Tobias McTavish could hear them coming—the Bow Street Runners. They announced themselves in a clatter of carriages drawn by steaming, tossing horses, heading at speed for the gate of his farming estate in Isleworth, an old Anglo-Saxon village upriver, to the west of London.

He been expecting them, of course—he read the broadsheets, same as anyone in London. He had seen his name connected to a string of Mayfair robberies, and he had reckoned that it was only a matter of time before the Runners would come to roust him out, even as he hoped that perhaps, just perhaps, this time they wouldn’t jump to unfounded conclusions.

But hope was a spurious thing for a man in his position. And protesting his innocence would do him no good. Once a man had a certain reputation, nothing in the world—not heroism, nor duty, nor honor—could wipe the slate clean. Devil knew he had almost died trying.

“Show the gentlemen of Bow Street in when they arrive, Ella,” he instructed his housekeeper. “You know what to do.”

The stout-hearted woman—the widow of a former shipmate—tipped him the wink. “I’ll see to ’em right ’enuff, sar.” They had long ago made contingency plans against such a day—when the law would come barging its way through his gates.

Toby left his loyal ally to her work, and quickly retreated to his personal chambers, where he primed the pistol he habitually kept loaded in his clothes press—a man never knew when the past was going to try to creep up on him. Except, of course, when the past was loudly hammering its mittened fists upon his front door.

Toby set the stage as best he could before Ella’s knock sounded upon the chamber door. “If ye please, sar, they’s fellas as want to see ye. From the Bow Street Magistrates office, they say.”

“Thank you, Ella.” Toby dismissed his housekeeper with a nod, and took his time descending the stair. “Gentlemen,” he addressed the three men ranged to stand between him and the doors. “I’ve been expecting you. Would you care for some refreshment after your mad dash out from the city? I hope the roads were not too filthy or rutted this unseasonable time of year?”

The Runners looked nonplussed to be so greeted.

“No?” Toby took a comfortable seat in the drawing room. “Then let us get to the business at hand.”

The chief amongst the men puffed himself up to stand before Toby, as gruff as a bulldog before a bear. “Someone has laid an information against ye, Tobias McTavish.”

“How devilishly irresponsible of them.” Toby continued to smile as if he was as innocent and blameless as all the angels and saints—some of those saints had led similarly colorful careers before their apotheosis. “May I know what crime is alleged against me?”

“As if ye didn’t know,” the Bulldog scoffed. “Robbery, wouldn’t it be—thievery of jewels! Ye’re to be taken to Bow Street, to answer the magistrate’s questions, whilst we search this house for the valuables what’s been stolen.”

Toby spread his hands wide in invitation—there wasn’t much he could do to stop them—and since he had hidden no such gems, they could search all they liked.

Still, he couldn’t let them have their way entirely. “How do I know you won’t steal something of mine, whilst you’re wandering about my house?”

“By jove!” The Bulldog’s face turned a meaty shade of red. “That’s enough of that palaver. Ye’re to come with us.”

“Of course,” Toby demurred with all politesse. “I won’t but be a moment to finish dressing.” He gestured to his shirtsleeves. “I’ll just get my coat and hat.” He took his time ascending the staircase, as if he had nothing better to do than while away his afternoon getting dressed and going to gaol, though he was very conscious of the lead Runner crowding closer to the foot of the stair so he might keep his eye on Toby.

As well he might. Toby slipped into his room, letting the door lock fall with an audible snap—immediately, he could hear the Runners start to creep up the creaking stair.

Perfect—they were so easily led.

When he judged they had crept about halfway up the long flight, Toby opened his window and fired off his gun.

A cry instantly went up from below, “Jeesus God! He’s kilt hisself!”

Immediately, their feet began to pound up to the top of the staircase.

Toby propped the smoking gun on the open window sill, and whisked himself up the hidden staircase cleverly concealed behind wood panels, heading for the roof, from whence he could see that the Runners who had been stationed outside guarding the drive had abandoned their positions, and were running into the house toward the source of the sound.

They really were so easily led.

Within the house, the sounds of the fellows throwing themselves at the bedchamber door grew until the wood surrounding the locked bolt gave way with an audible crack, and the Runners crashed through the door in a din of flailing limbs and scraping boots.

“Where is ’ee?” one of them howled.

“Gone, dammit—out the winder.”

“But I thought he’d a-shot hisself? There be the gun.”

And while they were doing their utmost to parse together the disparate clues, Toby signaled down to his housekeeper, who waited in the stable block, and who immediately set off down the now-abandoned drive in a covered carriage.

The Runners heard the clatter of hooves upon the gravel, and ran to the window. “By jove! He’s scarperin’!”

“After ’im, lads.”

And away they all went, thumping back down the staircase and out of the house in full cry. “Get after that carriage!”

Which gave Toby all the time in the word to do exactly as he had said he would, and change into appropriate clothes—appropriate for a nice long row downriver to London.

To get some bloody better answers.