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Carpenter’s brows lowered as he worked through the statements, then his face cleared. He looked at Michael. “Aye. That’s it. Both driver and cart have to be guild-registered, so all the possible men will be on your list.”
“Thank you.” Michael fished in his pocket and handed up half a crown. “First drink tonight is on us.”
“Why, thank ye.” Carpenter accepted the coin and doffed his cap to them both. “Hope you find what you’re looking for, sir. Miss.”
With a smiling nod, Michael turned away, easing his hold on Cleo’s arm as he did. “Let’s get back to the hackney.”
Somewhat carefully, she lifted her arm free of his fingers and immediately became—or at least pretended to become— engrossed in the damned list. As they walked briskly up the lane, she seemed oblivious to all about her; Michael found himself steering her by dint of his size and physical presence around obstacles in their path.
When they reached the top of the lane and stepped into Chicksand Street, she finally consented to raise her head. The hackney was where they had left it; they picked up their pace and headed for it. When she still said nothing, he observed, “It seems that working our way through the guild list will, sooner or later, lead us to the carters who transported our ten barrels of gunpowder.”
“Hmm.” She glanced at the list again. “As that seems to be the case, I believe our next port of call should be Allen Street. It’s just north of Cable Street.”
He paused to relay the direction to the jarvey. When he turned to the carriage, it was to find the door open and Cleo already inside.
Grinning would not be wise. He took a moment to wipe any telltale expression from his face before climbing up, shutting the door, and settling beside her.
Chapter 4
By the time they reached Cable Street and were once again forced to leave the hackney to head into a warren of smaller lanes, Michael had realized that Miss Cleome Hendon was a female who possessed the power to get under his skin.
Despite the fact he could, if he wished, throw her into a sensual fluster and at least make her pause, when it came to the world around her, she was utterly fearless. As in, without fear. Fear—even caution—apparently did not feature within the lexicon of her otherwise impressive intelligence.
How or why that should be so was a mystery to Michael. But as—once again at her heels—he followed her down a tiny lane, he was supremely conscious of an increasingly primitive urge to haul her back and lock her up somewhere safe. She swept on, oblivious to anything beyond her goal, leaving him to scan every which way for any potential threats.
Which in this area were a distinct possibility. As he had all afternoon, he carried his grandfather’s swordstick in his left hand; Cleo had noted the cane, asked to see it, but hadn’t seemed all that impressed by the slender, very sharp blade concealed within the black case. Regardless, in their present surrounds, having the concealed rapier in his hand made him, at least, feel a touch more comfortable.
There was no pavement in the lane, just the ubiquitous cobbles. Cleo suddenly halted, then stepped back to look up at one of the narrow houses fronting directly onto the lane.
“This is it,” she stated.
Jaw setting, Michael stepped in front of her and, with the silver head of his cane, beat an imperious tattoo on the door.
From behind him, he heard mutterings and felt a small, ineffectual shove, both of which he ignored.
The door was opened cautiously, and a worn and tired woman looked out. When she saw him and took in his clothing, she blinked, then nearly stumbled as she tried to curtsy.
When, straightening, she stared at him and uttered not a word, Michael curbed his impatience and said, “We’d like to speak with Mr. Fields. Is he in?”
The woman’s expression soured, and her lips thinned. “No, he ain’t. And afore you ask, I don’t know when he’ll be back.” With that, the woman crossed her arms and braced herself as if to deny them entrance.
Understanding she thought they were creditors, Michael inwardly sighed. “My good woman, we have no argument with your husband. We simply want to ask him some questions about a cargo he may or may not have carried.”
The woman’s expression grew pugnaciously defensive. “He ain’t done nothing wrong.”
“We don’t think he has. We just want to know—”
“You have one of them fancy cards?” the woman challenged. “If’n you do, you leave one with me, and I’ll give it to him, and he can come and see you if he wants to have a chat.”
Michael drew in a long breath.
The shove, this time, was a great deal more forceful—enough to have him shift to the side.
The woman’s eyes went wide as she saw Cleo—who, Michael realized, had until then been entirely screened by his bulk.
The look on his equal-partner’s face was almost as belligerent as the woman’s had been; she all but glared at him.
Then she turned to the woman and, her expression reverting to one of sweetness and light, with commendable calmness said, “Ignore him. I am Miss Hendon of Hendon Shipping, and I—we”—she cast another black and warning glance at Michael—“merely want to ask your husband whether he moved a certain cargo we’re trying to trace, or if he knows which of the carters on the guild list”—she held up the list—“might have moved it.”
The woman’s eyes fixed on the list, then she briefly studied Cleo’s clothes and face. Eventually, she said, “You’re not here to cause any trouble for him?”
“Not in the slightest. In fact, as we rewarded the last carter we spoke with for his time…” Cleo shot a look at Michael.
He reached into his pocket and fished out another half crown.
Cleo filched it from his fingers and offered it to the woman. “For your time.”
The woman lifted the coin from Cleo’s palm. As she studied it, Cleo added, “And there’ll be another for your husband, although I suspect that will never make it home.”
