“I’m a man who looks after ’is own. Just ask any o’ my women. Now Tessa ain’t my mort, but she’s the closest thing to a sister that I got. And while she’s feisty, she ’as ’er blind spots, one o’ ’em being blind loyalty.” Something menacing chased over Doolittle’s features, reminding Harry that this man had not only survived the stews, he’d thrived in them. “Any cove stupid enough to take advantage o’ Tessa answers to me.”
Although Harry didn’t appreciate having his honor questioned, he was glad that Tessa had a steadfast friend in her corner. For that reason alone, he responded to Doolittle’s question.
“My intentions are honorable,” he said evenly.
“Black ain’t going to like it,” Doolittle warned. “’E wants ’er to marry a nob.”
“Once the danger is over, I’ll find a way to convince him otherwise. Or I won’t. Either way, I’m marrying Tessa.”
Shrewd eyes studied him. “You mean that?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t say it,” he said impatiently.
“Glad that’s sorted. We didn’t come ’ere to flap our gums all day. Got work to do.”
Before Harry could point out that he wasn’t the one who’d instigated thetête-à-tête, Doolittle rose from his chair, his eyes on the window. Through the dirty pane, Harry saw a Goliath of a man leaving the warehouse, four others with him. The pack of five crossed the street toward the tavern.
“Now,” Doolittle said, “we go.”
Harry and Doolittle headed to the alley behind the warehouse. The narrow lane smelled of rubbish and human waste. In this part of town, danger prowled in the dark, and Doolittle kept an alert watch while Harry picked open the locked gate. They crossed a tiny courtyard, tied-up horses nickering as they passed.
Unlocking the back door, Harry entered first, Doolittle on his heels. Lamps on the walls revealed a single cavernous room filled with cargo. The scent of coffee, tobacco, and exotic spices permeated the air. Sacks and wooden crates stamped with the logos of various shipping companies were piled high, forming a maze.
“Someone’s been skimming from the docks.” Doolittle poked his hand into an open crate, lifting out a swath of gold-shot Indian silk. “This would look fine on my Sal, wouldn’t it?”
“Put it back.” Harry scanned the dimly lit room. “We’re not here to steal.”
“Is it stealing to take what’s stolen?” Doolittle said in philosophical tones.
At Harry’s warning look, the other sobered. “Last night, the coves took less than an ’our for supper, so we’d best ’urry.”
“Let’s split up to look for the hellfire.”
Harry wound his way clock-wise through the labyrinth of cargo, his partner going in the opposite direction. He did cursory searches of crates and sacks and found nothing resembling explosive cotton. When he met up with Doolittle on the other side of the warehouse, the other’s expression conveyed the same frustration.
“It has to be here.” Thinking of De Witt’s townhouse, Harry said, “Let’s do another round. Look for a trapdoor or any entryway to a hidden room.”
They started off again. This time, Harry kept his gaze on the floor. A thick layer of sawdust covered the rough boards, and he saw no telltale seams that would indicate a trapdoor. He stopped at a corner of the room where a crate stood some seven feet tall and half as wide. He noticed that sawdust was absent around the crate…as if it had been scattered by heavy foot traffic.
He knocked on the side of the container. His pulse thudded at the hollow echo that came back.
“Find something?” Doolittle jogged over.
“This crate is empty.” Harry ran his hands over the raised edges, feeling for a hidden mechanism. “I think it’s a—”
His finger sank into an indentation in the wood.Click.The hairs on his neck rose as the panel of the crate swung open like a door, revealing a set of steps descending into darkness. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a candle and lit it.
“Follow me.”He headed down, the stairs creaking beneath his boots.
When he reached the ground floor, the astringent smell of chemicals churned his gut. He held up his light…and beheld a scene from his nightmares.
“Bleeding ’ell,” Doolittle breathed.
In the dimness, the laboratory had a sinister, otherworldly feel. It was outfitted with the latest apparatus, curves of glass and polished metal. Dread and anticipation unfurled in Harry; he suppressed both, forcing himself to observe with scientific detachment. Going to the long table, which stood against a wall, he found the process for producing hellfire, neatly laid out in stages.
At one end stood large jars labelledNitric acidandSulphuric acid, a vessel for mixing the two next to them. Moving on, he opened a hamper: a clean stack of cotton toweling. Beside it was a glazed earthenware pan, likely used for soaking the cotton in the acid mixture.
He examined the covered container next to it: beneath the glass, the length of soaked linen appeared innocuous. Hastily, he drew his candle back, knowing precisely how volatile that cotton was. A little farther down, a freestanding washstand occupied the corner. A bucket of water and jars labelledCarbonate of potashandNitrate of potashrested on the shelves above its basin.
