When he returned in the wee hours of the morning, she was waiting for him in his bed. One look at his haggard expression told her that he hadn’t found what he was looking for.
“Tomorrow’s another day,” she said.
After he bathed, they made love. Their pleasure had a desperate, hungry quality. Afterward, she stared into the shadows of the canopy after he’d fallen asleep, praying that they would have better luck tomorrow.
The next morning, Glory was left securely in the care of Bertha, Victor, and the other guards, and Maggie, Rhys, Hypatia and Mr. Newton set off.
When the carriage deposited them at the center of the Dials, the point from which the seven streets extended like the spokes of a wheel, Maggie couldn’t help but gawk. This neighborhood was a far cry from the elegant enclave of Mayfair. Having worked in a dockside tavern (and being a Goode), she was no stranger to iniquity, yet this was eye-opening even for her.
Sleeping bodies littered the area. Pigeons flocked, pecking at pools of detritus, left over from the previous night’s revels. No squeamish miss, Maggie nonetheless took the perfumed handkerchief Rhys handed her and held it to her nose. They traversed the dirty streets teeming with playing children, staggering drunks, and paint-smudged whores returning from a night’s work.
“Newton and I covered two streets last night,” Rhys said briskly. “Castle, Queen, Lion, St. Andrew’s, and Earl Streets are what remain. Maggie and I will take Castle Street. Newton and Miss Hypatia, will you take Queen?”
“Gladly, Your Grace,” Newton said.
“Excellent. We’ll reconvene here in two hours.”
Rhys led the way to their assigned street. Taverns, pawn shops, and other businesses hardy enough to survive in the slum crammed both sides of the narrow way.
“Stay close to me,” Rhys said. “And watch out for sticky fingers.”
He lifted his chin at a group of urchins playing across the street. As Maggie watched, one bumped into a well-to-do gent. While the boy doffed his cap, offering a profuse apology, another of his brethren casually plucked away the unsuspecting victim’s coin purse.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Maggie gasped.
“We don’t want to stir up the mob. First rule of the rookery: each man for his own.”
She drew her reticule closer as they began the arduous task of canvassing the businesses one by one. They were met with responses ranging from annoyed to threatening. After discovering no credible leads, they met up with Hypatia and Newton, who also had nothing to show for their efforts…except for some unexpectedly delicious kidney pies.
After a quick snack, they were off again.
Exiting yet another pawn shop some time later, Maggie was surprised to see that darkness had arrived, along with a cold, steady drizzle. She and Rhys stood beneath the awning, watching as rough-and-ready men roved in packs heedless of the rain, fueled by copious amounts of blue ruin.
“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Rhys said.
The tautness of his jaw betrayed the frustration that she shared. Their grueling search had yielded naught, and the clock was ticking.
“We have Earl Street yet to search,” she said.
He shook his head. “It’s wet and dark—”
“The first day’s almost over, darling.” She touched his sleeve. “We must press on.”
“Did you just call me darling?” Some of the brooding tension left his eyes.
“Whatever it takes to get the job done,” she said prosaically.
His lips twitched. “Half-hour more and that’s it.”
Rhys purchased an umbrella from the pawn shop, and under its cover, they dashed toward the nearest tavern. The Sailor’s Arms was dark and smoke-filled, smelling of ale and roasting meat. Maggie’s expert eye noted that it was better kept than most establishments they’d visited thus far. The floors were swept and the tables wiped; framed paintings of exotic locales added some flair.
Rhys navigated them through the crowded room to the worn but polished bar. The barkeep was a hulk of a man with bushy side whiskers and an apron tied over his protruding belly. He would have looked quite intimidating…if it hadn’t been for the life-sized painting of a peacock that hung on the wall behind him. He was positioned so that his bald head was crowned by a burst of feathers.
“What’ll it be, guv?” he rumbled.
“We’re looking for some information,” Rhys said.
The barkeep scowled. “Got ale and mutton on the menu. Anything else, you’d best look elsewhere.”