The woman barked a laugh. “You’re right there.” She looked at Cleo, briefly glanced at Michael, then returned her gaze to Cleo’s face. “If you’re set on speaking with him, you’ll find him at the local.” She stepped forward and pointed down the street. “Just go ’round that corner, and it’s dead ahead. The Seven Keys—you can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” Cleo inclined her head and turned in the direction the woman had indicated—away from the street where they’d left the hackney.
Michael unclenched his jaw enough to add his thanks, then swung around and, in a few swift strides, caught up with his “partner.” Having to let her take over the questioning of the woman and stand by while she succeeded where he had failed was bad enough, but… “You can’t go marching into a workmen’s tavern.”
They turned the corner, and the tavern loomed ahead.
Cleo slanted him a glance. “Why not?”
“The fact you even ask…leaves me speechless.” Abruptly he halted, and with a touch on her arm, halted her, too, and drew her to face him. “Look,” he said, releasing her, “I’ll walk you back to the hackney—you’ll be safe enough there. I’ll come back to the tavern, find Fields, ask our questions, then come back and report.” He looked into her eyes. “All right?”
Cleo stared at him for several seconds. How to explain? “You saw what happened with that woman.” When he just blinked at her, she bit the bullet and said, “You frighten people. At least, people like this.”
He straightened and frowned down his nose at her. “I didn’t say or do anything intimidating.”
“You didn’t have to.” When his expression hardened, and he looked increasingly dismissive, she cast about for some way to make him see… “In part, it’s a function of class.” And it was. The aura men like him effortlessly projected was instantly perceived by all around them, and it was intimidating. Yet it wasn’t simply that they were scions of noble houses; some sons of the nobility were entirely unthreatening. But all the Cynsters she’d ever set eyes on, and men lik
e Drake Varisey and others of their ilk, even her father and brothers, exuded intimidation without conscious thought. It wasn’t purely their physical characteristics—their height, the broadness of their chests, their long muscled frames, and the predatory grace with which they invariably moved—but also their utter certainty that in any contest, be it of strength or will, they would prevail.
Born to rule. They grew up with that, were imbued with the concept from birth, until, by the age of thirty or so, it had sunk to their very bones. Until it manifested as an outwardly detectable, dominant strength, the sort that would always triumph.
How to explain to him that he didn’t have to do anything other than be himself to convince others, male and female alike, that he was dangerous? Someone to be, if not feared outright, then given a wide berth?
Not that she felt the least bit threatened by him—which was a point she suspected she ought to ponder at some other time, but now…
She stared into his dark eyes and resisted the urge to clutch at the curls tumbling from her topknot. Instead, she drew in a careful breath and said, “People look at you, and even before you open your mouth, they recognize—at some level they can’t even explain—what you are. Even though they don’t know precisely who you are, they instinctively comprehend that you are the sort of man who wields power. And power frightens them. They don’t understand it—and they certainly don’t understand you. So they shut their mouths and try to make themselves as invisible to you as they can.”
His frown darkened. He stared at her for several seconds, then said, “I’m trying to comprehend how being the sort of man others respect on sight is bad.”
She shook her head impatiently. “I didn’t say it was. I do, however, contend that when it comes to eliciting information from people like carters and their wives, I stand a significantly better chance of succeeding than you.” An idea—a vision—blossomed in her mind, and she seized on the inspiration. “Consider this. You and I might move in similar social circles, but when people in this area look at me, they see someone they can relate to. That’s why I keep telling people I’m a Hendon from Hendon Shipping—every carter and his family will have heard of us. We’re a very large cartage customer, so my name and the company connection make me something of a known entity in their world. They’ll treat me with respect, but not wariness, especially because I’m a woman. I don’t threaten them.”
His jaw had set and resembled granite. “You still can’t go into that tavern.”
“Not alone. Even were I here by myself, I wouldn’t go in there without a male escort.”
He muttered something she thought was “Thank God for that.”
She ignored him and rolled on, “But in this case, you’re here. And that makes things not just easier but well-nigh perfect. In terms of questioning Mr. Fields, it will smooth our way.” She fixed her gaze on his eyes. “What I suggest we do is this. I will lead the way inside, but as long as you stay behind me, you may hover as close as you wish.” She wasn’t so sure of the wisdom of that, but if the concession won him over to her plan, she would grit her teeth and manage. “Mr. Fields, when we find him, will see me”—she put her palm to her chest—“entirely unthreatening, with you behind me as my guard.” She waved her hand at him. “Your…appearance, so to speak, will not seem out of place because it will fit the role. Fields will see you, but he’ll understand why you’re there, and he won’t feel threatened. He’ll focus on me, and me having a guard, especially one like you, will only underscore how unthreatening I am. Then I will ask the questions, the initial ones at least, until Fields relaxes.” She studied his expression, but it showed little of his thoughts.
Impulsively, she put out a hand and touched his sleeve. “Please—can we at least try it that way?”
His gaze shifted to her hand, barely brushing his sleeve; suddenly self-conscious, she withdrew it—but really? He could grip her arm, yet she couldn’t touch his sleeve?
