“Good afternoon, sir.” Hawk took the unoccupied seat to the spymaster’s right. “Gentlemen.”
Greetings were returned from around the table. The members of the Quorum all brought specific strengths to bear. Next to Hawk was Oliver Trent. The former dockworker had the pulse of the working class. With his craggy face and salt-of-the-earth manner, he had the ability to pass as the everyman.
The opposite could be said of Francis Devlin, the copper-haired Adonis seated across from Hawk. The son of an earl, Devlin’s old bloodline and rakish charm gave him entrée into the highest circles. Hawk had known Devlin since their Eton days; back then, he and the popular rogue had not been friends, and the trend continued. Beside Devlin was strapping and beetle-browed Kenneth Pearson, a former prizefighter and champion of several infamous carriage races.
Finally, Inspector Rodney Sterling of the Metropolitan Police had the end seat. The Quorum had been recently called upon to assist the police in a case involving national security. For over six months now, a gang of criminals had been wreaking havoc in London’s streets, holding up carriages of the wealthy and stealing fortunes in jewelry and gold.
The thieves cheekily called themselves the Merry Sherwood Band. The leader, according to victim accounts, was a charismatic Robin Hood-type figure. Masked and dashing, he apparently requested “donations” from his rich targets to feed the poor—never mind that this was done at gunpoint. Gossip had spread like wildfire about ordinary folk finding bags of gold on their doorsteps. Trent, who’d tracked the rumors, said every working-class fellow had a friend of a friend who’d experienced the Sherwood Band’s largesse.
The rumors, however, appeared to be grossly exaggerated. After weeks of searching, the Quorum had found only one man, an honest blacksmith, who’d come forward with his share of the bounty: not a bag of gold, but a small pouch half-filled with coins. The Sherwood Band’s modus operandi had become clear. Their crimes were not motivated by an altruistic desire to help the poor but regular, old-fashioned greed. Their public image had been cleverly constructed to earn the goodwill and protection of ordinary folk.
And it worked. The thieves’ popularity soared; no one would rat on them. The police could not find eyewitnesses or information that would lead to the gang’s capture. The robberies encouraged anarchy, tearing at the fabric of lawful order in the city. Copycat crimes and destructive mobs were on the rise. The government, already on high alert from the revolutionary fervor across the channel and the threats of the recently suppressed Chartist movement, viewed the Sherwood Band as the match that could light the powder keg that was London.
That was where the Quorum had come in. Their mission was to assist the police in capturing the thieves. Given the nature of their organization, their role was to be a covert one; Inspector Sterling served as their police liaison.
“I have gathered all of you to discuss a new development,” Swinburne said in brisk tones. “Inspector Sterling, if you would be so kind as to brief the group?”
Sterling rose. He was a gangly fellow in his late thirties, with sand-brown hair and habitually rumpled clothes.
“On behalf of the police, I would like to begin by extending sincere thanks,” Sterling said in his genial way. “Lady Ingersoll was most grateful for the return of her ruby-and-pearl brooch, which, as you know, was stolen during a Sherwood Band heist. The fact that Hawksmoor retrieved the item from Count von Essen’s safe allowed us to bring the count in for questioning. Confronted by the facts, von Essen broke down and admitted that he had been pawning the Sherwood Band’s nicked goods to his contacts abroad.”
“Well done, Hawksmoor,” Swinburne said.
Hawk inclined his head in acknowledgment. When the spymaster had recruited him five years ago, he’d been surprised. He’d seen himself as a scholar, not a spy.
“We need men of all talents,”the spymaster had said. “According to my sources, you have an extraordinary aptitude for analyzing information. Your nation could use your help in protecting its interests.”
Prompted by a sense of duty, Hawk had joined the team. As the Quorum required secrecy from its members, he had never told Caroline about his spy work. She hadn’t had the wherewithal to question his activities, although she had depended upon him to stay at the country seat with her—had dissolved into tears at the thought of being “abandoned” by him. Thus, he’d worked mainly from home, identifying patterns in information, deciphering codes, and deconstructing foreign technology to learn its applications. The work had been engrossing and, truthfully, a welcome distraction from the stresses of his domestic life.
After mourning Caroline, he’d grown interested in expanding his skills beyond the desk. He’d discovered a latent craving inside him. An unexplored need for excitement.
“Beginner’s luck,” Devlin drawled.
Once a bully, always a bully.Hawk clenched his jaw. Devlin had not changed since their Eton days. Even then, he had needed to prove his superiority, usually at the expense of others. As a scrawny and awkward lad who knew all the answers in class, Hawk had been a ripe target for Devlin and his cronies.
“It was not luck.” Swinburne lowered his brows. “Hawksmoor spent weeks analyzing the financial records that we obtained of suspected pawns. It was through this process that he discovered a series of unexplained deposits made by von Essen a few weeks after each of the thefts.”
“I would have investigated von Essen personally,” Devlin snarled. “Hawksmoor should have consulted with me; he had no business going into the field himself. That ismyjob. And Trent and Pearson’s.”
“Leave me out of this,” Pearson said in his rumbling voice.
“I would have consulted you, Devlin.” Hawk kept his voice even. “At the time, however, you were otherwise occupied at, ahem, a house party. As I could not risk von Essen moving the goods, I had to act quickly on my own.”
Devlin turned red, as well he should. The “house party” Hawk referenced was a euphemism for a week-long countryside bacchanal that was notorious for offering every sort of vice. Even if Hawk had contacted Devlin, the latter would have been in no shape for a mission.
Devlin gripped the table. “You were bloody lucky that von Essen did not see through your disguise. You could have compromised our mission and our group.”
Hawk bristled at the other’s condescension. “I wore a mask and wig and put on a French accent. Even if I had not taken those precautions, I still would have been more fit than you were.”
“That is enough.” Swinburne spoke with the authority of a commanding officer. “While Hawksmoor acted for the greater good, in the future he will run any plans by me before acting upon them. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Hawk muttered.
“As for you.” Swinburne directed a stern glance at Devlin. “While you have rendered great service to our country, you must not forget that every man at this table has done the same. There is a place for everyone. It is not our individual successes that matter but what we are able to accomplish as a team.”
“Fine.” Devlin folded his arms over his chest. “If you wish to allow Hawksmoor to run amok in the field like a bull in a china shop, that is your prerogative. Just don’t expect me to clean up the mess.”
“I don’t need you or anyone cleaning up after me,” Hawk said flatly. “Because of my visit to von Essen, we are one step closer to apprehending the Sherwood Band.”
