It was his job to look for opportunities to aid his investigations. He would look at Miss Moore as such. She would help him with the paperwork, perhaps lend an observation or two. If she was prone to calamity, well, that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. At least she was nice to look at while causing those disasters.
He sighed and hailed a hackney. He would look for the positives. Because he was a professional, and that was what a man in his position should do.
The Rook’s Nest was the sixth gaming hell Charles had visited that afternoon, and the third where the proprietor recognized the name of Hayward.
“Many men play here.” The large man with a shock of red hair leaned back in his chair and rested his leg on his desk. Devil’s office, Dev to his friends, sat above the gambling rooms below, and its opulence spoke to the profit he made trading off other men’s stupidity. “Why is this one bringing round an investigator?”
“The details of my inquiry are private, as I’m sure you can understand.” Charles tapped his thumb on the end of his chair’s armrest. It was carved into the head of a sheep.
The armrests on Devil’s chair were carved into the heads of lions.
“As are the comings and goings of my patrons.” Devil eyed him steadily, running his thumb along the rim of his cut-crystal tumbler.
Charles could respect his reticence. It was the man’s business to profit off of his gamblers. Being free with their particulars could cut into his bottom line. But there were other things that could hurt business, as well. “I am looking for a thief. Hayward might have information pertinent to my investigation,” he hedged.
“And I wouldn’t want anyone to be robbed at my establishment.” A small smile twisted the owner’s lips.
“It could be bad for your reputation.”
Devil swallowed the last of his brandy. “Lord Sutton did me a kindness once. I believe he is one of the owners of the Bond Agency?”
Charles inclined his head, curious what a baron could have done to help the owner of a gaming hell. And why he would want to assist such a scoundrel. The men ran in two very different circles.
“As I said, Hayward does play here.” Devil leaned back, lacing his fingers together and resting them against his abdomen. “He was into me for a tidy sum, but nothing out of the ordinary. He paid up last month.”
At the other two hells, Hayward had yet to pay his debts. But the man sitting across from him was not one a person would want to aggravate. Hayward was, if nothing else, a sensible man.
Charles passed over a list of the guests to all the soirees. “Do you recognize any other name? Someone who might be losing more than they can afford?”
Devil sighed, but pulled the piece of parchment in front of him. He ran his index finger down the list of names. He paused, ever so briefly, over Lady Redgrave’s name, before continuing down. He pushed the list back across the desk. “I recognize some names, but their gambling isn’t out of the ordinary.”
“Not even Lady Redgrave?” It wasn’t common for a woman to gamble, but it wasn’t completely unheard of, either. It usually happened in a private room, and the lady more often than not wore a veil to maintain at least a pretense of anonymity.
“Lady Redgrave has never gambled here.” Devil stood, indicating the end of the interview.
“But you know her?” Charles pressed, rising as well.
Devil arched an eyebrow. “I know many people.”
Charles refolded his list and slid it into his jacket pocket. “I thought you owed my employer a favor.”
Devil gave him a bland smile, one that for some reason reminded him of Miss Moore. “I didn’t say it was a big one. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to work.”
Nodding his thanks, Charles took his leave. If Lady Redgrave gambled at The Rook’s Nest, why wouldn’t Devil simply acknowledge it? To protect her reputation? From what he had seen of the lady, her reputation was something she didn’t care overmuch in preserving. Was there something aside from gambling that Devil knew about her? And could it relate to his investigation?
Questions swirled through his head. He needed to record what he’d learned at his interviews, sort through his thoughts and suspicions. And for once it wouldn’t be a toil. He had Miss Moore now to take his dictation. And perhaps she had heard something over the weekend that could explain a connection between Lady Redgrave and the owner of The Rook’s Nest.
He jogged to the corner to hail a cab, eager to return to the office and to his new assistant.
He needn’t have hurried.
When he got back, Miss Moore was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Eight
Bow Street was not what Cassie had expected. She had envisioned darkened alleys and clandestine meetings happening on every corner, something fitting for the street famed for its runners. Instead, the block where the offices of the Bow Street Runners was housed was full of bustling cheer, natty men of business hurrying to and fro, a woman blithely selling flowers on the corner.
The sight relieved some of her anxiety. Traveling unaccompanied in London was still an unnerving experience. It spoke of her changed status more than anything else. No gently-bred woman would be seen such; a lady’s maid or groomsman would have been assigned to escort her about.
