Chapter Eleven

 

One Week Later

Commercial Docks, London

 

 

 

"Bollocks, it's cold." Colin Ferguson, a sturdily built runner with dark blond hair and kind hazel yes, rubbed his hands briskly together before stuffing them into the pockets of his greatcoat. "I thought it was supposed to be spring?"

"Welcome to spring in London," Grant said dryly.

Ronan Hawke, a runner of few words, grunted in agreement. Big as a bull and twice as mean, he was Bow Street's muscle. One look at his trunk-sized neck (not to mention his massive chest), and a criminal more often than not turned themselves over with hardly a squeak. Grant was hoping that would be the case tonight.

They'd been called down to the wharf to investigate a series of robberies. Someone was stealing goods off the merchant ships as they came into port. Over the past two weeks they had managed to steal five barrels of tobacco, two crates of tea, and – oddly enough – a trunk filled with silk handkerchiefs.

A heavy fog hung over the docks, making it nearly impossible to see more than four or five planks ahead. Holding up a lantern encased in glass, Grant led the way down a long pier while Colin and Hawke flanked out behind him, keeping a wary eye open for anyone lurking in the shadows. The wharf was a dangerous place, filled with all manner of thieves and pickpockets who wouldn't bat an eye at stabbing a bloke for the coins he carried in his pocket.

"Do you know what we're looking for?" Colin asked as they approached a small wooden dinghy moored at the end of the pier.

"Not what." Carefully setting the lantern down in the middle of the dock, Grant drew back his foot and kicked the side of the dingy with so much force the boat nearly capsized. "Who," he said with satisfaction when a shout sounded from beneath a pile of rags and a man popped up.

"Bloody 'ell!" he yelled, brandishing a short sword so encrusted with rust that it was more brown than silver in the soft glow of the lamplight. "Who the devil do ye think ye - oh." As his watery gaze focused on Grant, he lowered his sword and turned his head to spit into the water. "It's you."

"It's me." Grant held out his arm. With obvious reluctance the man – better known as Captain Jim, an old sailor turned drunk who'd lived in his beaten up boat for as long as anyone could remember – allowed himself to be pulled up onto the pier.

"What do ye want this time?" he demanded, squinting at Grant out of bloodshot gray eyes. A thick black beard peppered with white covered the lower half of his face. The upper half was dominated by scraggly eyebrows that wiggled like pieces of bait every time he spoke. "I've been mindin' me own business, I 'ave. Keepin' to meself. Stayin' out of trouble."

"Staying drunk is more like it," Colin said, his nose wrinkling as he caught a whiff of the sailor’s potent cologne, eau du rotten fish, gin, and seawater.

"Oy! Never let it be said I can't hold me liquor." With a drunken leer Captain Jim tried to take a step forward, lost his balance, and would have pitched over the side of the pier if Hawke hadn't grabbed ahold of his shirtfront.

"Easy, Captain." Reaching inside his coat, Grant drew out a small leather pouch and dangled it in front of the old sailor. "All we're after is a few minutes of your time. Nothing more. Have you heard about the supplies that have gone missing off the merchant ships?"

Jim dragged his fingers through his beard. "Maybe I 'ave and maybe I 'aven't. What's it to ye?"

Colin, never patient under the best of circumstances, released a curse. "We don't have time for this. Toss him back in his bloody raft and be done with it. We'll find the culprit on our own."

"The Captain knows more about these docks than anyone," Grant said with an easy smile. "Don't you, my fine man?"

"Aye." Jim glared at Colin before looking up at the pouch Grant was dangling above his head like a carrot in front of a horse. "I know 'em better than anybody. Nothing happens 'ere that gets past Captain Jim. Ye can bet my sweet Mary on it."

"Who's Mary?" Colin asked.

"His boat," Grant replied. Loosening the drawstring on the pouch, he turned it over and shook out a handful of coins into Jim’s waiting palm. "Five shillings if you can tell me what you know about the merchant ships."

"A sailor never turns on 'is mates! We've a code of honor that I'm obliged to-"

"Five shillings and a bottle of gin."

Jim smacked his lips together. "Done."

"Code of honor my arse," Colin muttered under his breath.

Hawk nodded in silent agreement.

"Now," Grant said, ignoring them both. "Who is it? Who's been stealing off the boats?"

"What about the gin?" Jim said suspiciously. 

"It's here." He patted his coat. "You get it after you tell me what I need to know."

"Ye always were a crafty bastard. All right." He slapped a hand to the back of his neck. Dug short, brittle nails into skin that looked like it hadn't seen a good scrubbing since Napolean's defeat at Waterloo. "It's a young lad. About the same age as that one." He jabbed a bony finger at Colin. "Has a white scar underneath his eye. Real mean sort. The kind that will gut a fish and toss it back in the water jest to see it try to swim."

"Does this lad have a name?" Grant asked.

"Calls 'imself Mallack. E's put together a gang of four, maybe five. Sailors, mostly. Or at least they used to be. They hit the ships the same night they come in. Half past midnight, sometimes a little later. They wait until the crew heads to The Lusty Mermaid."

A tavern made out of the hull of an old pirate ship run aground by the British Fleet, The Lusty Mermaid was a favorite establishment of sailors, cutthroats, and thieves. Occasionally Owen ordered a raid on the tiny tavern but it was a dangerous business with little reward as the criminals they really wanted always had a way of slipping out of the back, leaving them with the drunks and the fools.

