. “Can I ’ave ’er?”
John scoffed. “No! I saw her and I retrieved her. I shall keep her, if you don’t mind.” He was surprised at his own vehemence. But after all, there was no reason why Barnes should have her.
“All right, all right. Don’t pitch a fit. If yer lookin’ for a pawn shop, I know’d one in Seven Dials. Owner ’as a soft spot for arty bits like ’at.”
“I won’t pawn her.”
Barnes squinted as if the remark made no sense. “Wot’ll ya do with ’er, then?”
John studied her once more, turning her all the way around in his hands. At her base was a hollow, as if she was made to set atop a Christmas tree. On her back was a tiny loop that could attach to a thin nail or a thread. She was not a quick job, this one, like the figurines in cheap stalls in Covent Garden. Such fine details. Someone had taken a great deal of care with her.
“Keep her for now.” He took out a handkerchief and wrapped her in it, then put her in his coat pocket.
“Lucky sot. We’s lookin’ for the loot or wot?” Barnes asked, sounding put out.
“We are. There’s plenty of daylight left,” John said cheerfully. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”
He put on his stockings and shoes. Then he went back to the task at hand, whistling a bawdy tune. For as light as she’d seemed at first, the angel sat heavily in his pocket, like money begging to be spent or a message waiting to be read.