Sweeney’s reply came swiftly.
Ten o’clock tonight. Underhill & Son Cabinetmakers, Bluegate Fields. Come alone.
That night, in the dim light of the carriage, Rhys’s eyes bored into Maggie’s.
“Promise me that you’ll stay in the carriage with Tessa,” he said for the umpteenth time. “You will not leave her side for an instant.”
They were nearly at the meeting place, a warehouse in the heart of the dockland slums. Maggie had insisted on going: with her daughter and her lover’s lives at risk, there was no way she’d be left behind. She was to wait with Tessa who, along with an army of guards, would be monitoring the situation from a discreet distance.
“I’m not the one who is meeting with a cutthroat.” As the carriage slowed, she clutched his lapels. “Rhys, promise me that you’ll be safe.”
“You have my word I’ll get Glory back safe and sound,” he said fiercely.
“Get yourself back safe and sound as well.”
He cupped her cheek, his thumb running along her cheekbone. “With all I have to come back for, can you doubt that I will?”
“I love you, Rhys,” she said, her voice hitching.
“And you hold my heart. Never forget it. Your light will guide me home.”
Their kiss was one of heated promise and desperation. They clung to each other, to the preciousness of the moment, for neither knew how the next hours would unfold. They were still in each other’s arms when a knock sounded on the door.
“It’s time.” Harry Kent’s voice filtered through the wood.
“I have to go, Maggie mine.” Rhys’s gaze roamed possessively over her.
She closed her eyes as he pressed his lips tenderly against her forehead.
When she opened them, he was gone.
39
Underhill& Sons was situated in one of the worst warrens of Bluegate Fields, on a street so wretched that its occupants slept or lay in a drunken stupor on the dirt, and piles of vermin-infested rubbish were everywhere. Sitting precariously on the banks of the Thames, the warehouse was a brick building with boards nailed over the broken windows. Faint lines of light escaped from the spaces between the slats.
“Is everyone in place?” Rhys muttered.
Kent nodded, his spectacles glinting in the moonlight. “We scouted the warehouse earlier and have eyes on all the exits. Garrity and his men are guarding the dock behind the building in case Sweeney plans a water escape.”
Rhys tightened his grip on the bulky leather satchel containing the jewels. “Then we’d better get this over and done with.”
“Before we go.” Kent pulled out what appeared to be a large, folded handkerchief. “For you.”
Rhys raised his brows. “What for?”
“Insurance,” Kent said succinctly. “You’ll know if you need it.”
If I happen to have an urgent need…to blow my nose?
Puzzled, Rhys nonetheless took the handkerchief, stuffing it into his greatcoat pocket.
They continued to the warehouse, where a gang of ruffians paraded around the perimeter. The guard at the entrance divested them of their weapons—no surprise there. Rhys dumped his pistol into the waiting sack. His brows raised as Kent’s contributions included two pistols, a small bludgeon, and an assortment of small knives.
“Wot’s this?” The guard shook a flask he found in one of Kent’s greatcoat pockets.
“Spirits,” Kent said easily. “Brewed it myself. You’re welcome to try it.”
The guard took a sniff and grimaced. Screwing the cap back in place, he peered at the next object retrieved from Kent’s pockets. “And this?”