But his gaze had returned to her face. Then he nodded. Once. “All right. Let’s see how your system works.”
She managed not to let her jaw drop. For all her persuasiveness, she hadn’t actually thought she’d get her idea through his thick skull… She whirled to face the tavern—before he changed his mind. She strode for the tavern door, noting the wooden sign swinging above it, showing seven golden keys on a dark-green background.
She wasn’t surprised when she felt hard fingers grip her elbow.
He drew her to a halt and reached around her to open the door. “Move slowly and stay in front of me—don’t dart anywhere.”
He’d bent his head; his breath feathered over her nape as she stepped across the threshold.
She made no attempt to respond; she had too much to do quelling the riot of shivers tripping up and down her spine.
She halted two steps inside the large taproom. A bar ran along the far wall, and there were men of all trades sitting and standing at tables and leaning on the bar, all talking, each and every one with a mug or a tankard in his hand. Briefly, she scanned the heads, letting the cacophony—and the looks they were already attracting—wash over her.
“We should have asked Fields’s wife what he looks like,” her escort-cum-guard muttered.
She drew in a bracing breath. “No matter—we’ll ask at the bar. It’s his local, after all. The barkeep will know him.”
“I’ll speak with the barkeep.” The growl brooked no argument.
She lightly shrugged and walked toward the bar. “As you wish.”
She made for a gap that opened up at the long, polished bar as other patrons—as she’d anticipated—shuffled to either side to give them, mainly Michael, space.
The barkeep had seen them approaching. She smiled sweetly at the rugged man as he came to ask what they wanted.
Even as the unwisdom of allowing Michael to speak at all bloomed in her brain, she heard him say, “The lady has business with a Mr. Fields. His wife said we would find him here.”
She blinked, then nearly grinned in appreciation. The man wasn’t all brawn after all. He’d muted the autocratic command that resonated in his normal speech and had even managed to sound unaggressive; indeed, he sounded like some upper-level servant.
The barkeep studied him, then his gaze dropped to her. She brightened her smile and was rewarded when the barkeep started to smile in response. Then he raised his head, looked to their right, and nodded in that direction. “That’s Fields there—in the green cap.”
She couldn’t see because of the men between, but Michael looked, then nodded to the barkeep. “Thank you,” he said. Then his grip on her elbow tightened, and he steered her on.
She did her best to mute her awareness of the strength in his fingers, in his hand, but entirely unexpectedly—perhaps because of that inner wondering over why she, her senses, didn’t perceive him as any sort of threat—a sense of safety, of being protected to the point that no danger could touch her, not ever, washed over her.
The sensation, the feeling, was so intense she would have mentally halted and examined it, but Michael guided her around a group of large men, and there was Fields, sitting with his back to her. He was of similar age to Joe Carpenter, perhaps a few years older, a touch smaller in build if a bit more rotund.
Michael halted her a respectful distance away.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Fields?”
The man in the green cap swiveled on his stool. The instant he saw who it was, he came to his feet. “Yes, miss?” Fields’s gaze darted to Michael, but then returned to Cleo’s face.
She smiled reassuringly. “If I might have a word?”
Fields blinked, his gaze lifting again to Michael. “Are you sure it’s me you want, miss?”
“Oh, indeed.” She was still carrying the guild list in her other hand. She waved it. “Your name and address are on the list the guild gave me.”
“Oh.” The mention of the guild calmed Fields; he settled his gaze on her face. “Well, then—how can I help you?”
“I’m Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company…” She recited her tale of wanting to trace an order of gunpowder that had been brought into London by a carter on Wednesday. “We’re looking to make an offer for those particular barrels, as they’re especially suited for shipping to our client in Jamaica. As we don’t normally trade in gunpowder, we’re rather at a loss, and the guild suggested we ask around to see if we can trace the barrels through whichever carter handled the job.”
Fields nodded. Her tale clearly made perfect sense to him. “Would that I could help you, miss, but I didn’t do that job.”
“Do you have any idea which of the carters on this list might have taken it?”
Fields shook his head. “Sorry, no—but perhaps I can help in another way. Mick Landry and Jack Grimsby should be on that list of yours.”
She scanned the names, then nodded. “Yes, they are.”
“Well, they’re locals here, too,” Fields informed her. “They should be here somewhere. Let’s see if we can winkle them out for you. They might have heard something about that job.”
The patrons around them had been shamelessly eavesdropping. Although the tavern was now even more crowded than when she and Michael had entered it, and seemed full of nooks and alcoves tucked away around corners, the word quickly spread that Fields was after Landry and Grimsby, and within a few minutes, two men, both a few years younger than Fields, mugs in hand, pushed through the crowd and presented themselves.
Fields introduced her as Miss Hendon of Hendon Shipping, which immediately made Landry and Grimsby regard her with professional interest, although both kept a wary eye on the looming presence at her back. Fields went on to explain that she was searching for the carter who had transported a load of gunpowder from Kent to London on Wednesday, and both Landry’s and Grimsby’s faces fell. Both shook their heads.