Andrew grabbed the scruff of one of Harry’s foes, plowing a fist into the bastard’s face. He threw the moaning man to the ground and went to Harry’s side.
“You’re monopolizing the action, Kent,” he said.
Harry swiped at a bleeding cut on his cheek. “There’s plenty to go around.”
More cutthroats had joined the fray, five of them forming a ring around Andrew and Harry.
Anticipation simmered in Andrew’s veins. “Excellent.”
The ne’er-do-wells rushed all at once. Back to back, Andrew and Harry fought them off. Andrew traded punches with one burly cutthroat, at the last instant dodging the other’s blow—which swerved into the jaw of another villain, who groaned, crumpling to the ground. Andrew defeated his remaining opponent with well-aimed jabs to the gut. Pivoting, he saw that Harry had taken care of two more of the bounders. The remaining one stared at Andrew… and then turned and ran, his tail between his legs.
Kent jogged up, followed by his partners.
“Let’s find that shooter before we have to take on the whole damned rookery.” From his greatcoat, he produced whistles and passed them out to each man. “There are four floors to the tenement, so we’ll split up in pairs and each take one. If you find our suspect, sound the alarm.”
Andrew and Harry were assigned the ground floor. Inside, the building was even more dilapidated than the exterior. The cesspit of human misery felt eerily familiar to the dwellings of Andrew’s childhood. He’d lived in more than his share of such places where sewage festered in the open and vermin invaded every crevice. Wailing babes and shouting adults sounded through the paper-thin walls.
Andrew caught a movement up ahead: at the end of the corridor, a woman stood against the wall, her skirts raised, a man rutting between her legs.
Her face was turned to the side as her customer took his pleasure, grunting, and even from a distance, Andrew could see her flat expression. It knotted his insides. Reminded him too keenly of his own mother and the resignation that had led her to drink away her cares… and her life.
Until Primrose had asked about his mother, he’d never spoken of her. It had been strange bringing those memories into the light. Strange… but not unwelcome.
“I count at least twenty doors, so we’d best start knocking,” Harry said.
“Wait.” Andrew saw that the whore had finished with her customer. The man buttoned up his trousers, deposited coins in the woman’s palm, and disappeared around the corner. “Let’s speak to her first.”
He approached her as she was pulling her patched skirts into place. “Miss?”
The woman’s head snapped in his direction. She was young, yet life had aged her prematurely, her eyes filled with weariness.
Still, she looked him and Harry up and down, working up enough sauce to say, “Lookin’ for some fun, me fine gents? I can show ye a good time, anything ye want—”
“It’s information we’re after,” Andrew said.
Her eyes shuttered. “Ain’t got none o’ that.”
First rule of the rookery: no one knew anything.
“We’re looking for a man. Big fellow, rides a bald-faced chestnut. Has an injured shoulder.” Andrew removed a bag of coins, dangling it, letting the clink of guineas get her attention. “This goes to the first person who points us in the right direction.”
Second rule (which trumped the first): anything was available for a price.
She licked her lips, her gaze scanning the empty corridor. “I might know ’im. But ye didn’t ’ear it from me—agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Glancing around once more, she said in a low voice, “Cove in the first room ’round the corner ’as a bandage on ’is shoulder. Been wearin’ it fer ’bout a week.”
The timing fit with the attack on Rosie.
Pulse quickening, Andrew said, “Have you seen him tonight?”
The woman nodded. “Came in ’bout an hour ago, carrying a bottle o’ spirits. It weren’t rotgut but the fine stuff the nobs like. Cove must ’ave nicked it. Reckon wif posh drink like that, ’e’s still in there toasting ’imself.”
“Thank you.” He handed her the coin bag.
As he and Harry set off, he heard the woman gasp behind them. The twenty pounds he’d given her was more than she’d make in a year of selling her wares.
