“I don’t know. Is that not ungentlemanly?”
Steadman chuckled, though his thoughts clouded. “You clearly know little of gentlemen. I am well acquainted with the underbelly of society, but the worst cutthroats possess titles, lands, and the money to make miserable anyone of their choosing. Pardon me if I care little for what you might consider gentlemanly.”
Morgan leaned away from his sharp response. The boy stared ahead at the road for a time, clearly deep in thought while Steadman stirred the noxious stew of his past and sipped from the bitter pot. After minutes of silence, Morgan drew his horse nearer.
“I have considered what you said, Steadman, and have come to a conclusion.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And that would be?”
“I have decided,” said Morgan with great gravity, “that you are no gentleman.”
The spell of darkness in his blackened soul shattered, and he laughed loudly. “I have not been paid a higher compliment in years. But what about you? Are you a gentleman?”
Morgan’s face clouded and his mouth fell into a frown. “I will never be a gentleman. Nor do I wish it.”
“Again, we have that in common. But look, as we are two ungentlemanly scoundrels, then I know of the perfect place for a meal and a bed. If you can refrain from killing me with your bird legs, we should arrive within the hour.”
“I will do my best but promise nothing.”
Within half an hour, Steadman led them into the hamlet of Hook and straight to the Inn of the Red Monkey. When he dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a waiting stable boy, Morgan remained mounted while examining the decrepit inn with a baleful eye.
“Get off your high horse, Morgan, literally. This hovel is far better inside than it appears on the outside, as is true of most worthwhile things. Much that is gold does not glitter.”
The words prompted the reappearance of Morgan’s elusive dimples, and he dismounted. Steadman watched while his traveling companion carefully freed his baggage and bedroll from behind the saddle, apparently trying to memorize the method of the latching as he unwound the rope. He approved of the lad’s careful study of the binding. Perhaps he might prove helpful in the investigation after all. But nottoohelpful, Steadman reminded himself. Certain details he should never learn.
The meal he and Morgan shared inside justified his praise of the Red Monkey. He had never missed a chance to dine at the inn, including the time he had fought through a trio of thief-takers on his way out the door. Though Steadman ate like a starving man, Morgan appeared to pick at his meal.
“Nervous?”
Morgan flinched at Steadman’s question. “No. Not at all. Why?”
“Now, youeatlike a bird. I assumed nerves.”
Morgan appeared to will away his sudden frown. “A poor metaphor. Did you know that a bird can eat its bodyweight every day?”
“I did not. Do you typically eat your bodyweight every day?”
Morgan’s forced grin melted into something more genuine. “Only at certain times of the month.”
When Steadman squinted with confusion, Morgan’s eyes grew wide and he stood abruptly from his chair, nearly knocking it backward. “I believe I shall retire to my room now.”
Steadman dabbed his mouth, stood, and retrieved the key from his pocket. “I believe I shall retire toourroom as well.”
Morgan stared, his mouth hanging open as if poised to catch flies. “Ourroom?”
“Yes. Bow Street budget. One room, a shared bed.”
The young man blinked. “Shared bed?”
“Of course. Does His Highness require a separate bed? Or, heavens, a separate room?”
He nodded slowly with a hopeful expression. “If possible?”
“Not possible. The innkeeper had only one room available, anyway.”
The young man’s face went dark. “I will sleep in the stable, then.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Brady. A long day on the road requires a soft bed. Now, come along before I suspect that you dislike my company.”
