Heavy foot traffic would make the rain and dirt into noticeable tracks as it was along the rest of the stoops. Emerson regarded the next stoop as they passed, seeing a clear footprint in the mud caked there.
Someone was trying to hide every trace of human traffic.
Rapping on the ceiling of the carriage, Emerson alerted the coachman to slowly pull to the side, and he stepped into the rain.
“I’ll be only a moment.”
The coachman nodded and set the ribbons of the horses to rest.
Emerson walked up to the neighbor of the clean stoop, rapped on the door twice, and waited, ignoring the way mud clung to his Hessian boots.
The door opened a crack, and a young woman stared back at him with wide eyes. “Aye?”
“Good morning, miss. I apologize. I think I have the wrong residence.” He gave an rueful hitch to his shoulder and softened his words with a slight smile. “But I’m quite lost.”
She nodded, and the door opened a few more inches. “Aye, gov’na, can I help?”
“Yes, I’m looking for a gentleman. He’s just moved here and is fastidious about keeping clean. I was told I’d know the place because of the stoop, but this rain—” He lifted his hands in surrender as if the precipitation had bested them all.
Understanding dawned in her too wide eyes. Her face was thin -- too thin -- and Emerson’s heart pinched at understanding. “The gent’lman you’re lookin’ for is right ov’r there.” She jabbed her thumb next door. “He did just move in, odd one that. He dresses like one o’ you.” She regarded him quizzically. “Lots o’ men go there at night. You might have the wrong time too, sir.”
He bowed his head. “Thank you for your assistance.” He smiled. “Do you happen to know his name? My memory is failing me this early in the morn.”
“Ach, I’m sure I don’t know sir, but the walls can be thin. Dreadful at night when they are all talking and such.” She gave a heavenward glance. “But I did hear someone say Volland several times. Perhaps that’s the gentleman’s name?”
“Ah, yes! That’s it! I knew I’d recognize it when I heard it. Thank you.” He withdrew a few shillings and handed them to the lady. “For your trouble.”
“Thank you, gov’na.” Her face illuminated. “Anything else I can help you with?”
Emerson was tempted to ask more, but he knew the danger to her family could be a real threat. So, he simply shook his head and took his leave.
“Volland,” he whispered as he stepped back into the carriage.
The name was familiar. A merchant, if memory served correctly. The coach lurched forward onto the road, and Emerson allowed his mind to gather the details he could remember concerning Volland. He was Dutch by name, but that didn’t signify any specific details. He was a man loyal to money, not country. It would indicate that there was some significant sum of coin involved with whatever was afoot.
Apparently, Napoleon had friends with deep pockets.
Not entirely surprising. But still a helpful detail.
The carriage pulled back onto the main street and headed back to Mayfair District, the rain intensifying. Emerson made a mental note of the details he’d collected.
The men had merchant connections — meaning they could sail in and out of ports without raising suspicion. A helpful feat, if one was trying to smuggle contraband or people of interest without suspicion.
The men were also cautious regarding who knew about their entrance and exit, erring on the side of caution and keeping their supposed base clean from the obvious foot traffic.
Much noise was heard at night, which meant in a more residential area, that they were coming together when others would be asleep and less likely to take note — suspicious at best.
But they weren’t cautious enough to be concerned with their neighbors overhearing, which meant they were arrogant enough to think they were beating the system.
Peers of the realm and merchants working together meant there wasn’t a class discrepancy — also a rather notable association with Napoleon. Napoleon had removed the nobility from their ruling status, giving the common Frenchman a wider set of rights than they had ever experienced before. The Tory party had been against such movements in England. Maybe this went deeper? Was it an attempt at revolution within England’s borders?
The coach stopped before his residence, and Emerson blinked several times before recognizing that he’d arrived at home. So much to consider, his mind was nearly spinning with questions that needed answers.
But were illusive.
He stepped from the carriage and quickly ducked through the open door his butler had opened as soon as his foot had crunched the gravel. Rain shed from his greatcoat and puddled on the floor as he shook out of it, handing it over.
“A spot of rain, my lord?” his butler inquired with a knowing grin.
