“Sorry, Chief,” he yelled from his perch. “There were a funeral procession a’cloggin’ up Eaton. A slight detour is in order.”
“Doesn’t seem right. Watch your back, man!” Jackson slammed the door shut.
All the colour drained from Coleman’s face.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Coleman.” Kit spared him but a glance before once again looking out the window. “Funerals happen all the time.”
“So early in the morning?” The man’s voice squeaked. “Isn’t that a bit unusual?”
“Probably just some Quakers, or no…” Graybone rubbed his hand over his beard. “Jews, no doubt. They bury their dead within twenty-four hours of expiration.”
“Let’s hope that is all it was,” Jackson breathed low, the hairs at the nape of his neck sticking out like rods. Graybone might be right. Then again, this could be the work of Carky, funneling them into a pinch point of her own making. He scanned the street, more hypervigilant than ever. The carriage bumped along uneventfully, however, clearing Pimlico Road and turning onto Ebury Street.
And that’s when a shot rang out, followed by two more in quick succession.
“Whoa, now,” Quincy called, stopping the horses.
Jackson reached for his gun in unison with Graybone. Kit pulled her own and nodded at him. Coleman whimpered like a little girl.
“Don’t fret,” Kit whispered. “We’ll manage just fine.”
Jackson flung open the door, slamming it against the carriage with a bang. He jumped out, scanning the area with his revolver, ready for blood. Graybone’s boots hit the ground a breath later, his footsteps rounding the back of the carriage lest they get flanked. Quincy covered them from up on his seat. Ahead, a crowd of men huddled with their backs to them, listening to a bellowing hawker of some sort. Hard to see exactly what the commotion was about from such a poor perspective—a perfect front for camouflaging an assassin.
“Talk to me, Quincy!” Jackson ordered, heart racing.
“Appears to be a street performer, out front of a gun shop.”
Jackson strained to catch the hawker’s words, hoping to glean confirmation of Quincy’s assessment.
“Weren’t that a beaut, gents? This Smith and Wesson Model 1 is as accurate as they come. Did ye see how smoothly that hammer fell? How quickly the cylinder rotates? This is the future, I’m tellin’ ya. The newest innovation in firearms technology.”
Oh, boy. They’d been stopped for nothing but an advertisement?
Jackson lifted his gun in the air and shot off a few rounds, followed by a hearty “Disperse! All of you! Crown’s business. Disperse at once or be arrested!”
Graybone joined his side as men scattered, some of them none too pleased, judging by the sneers carved on their faces. “You certain about this?”
“No.” Jackson widened his stance. “But I will not have us pigeonholed down a narrower lane.”
“You can’t do this! I’ve a permit!” The hawker waved a paper in the air. “Paid a proper penny fer this, I did!”
“Carry on later in the day,” Jackson snapped. “Better yet, do so once the work bells sound. You’ll catch more buyers on their way home instead of on their way to the factory.”
He followed Graybone into the carriage and once again rapped on the wall for Quincy to roll on.
By God’s grace alone, they finally turned onto Wilton Crescent, the last stretch of road to get to the barrister’s mansion. And good thing. By now, Coleman had practically sweat through the thick leather body armour.
Just as the stones of Barrister Muddlethorpe’s fence came into view, Kit banged on the wall, startling them all. “Stop the carriage!”
“What the devil? We’re nearly there!” He swiveled his head. “What do you see?”
She pounded all the harder. “Stop!”
Jackson craned his neck to peer out her window.
And saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Before the wheels even stopped rolling, Kit barreled past him and shoved open the door, flying out in a flurry of billowing skirts. He couldn’t have stopped her if he tried.