The last time Grant had frequented the Mermaid he'd been lucky to leave with his life after a stray bullet clipped the edge of his ear. He still remembered the burning heat of it, as well as the moment of stunned disbelief that followed when he realized how close he had come to death.

It shook a man, coming face to face with his own mortality. It made him think about what was really important. What really mattered. For Grant, that was being a runner...and a good son. But how much longer could he continue to be both? Sooner or later, one would have to give way to the other. His parents wanted him to accept his birthright and become the lord he had been born to be. To find a gentle lady and raise a family and spend his summers in a quiet country estate far away from Bow Street. But his heart – his very soul – knew he was right where he belonged.

Did he ever look at his brother's and their wives and children and feel a twinge of envy? Of course. He would be foolish not to. But he knew, deep down, that sort of life wasn't for him. Not as long as he was a runner. For what sort of gently bred woman would want her husband to hold such a dangerous position? One that not only put his life at risk, but potentially hers as well. 

In a perfect world he supposed he could have both. The job and the woman. But all he had to do was take one look at the poor old drunk standing in front of him to know that nothing about the world was perfect.   

"Don't know where they're keepin' everything," Jim continued. "One o' the warehouses, most like." He looked yearningly at Grant's coat. "Can I 'ave me gin now? I've a mighty thirst."

Grant pulled a plain glass bottle out of his pocket and gave it to the old sailor who immediately popped the cork and took a long, gulping swallow.

"Ah," Jim said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "Nothin' better than a fine woman and a good bottle o' gin."

"I'll take your word on the latter," Grant said dryly. "When's the next merchant ship scheduled to come in?"

"End o' the week."

"Thank you, Captain. You've done us a great service." He shook Jim's hand and for an instant so quick that if he'd blinked he would have missed it, he saw a glimpse of the man Jim had been before drink and dashed dreams had taken their toll. Then the proud light in the old sailor's watery eyes dimmed, his shoulders slumped, and he shuffled back to his dingy with his bottle of gin cradled lovingly in his arms.

"Well that was certainly interesting," Colin remarked as they made their way back down the pier. "Do you think he was telling the truth?"

"I don't think he would have any reason to lie." Grant tipped down the brim of his hat as a light misting rain began to fall. "We'll come back in four days. See if we can't catch these bastards red-handed."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

"Hawke?"

"Aye," the burly Runner grunted.

When they reached the end of the wharf Grant stopped short as a wayward thought tickled the back of his mind. "You two go on," he said, nodding in the direction of Bow Street. "I've some business yet."

"Business?" Colin lifted a brow. "This late at night? What are you – ah," he said, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Got yourself a ladybird, have you? You old dog." He punched Grant lightly on the shoulder. "Spencer said you had a wench in every part of town, but I didn't believe him."

Grant's eyes narrowed. While he did enjoy a good tup – what man didn't? – the extent of his sexual exploits had been greatly exaggerated. And he knew precisely who had been doing the exaggerating.

"Spencer is a bloody idiot. If you see the captain, tell him I'll be in first thing tomorrow morning."

Colin's grin widened. "Have a good time, mate."

"Sod off."

 

Grant heard – and smelled – The Lusty Mermaid before he saw it. Supported on either side by decaying masts held together with black tar, the old pirate ship looked as though one stiff breeze would send it rolling back into the Thames.

Dim light and raucous laughter spilled from the port holes, as did the smell of unwashed bodies and strong ale. It wasn't a place for the faint of heart, and when a gunshot rang out and a bullet came flying through the rotten belly of the hull, leaving a splintered hole in its wake, Grant just stepped to the side and kept on going.

As he neared the front door it swung open and a drunkard, stripped of all his clothes save a soiled pair of drawers, sailed out with the help of a bald-headed bruiser who could have easily passed for Hawke's brother. One look at Grant and the bruiser stopped in his tracks, fleshy lip curling in a sneer. "Nuffin' here for the likes of ye, runner," he growled. "We ain't after no trouble."

"That's good, because I'm not after causing any. I'm looking for someone." He angled his head to the side, trying to look into the tavern. "A woman."

With every day that had passed since the Dashwood Ball, his desire to find Juliet had increased tenfold. He knew the odds of her being in a place like this were slim to none, but he was willing to bet someone inside knew who she was and where she lived. A female thief, particularly one who looked like her, couldn’t go unnoticed.

"Bar wenches are two shillings an hour, three if ye like it rough."

"A tempting offer, but I'm after a different sort of woman." Knowing how the game was played, he pulled out another leather pouch nearly identical to the one he'd emptied for Captain Jim and tossed it at the bruiser. "Long hair red as a ruby. Large green eyes, a little tilted in the corners. Full mouth." That tastes like honey. "Small, curvy frame." He could feel his cock begin to swell and harden as he brought up a picture of Juliet in his mind. Her knowing little smirk. The way her breasts pushed against her bodice when she tilted her chin up at him. The hint of wildness in her gaze, like a filly that hadn't yet felt the weight of a bit between its teeth. He adjusted his stance, and hoped the bruiser wouldn't look down. "Have you seen anyone like that?"

"Aye, runner. In me dreams." The bruiser let out a hard, barking cough as he slipped the pouch into his pocket. "We're lucky if the wenches who come in 'ere have all their bleedin' teef. Wherever your red-haired unicorn is, she ain't here."

"Mind if I take a look for myself?"

He shrugged his massive shoulders. "It's your funeral, runner."

It wasn't exactly a warm welcome, but then Grant hadn't been expecting one. Tipping his hat, he walked through the door and into pure bedlam.