Her father stabbed his finger towards Jackson. “Which still stretched the limits of the law, if you’ll recall. Had it not been for Poxley violating the trust of his high position—and some fancy talking I did with the superintendent—that case would have been kicked to the kerb.”
“So…” Charles slumped against his seat, arms folding across his chest. “We are back to needing solid evidence.”
Kit drummed her fingers on her thigh, thinking hard. Whether arranging a grand masquerade ball or a simple street-corner swindle, success always came down to the fine details. Granted, this one would be a bit more deadly than deciding which finger foods to serve, but the principle was still the same. So…how to pull it off? What past jobs had she worked that might serve as a template to—
She snapped to attention. “I think I know just the thing. There was a time I needed to remove a cullion who’d slunk into my territory, snatching up children to sell for profit, which of course I couldn’t abide. I posed as a seller, offering him one of the younger members of my crew, and when he handed over money for the boy, I signaled for the bluecoats I’d tipped off ahead of time to bag him.”
Her father wagged his head, brows gathering into a thundercloud. “My daughter operated a high-stakes confidence operation?”
“Yes.” She smiled, her grin growing larger as she remembered how the villain cried like a little girl when the darbies were slapped on his wrists. “Worked like a charm. Sometimes it takes a swindler to catch one, you know.”
“The idea has its merits, but”—Jackson steeled his jaw, his gaze flint hard—“I will not have you going up against a man whom even a trained assassin feared. I will pose as the seller.”
“But that putsyouin danger.”
“Which is my job, remember?”
“It is.” She set down her half-full cup, stomach rebelling. “Yet I cannot say I like that portion of it.”
“It may not be as much danger as you fear.” Charles pulled his now-soggy biscuit from his teacup and, shaking off the excess drips, dared a bite…and met with the same fate as her father.
Double flit. Next time she’d have to swing by Martha’s for refreshments.
Charles plopped the biscuit back into his cup and set the whole mess onto the tray before continuing. “Just as in the Poxley capture, I and some fine fellows will be waiting in the wings with guns loaded, ready to fill the ol’ Maria the moment the money is exchanged.”
A grunt rasped in her father’s throat. “A man like Child may not be as easily deceived as that pompous Poxley was.” He faced Jackson. “You’ll need some substantial street credentials to make him believe you’re an authentic seller.”
“Pish.” Kit fluttered her fingers in the air. “That’s naught but child’s play. With my connections, I can manage documents galore if needed, though word of mouth in the right ears ought to do very nicely.” At least that was something she excelled at. No baking required.
“False identification aside,” Charles said, “Jackson will still need an opium sample to entice the fellow, and some real premium product at that.”
“I can get it.” The words slipped past her father’s lips as if he offered to do nothing more difficult than pick up a bottle of cream on his way home to dinner.
Kit arched a brow at him.
“Saints above, the look on your face, Daughter.” He chuckled. “After twenty-five years of law enforcement, I’ve got a few connections of my own.”
“Well then, it is settled.” Jackson slapped his thighs. “I’ll send word to Bellow that a new player is in town, one who wishes to meet with him. Charles, you have my permission to organize a squad.” He rose, but concern still wrinkled his brow. Maybe to him, like her, it sounded all so easy. Almost too easy, as if were they each to perform their tasks like cogs in a machine, the trap for Child and Bellow would snap seamlessly shut. Yet in her experience, things almost never ran so smoothly.
But she wouldn’t tell Jackson that. Clasping his warm grip, she allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Don’t worry, Husband. I shall create a persona for you that will fool even me.” She winked.
And she’d pray this time would be the exception, that all the four of them would have to do was stand clear when the hammer slammed down.
May God make it so.
Two days later, Jackson stalked into the front office of Bellow’s Glassworks with all the confidence of a conqueror. Kit had truly outdone herself this time, providing him with the means to intimidate anyone in his path. Dressed in a midnight silk sherwani that draped to his knees and a flashy gem-encrusted dagger at his waist, his regal attire announced his arrival before he spoke a word. He looked every bit a maharaja, and with the Punjabi muscleman, Shivaji, at his back, he was ready to take on anyone who crossed him. The only downside to his new persona as Dominic Black—a.k.a. The Cobra—was his itchy upper lip, for he’d also shaved off his trademark moustache. A necessary irritation, however, to shed any semblance of Chief Inspector Jackson Forge.
He stopped several paces from Bellow’s clerk, a spindly man who peered at him from the other side of the desk. Folding his arms, he stared down at the red-cheeked fellow.
The clerk looked from him to Shivaji, then back again. “I assume you must be Mr. Black?”
Without a word, Jackson snapped his fingers in the air.
His bodyguard strode to within inches of the man, each footstep rattling the inkwell on the desk. Shivaji’s muscles flexed beneath his belted kurta as he loomed over the fellow, the turban on his head making him seem all the more imperious. And when the bodyguard bared his teeth, even Jackson’s anxiety rose a notch. Thankfully this slab of a man was on his payroll.
“Assumptions are for women and fools.” Shivaji’s voice was kicked gravel. “My sahib has more important matters to attend than conversing with a lowly beetle such as you. It is ten o’clock, the agreed-upon time, so bring us to your master, little beetle.”
The clerk visibly shrank as he shoved back his chair and bolted to his feet. “Right this way, gentlemen,” he squeaked, giving Shivaji a wide berth. After a nervous rap of his knuckles on Bellow’s door, he pushed it open. “Mr. Bellow? Mr. Black and his…em…associate are here.”
