“You said I could set any challenge. Well, I challenge you to break into the hall with me and steal the brooch. Don’t worry, you can keep hold of it,” he added dryly.
“Well, that’s hardly a challenge. I know the layout, and if I’m caught—”
“If you’re caught, you’ll look a right pillock and have a lot of explaining to do, but it won’t get about the village or get the magistrate called in. We can say we were just larking about,” Alfie said firmly, which was a reasonable enough conclusion. “The hall is the biggest house around these parts too, and the most like Jefferson’s. So it will give you a feel of creeping aboutsuch a place in the dark, and don’t think I’m going to go easy on you. This is a serious job and if you mess up, you’re out.”
“When?”
“Tonight,” Alfie said, looking far too pleased with himself. He expected Aubrey to bungle it. “And don’t think you’re going in dressed like that, either.” Aubrey looked down at his pristine white cravat and realised it would shine like a beacon in the dark. “What, then?”
“You’d best come home with me, and we’ll see what we can find,” Alfie said. “Drink up.”
Tobacco Docks, East London, Little Valentine, 17thJanuary 1816
Thick fog coiled like sickly clouds over the London docks, extinguishing the light from the moon and muffling the rumble of carriage wheels over cobbles. Silas Mourney strode through the unpleasantly damp soup with ease, accustomed to the reek of the nearby Thames and unconcerned by the pervading darkness. A barrel-chested fellow of average height, he was stocky as a cart horse but not nearly so sweet-tempered.
Pausing beneath the flickering yellow glow of a lamp, the uneven light fell upon his pockmarked face, scored with savage scars, the price of the ambition that drove him and his insatiable desire for revenge against any that slighted him. He leaned against the lamp, the only sound the distant slap of the tidal river against the docks or the occasional rattle of rigging caught in the icy wind that howled along the wharf.
In the distance, footsteps sounded, and Mourney straightened, alert for the new arrival, another poor devil who owed more than they could pay. Still, payment was acceptable in many forms, and Silas Mourney could be flexible when the need arose.
A man approached, his anxiety obvious as his eyes darted furtively about him, though seeing anything in the murky darkness was a forlorn hope.
“You got ‘em?” Mourney demanded, his voice as harsh as the crack of a whip.
“Aye,” replied a sullen voice.
“Give ‘em here.”
The man handed the untidy parcel over reluctantly and Silas grinned as he unwrapped the dirty oilcloth to reveal a set of lock-picks, a distinctive design, the handles inlaid with a fine mother-of-pearl motif. “Nice work, old man. You’re a skilled craftsman, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m clear, then?” the fellow said, his voice trembling.
“Your debt is paid,” Mourney agreed, more than satisfied.
“W-What you gonna do with—”
“Mind your own bleedin’ business,” Silas growled, his small eyes glinting menacingly in the sallow gaslight.
“Alfie’s a good lad, Silas, and no more than a babe, he’s—”
“He’s a thieving little shit who’s taken the piss and made me look like a bleedin’ fool,” Silas replied through gritted teeth. “My men got lifted for those cursed diamonds and I got nowt. He owes me blood, and I mean to collect. Now get out of my sight before I decide these little beauties aren’t recompense enough for what you owe me.”
It appeared his guest’s bravado was all used up, and the man turned on his heel and ran, leaving Silas Mourney to gloat over his coming triumph, and to imagine the satisfying spectacle of Alfie Marwick with a noose about his neck.
Chapter 8
Trial and Error.
Ocean View Villa, Little Valentine, 18thJanuary 1816
“You’re not serious?”
Aubrey was standing in his shirtsleeves in Alfie’s bedroom, gazing down at the appalling array of mismatched clothing laid out on his bed.
Alfie shrugged. “You’re breaking and entering, not attending Almack’s. And keep your voice down, Alice has a megrim and is trying to sleep, remember?”
Aubrey frowned at him, feeling a stab of guilt as he assumed he was responsible for the megrim. The young whipster before him had been edgier than ever since they arrived home, though, and quick to flare up. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, before turning back to the ill-sorted array of clothing. “And whilst that’s most amusing, none of this is going to fit. It was made for someone much shorter and a far different shape.”
He wondered who it did belong to, as it was too big for Alfie, but decided he was better off not knowing the details. The cloth was rough quality, though tough and serviceable, and all of it unrelenting black. The uniform of a cracksman, he thought sourly.
