Did you think I'd wait around forever, Ambrose? I may be a widow, but I'm still young, and I've got a future ahead of me. You had a choice: me or your family—and as you've made your decision, I've made mine. I won't go down with a sinking ship.
Though a year had passed, the loss of Jane still stung. Yet he understood: it had been too much to ask of Jane or any woman to tie herself to a man with his troubles. Hehadput his family first, and given the same scenario, he'd do so again.
The family is counting on you. Buck up, man, and get the job done.
"Rare an' juicy—the way gents like it," the wench said, winking at Coyner.
With a disinterested nod, the magistrate cut into his beef.
She swiveled to Ambrose, her tone losing its friendly sauce. "An' you, sir? Nothin' more than the ale?"
Ambrose felt his cheekbones heat. "No, thank you," he said.
"Up to you." Her plump lips curled with disdain. "Though you could use some meat on those bones, if you ask me."
Ambrose was not unused to such comments. Hovering at six feet and a goodly number of inches besides, he'd been lanky to begin with; now, having made do on a steady diet of bread and cheese for months, he was approaching rawboned. He saw no reason to defend himself against what was fact, however. He took no stock in personal vanity.
Coyner spoke up. "That's enough lip from you, miss. Don't you have customers to see to?"
Flipping her hair over her shoulders, the wench sauntered off.
Coyner's brow furrowed, knife and fork suspended above his plate. "Sure you don't want anything, Kent? Hate to eat alone. My treat, eh?"
"Thank you, but I'm not hungry." Though he might not have two shillings to rub together, Ambrose still had his pride. "Please enjoy your supper. If you don't mind, however, I'd like to discuss an opportunity to work with Bow Street."
The other man swallowed a mouthful. "Your reputation precedes you, Kent. From what I hear, you're a dedicated member of the Thames River Police. Made Principle Surveyor over at Wapping Station—though by my reckoning it took too long for a man of your talent." The magistrate gave him a keen look. "Not much for politics, eh?"
If by politics, Coyner meant toadying up to Ambrose's own magistrate and superior, John Dalrymple, then the answer was no. Several years ago, Dalrymple had approached Ambrose with a suggestion to overlook a certain piece of evidence in exchange for recompense. Dalrymple had called it a favor; Ambrose had seen it as a bribe. He'd refused that and subsequent "favors" as well. In retribution, Dalrymple had stalled Ambrose's promotions and tried to blacken his reputation. Without solid proof of his superior's wrongdoing, Ambrose had borne the attacks in silence, believing that justice would prevail.
Now he drew his shoulders back. "My only concern is justice, sir," he said flatly. "If you've heard anything different—"
"Ease up, Kent. Dalrymple's not my only source," Coyner said. "Your peers speak highly of your ethics and ability."
Some of Ambrose's tension eased. "They are too kind. I merely do my job."
"They said you were overly modest, too." Coyner reached for his tankard. "Take it from me, Kent: if you want to get somewhere in life, you best get used to sounding your own trumpet. Hard work will only get you so far."
"Yes, sir," Ambrose said.
His father Samuel had always claimed that success came from honest, honorable toil. Yet despite a lifetime devoted to educating young minds as the village schoolmaster, Samuel now found himself mired in debt. His future and that of Ambrose's five younger siblings teetered in the balance. Beneath the table, Ambrose's hands balled.
"I don't doubt your abilities or your work ethic," Coyner continued, "but I find myself circling a delicate question. If I may?"
"I have no secrets."
The magistrate's thin eyebrows winged above his faded blue eyes. "Not many a man could claim that. My question, then, is this: why are you in need of additional employ? As a Principle Surveyor, you earn a decent living. And you're not married, are you?"
"I am not." Ambrose faltered; unaccustomed to speaking of his troubles, he didn't know how to go about it. "My father has had health troubles of late. And I have siblings in need of care."
"What about your mother?"
"She passed when I was a young boy. 'Twas my stepmother who raised me and my siblings—or half-siblings, I should say. She was taken from us two summers ago."
Ambrose oft forgot that he did not share a biological mother with his siblings. His stepmother Marjorie had treated him like her own blood. Loving and practical, she had been the family's Rock of Gibraltar; the loss of her had left them all floundering—and his father especially.
"My condolences." The other man cleared his throat. "Don't mean to pry, but between you and me, I've had some problems with past employees I've taken on independent contract. Men with vices, who'd do anything for extra coin." His mouth firmed. "A Bow Street Runner must represent justice. Like Caesar's wife, he must be above suspicion."
Ambrose saw no argument with that. "You have my word that I would uphold my duties."
