A wave of warning crashed through his senses. She had already infiltrated his closely guarded defenses with her earnest friendship. Now, she offered a hand. He decided adamantly to decline the offer before he spontaneously reached down to clasp her hand. It proved warm and soft, just as he’d feared. With a heave, he hoisted her onto the branch. She scuttled away to hug the trunk, either afraid of the height or fearful of his nearness and her rash decision. Her stare indicated the latter and gave him a lingering view of the green ring around her dark eyes. Then, without warning, a smile consumed her, and she began to laugh, dimples on full display.
“I can’t believe you pulled me up. What were you thinking?”
Her exclamation oozed with life—the elusive life he had struggled for years to find. He became immediately unsettled. “Apparently, Iwasn’tthinking.”
Without another word, he swung down from the tree and held up his arms. Her eyes went wide, but she settled on the branch and leaned into his hands. He lowered her to the ground as if she were a hot coal. His forehead broke into a sweat. Perhaps Morganwasa hot coal. When her lips parted in a soft ‘oh,’ he belatedly remembered to pull his hands away from her.
“Well then,” he said. “We should consider returning to Broad Chalke and our surveillance of Three-Finger Jack. Before we get hurt.”
Her smile faded a bit, enough to communicate her disappointment. “I suppose you are right, as usual.”
“Of course, I am always right. About time you realized that.”
However, he felt distinctly that he might be hopelessly and perilously wrong.
***
Morgan again trailed Steadman on foot as they followed Jack from the tavern under the cover of darkness, though this time their prey took a different route. She welcomed the surveillance if for nothing else than to set aside an afternoon of distracting thoughts. During those hallowed minutes alone with Steadman at Great Yews, her world had shifted perceptibly on its axis. For a startling, shining moment as they perched together on a limb, he had looked at her differently for the first time. As if, perhaps, she was a woman and not an unkempt boy. A plain woman, but a woman, nonetheless. She had tried all afternoon to convince herself of the fallacy of her suspicions. However, the more she had failed, the freer she had felt. Regardless of her waffling onthatsubject, she had become convinced about another. Steadman was connected somehow to Lord Radnor and Longford Castle. That conviction consumed her even now. The desire to investigate his family origin slowly consumed her. Maybe an understanding of the dynamics at Longford would lend her insight into why Steadman would flee a gentle life at an influential house for a career of muddy roads, stophole abbeys, and isolated farms. Lost in thought, she came to an abrupt halt to avoid stumbling into Steadman. He had stopped at a corner, staring ahead.
“Hold,” he whispered. “Jack is entering a house.”
“How many mistresses can one man have?” she mumbled.
“One is too many.”
His comment brought a smile to her lips. “Do we wait again?”
“No. The house stands alone with nothing behind it. We can circle to the rear for better observation and eavesdropping. Follow me.”
Together, they slipped from shadow to shadow along a circuitous route leading to the rear of the house in question. No sooner had they pressed against the house’s back wall than an energetic knock sounded at the front door. Several voices joined that of Three-Finger Jack. Steadman lifted from a crouch to peek through a window. Without glancing down, he motioned to her. She copied his method, peering through the window while keeping her head mostly out of sight. Four men sat around a table, pouring drinks for one another and laughing. Their words were clearly audible, having to do with bedding women and shooting animals. Regardless of the small talk, they appeared to be waiting for something. Morgan’s suspicion was verified minutes later by another knock on the door, this one less raucous.
“Another guest?” she whispered.
Steadman shrugged, never allowing his eyes to leave the scene. She watched with him as a fifth man entered the room. A suit of the finest London quality draped his short, pudgy frame and he carried an ornate cane crowned with a silver handle. He removed his beaver pelt top hat and set it on the table before he plopped into a chair. Morgan’s gaze drifted toward Steadman to find a deep scowl on his face. Her instincts lit.
“You know this man.”
He cut his eyes at her and uttered a name like a curse. “Dunwoody. Lord Atwood’s accomplice.”
His words communicated what she felt. Vindication. Their theory about the source and reason for the extortion scheme had all but been proven correct. Her conviction grew as the men discussed another job. The details of the plan were clearly already known among them, so the nature of it escaped Morgan. However, the primary purpose of the meeting appeared to be the establishment of a time—two nights hence. After perhaps a quarter hour of discussion, Dunwoody produced a small bag that clinked when he dropped it on the table. Jack sifted through its contents, nodded with a broad smile, and slapped Dunwoody on the shoulder.
“Give our regards to your master,” he said with a laugh.
Dunwoody grimaced and dusted his shoulder with a handkerchief. “Of course. Now, if you will excuse me.”
When Dunwoody rose, Steadman grabbed Morgan by the sleeve to prompt her to follow him. He crept away from the house and onto an adjacent street for a roundabout journey to the inn.
“I must infiltrate this gang.” Steadman’s first non-whispered words in an hour carried the weight of determination and righteous resolve. The prospect of him rubbing elbows with such rough and unscrupulous men unsettled Morgan.
“But how?” Her question must have belied her nerves. He regarded her sidelong for a stretching moment.
“Do not worry for me. I know of criminals, louts, and ruffians. I will dress roughly, befriend Three-Finger Jack at the tavern, and worm my way into his gang under an alias.”
“Wormyour way in? How do you mean?”
He smiled. “Through the use of my abundant charm. Even louts cannot resist an abundance of charm.”
“I see.” She contemplated his reply. “So, when you charm a woman, are you also then a worm?”
