“Hmph.” Maybe Sutton had the right end of it in retiring. This business used to be exciting. Now more often than not information was gathered at tea parties rather than at the end of a knife. What was the point of being so large if he didn’t get to smash something now and then?
“He’s leaving.” Sutton picked up the reins as their quarry hailed a hackney cab. He slapped the horse’s back, and they took off at a slow roll. “Do you think Summerset will be able to search the offices? It’s broad daylight.”
Sin twisted his lips. “He’ll have that typesetter out on some pretense in under two minutes. No one denies a request from the Earl of Summerset.” Equal parts charm and cunning, except when he was irritating his friends. “The real question is whether any incriminating evidence is kept there. It is supposed to be the offices of a lady’s journal. Evidence of printing a pro-independence rag won’t just be lying around.”
The cab let the editor off at the corner of two busy streets. Sutton fought to find a space along the sidewalk to pull the gig into. “Have I mentioned how much I dislike crowds?”
“Many times.” Their target pulled open a door for a tavern, holding it for an elderly gentleman to leave, then strolled inside. Sin looked at Sutton. “Feel like a spot to eat?”
“Always.” He set the brake. Both men jumped down and strode to the tavern. The scents of ham and boiled cabbage greeted them as they made their way inside and found a table.
The editor tucked a napkin into the top of his collar as he gave his order to a server. Their quarry threw his head back and laughed at something the man said before the server moved on. A frequent customer it seemed.
“It doesn’t look like he’s waiting for company,” Sutton said in a low voice.
“No.” Sin straightened his cravat. “I think now would be the perfect time for a conversation with him.”
“Reconnaissance, remember? See who he associates with, where he goes, that sort of thing.”
“That will take entirely too long.” And more patience than Sin was born with.
Sighing, Sutton nodded. “You’re right. I don’t want to be away from home any longer than I need to be.” He waved the server over.
“You’d better order me some food, too.” Sin glowered at his friend as he stood. “And don’t eat it before I return.”
His friend shooed him away.
Sin stomped to the other table and pulled out the chair across from the editor. “You’re Rory Fairbairn, editor of the lady’s journal,Women’s World.” He didn’t phrase it as a question. Best to make your target assume you knew as much as possible.
“Aye.” The man sat back and rubbed a circle on his paunch. “And ye’d be?”
“The Marquess of Dunkeld,” he said, and waited for (the inevitable disbelief. Not only had most newspaper editors never met a marquess, Sin knew he wasn’t what most people pictured when they thought of the peerage.
Fairbairn didn’t disappoint. His jaw dropped as his eyes zig-zagged over Sin’s bulky form and rumpled clothes. “Milord!” The man half-stood, his hip knocking into the table, and gave an awkward bow. “What can I do for ye? How do ye know who I am? Why would ye—”
Sin held up his hand. “Perhaps if I tell you what I want, our conversation will progress more quickly.”
The server returned, placing a plate of haggis in front of Fairbairn, and Sin’s stomach grumbled. He shot a glance at Sutton, who held a meat pie in each hand. He took a bite from one and raised the other in greeting, a string of cheese sliding into his beard.
“Do you want something, milord?” Fairbairn and the waiter looked at him expectantly.
“No, thank you, I’ve already eaten.” He nodded at the server, who turned and scurried back to the kitchen. “Now, I come to you with a proposition.”
Fairbairn held his fork, but made no move toward his meal. “For me? What business could a marquess have with the likes o’ me?”
Crossing one leg over the other, Sin leaned back in his chair and tugged at the bottom/hem of his waistcoat. “MacConnell told me I should speak with you about investing in your paper.”
“Women’s World?” He stabbed at his haggis. “That’s owned by Mr. Campbell. You’ll have to speak with him.”
“Not that paper.” Sinleaned forward, into the other man’s space. “Your other pamphlet. The one you print after-hours. MacConnell is so proud to write for it.”
Fairbairn’s ruddy face flushed a shade darker. “Bloody, pompous writers,” he muttered. “Cannae stand not having a byline.” He shot Sin an accusatory glare. “He wasnae supposed to tell anybody.”
Sin shrugged. “That’s not my problem.” God, espionage was easy when people were idiots. The man was so easily manipulated Sin almost felt bad. But he now had confirmation of the identity of two of the principals.
Fairbairn pushed his food around on his plate. “Why would a toff like ye want to be supporting the cause. The union has been verra good for your family.”
Sin slowly eased straight. “I had hoped that as a member of the House of Lords I would have been able to work within the system to help our country Alas, it now seems impossible that diplomacy will accomplish that end.” He planted his index finger on the table. “I am, and have always been, a patriot first.” He brushed a bit of dust from his sleeve. “Also, due to the changing political climate, I think the investment could be profitable.”
