Ambrose turned to Syd. “Give me the package.”
Adela noticed a flicker of panic in the man’s eyes.
She leaned forward, eager to see what it contained. “Bank notes? Who are they made out to?”
Ambrose groaned as he let out a breath. “Thomas Runyon.”
She gasped. “Then this is about your stolen book, after all. I knew it! How much was he willing to pay?”
Ambrose quickly counted the notes. “One thousand pounds.”
She gasped again. “And the exchange was supposed to be made here? Of all the brazen gall! How dare that little lizard set up the exchange under our very noses, intentionally rubbing the loss in our faces. Ambrose…er, Your Grace, I am so very sorry.” She turned to this stranger who still appeared defiant. “And you were stupid enough to go along with it? You could have insisted on making the exchange anywhere else. Why here?”
“It wasn’t up to me,” the man said, finally breaking his defiant silence. “Runyon set the terms.”
Adela glanced at Ambrose in dismay. “This means Runyon must have intended to show up here today. Oh, he might have been in the lecture hall waiting for the moment to retrieve the funds and hand off the book. I ruined it by jumping in too quickly.”
The man laughed. “You’ll never catch him now.”
She glowered at him. “Yes, we will. Count on it. He will be tossed in the prison cell beside yours. You may as well give us your name, for we will find it out soon enough. These bank notes can be traced back to you.”
But her heart was in her throat, for she might have interfered with Ambrose’s Bow Street runners who would have been following Runyon here. If so, where were they now? And why had they not stopped Runyon here?
Perhaps they did not realize he was carrying the book to hand off to this stranger. But that did not make sense. How could they not realize it?
Obviously, this man seated before them was a middleman of some sort, for he spoke with an unrefined accent, and his clothes and shoes were not of good quality. He could not possibly have the funds himself to acquire Jovian of Tarantino’s magnificent tome.
The man was no scholar but a ruffian off the streets.
Certainly not a nobleman. Ambrose and his brothers would have recognized him if he were one of them. But this man was definitely hired by a scoundrel with wealth and possibly a title attached to his name to secretly acquire that priceless book.
When continued questioning yielded no answers, Ambrose called in one of his clerks. “Summon the magistrate. This man is to be turned over to the authorities.”
The stranger leaped up from his seat. “On what possible charges? Those funds are mine! I want them back.”
“He is to be held on attempted assault on the Duke of Huntsford’s betrothed.”
“She’s the one who grabbed me!”
“Mr. Lewis,” Ambrose said, his voice remaining steady as he addressed his clerk. “Send for the magistrate now.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
“I’ll have yer little doxy brought up on charges herself,” he threatened with a growl.
“Mr. Lewis, he is to be charged with attempted assault and violent threats to the safety of my betrothed.”
Within the hour, the man was led away by the magistrate’s constables. “I want my money back! He stole my money!”
The constables ignored his ranting. “Those notes are clearly designated for a Mr. Thomas Runyon. His Grace will see they are properly turned over to him. Now, unless you are willing to provide more information, shut up or we’ll gag you.”
Adela had at least a dozen questions for Ambrose which she began to rattle off as soon as the perpetrator was hauled away. “Should we not spread out and search for your Bow Street men?”
“No,” Ambrose said.
“What do they look like? Do you know? Did you recognize any of them in the lecture hall? Surely, they must have heard the commotion? Do you think Runyon heard it and ran out? Why did they not stop him?”
“Adela–”
