Lucy’s brow knotted. “How do I know your word is trustworthy?”
“Because I am a gentleman,” he replied with umbrage. “Not one of the thieves you know so well.”
Her eyes flashed. “A thief’s word is no less true than yours. The only differences between a gentleman and a thief are birth and opportunity. Integrity is a matter of choice. I have known cheats whose word was their bond and gentlefolk who would shake your hand and then stab your back the second you turned away.”
Henry frowned skeptically. However, he could not argue her point. His experience with men of all stations during the war lent credence to her claim. “As I said, my word is ironclad and you may trust it. I apologize that I have no written references handy. I did not expect an inquisition when packing my horse yesterday.”
Her brown eyes warmed hopefully. “Very well, then. But swear by your mother’s name not to break that trust.”
“You require an inordinate frequency of swearing by my mother’s name.”
She folded her arms, waiting. He relented. “I swear by my mother’s name to keep my word. Now, remain here and try to draw little attention.”
With instruction given, he led the packhorse along Bow Street a short distance before halting at the magistrate’s office. He motioned to three colleagues just entering the building.
“Sirs, would you kindly help me lug these bags inside?”
“What do you have there?” one asked with mild curiosity.
“Ten thousand guineas in gold coin liberated from highwaymen who stole it from a carriage yesterday at Shooter’s Hill.”
“Lord Colvin’s carriage?” they cried in near unison.
“Perhaps. I never heard the gentleman’s name.”
The patrolmen eagerly rushed to help him with the task. By the time he carried the last of the four heavy bags inside, everyone in the office had gathered around for a telling of the story, including the magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant, and a principal officer, Sir Hugh Chisholm. Henry recounted the events up to the point where he had caught sight of the packhorse. There he paused with thoughts of Lucy and how his identification of Sir Steadman might ultimately lead to her execution as an accomplice. In the throes of uncertainty, he did what only a tainted soul would do. He lied.
“The bandits fled in panic without the gold, perhaps thinking more of our ranks would soon arrive. I returned by a circuitous route to prevent them from tracking me.”
Sir Nathaniel frowned. “And the woman fled as well?”
“She did.”
“Do you have any notion of her identity, or that of the other men?”
“They are a mystery to me.”
“Strange,” the magistrate mumbled. “However, female road agents are a rarity. She should be the easiest of the lot to locate.”
Henry swallowed hard. “Perhaps.”
Seemingly satisfied, the magistrate left Henry to the accolades of his fellows, which he accepted with sheepish reservation. Guilt dogged him for his blatant mistruths. Creeping darkness nipped at his heels as he ducked away quickly, fearing that Lucy might leave if he dallied. As he exited Number Four Bow Street, however, a voice halted him.
“Mr. Beaumont. A moment.”
He turned to find Sir Hugh following him out the door. “Sir?”
The principal officer approached Henry and pulled him aside. He leaned close. “That was quite a tale, Henry. We are all very proud of your success.”
Henry tried not to avert his eyes. “Thank you.”
“Of course, your success comes as no surprise to me.” Sir Hugh’s praise was warm, delivered in a Highlander accent tempered by a decade in the British army. “Your exemplary service to the Crown in France was the reason I gave you the job. Still, I wonder…”
“Yes?”
“It seemed you held back some of your story. Is there more to say?”
Henry’s nerves erupted. He had known the man for only a few weeks—not long enough to trust him fully. He forced a smile. “No, sir. I relayed the pertinent details.”
