The tall, pole-thin man in a dark topcoat and bowler hat looked out of place.
He trailed the Moonraker’s tavernkeeper through the crowded, low-ceilinged pub, shouldering past fishermen and dockers who’d labored since sunup. He ducked under a soot-blackened beam, knocking his hat and curling his nostrils at the reek of spilled beer, carp, and sweat.
“He’s in the storeroom.” The barman jerked his thumb at an oak door. “Downing my whisky.”
The newcomer fished in his pocket and flipped the innkeeper a half crown. Then he lifted the iron latch and pushed. A man the size of a steamer trunk in a soiled tweed cap hunched over a half-empty bottle, a shot glass on the table and another in his square, meaty fist.
“Could’ve grown a beard, waiting for you,” he growled, downing his drink.
“And look more a ruffian than you are?”
He dropped his bowler on the table and sat. Light from a hanging oil lamp glinted off hair the color and texture of straw.His eyes were nearly as colorless, shading to light blue at the edge of his irises. He tipped whisky into the empty glass, sipped, and grimaced.
“Bilge. How do you drink this swill?”
The burly man reclaimed the bottle and poured two fingers. “What’s taking you to the island?”
“Spot of bother over a girl, but I’ll arrange things.”
“The maggot couldn’t keep his hands off her, I’m guessing.”
“She’ll be sorted, although he was reluctant at first. As for the shipment—”
“McGrath’s sweating it, saying they know it’s on the way.”
The thin man cocked his head. “That’s what you wanted to tell me?”
“Could be trouble at the port.”
Pale eyes flashed. He grabbed his companion’s wrist, sending a jet of amber liquid across the table. “Don’t go sour on us now, boy-o.”
“Bleeding hell.” He broke the man’s iron grip and rubbed his hand.
“Plenty of sweets for all the kiddies when it’s done and dusted.” The thin man retrieved his bowler and stood. “Hate to break up the party, but the last steamer leaves for the island in an hour.”
Outside, he raised pale eyes to the night sky. A waning crescent moon shone dimly through a bank of thin clouds. He brushed the crown of his bowler, flipped it, and tugged it on by the back of the brim. Then he patted his scowling companion on the shoulder.
“You worry too much,” the thin man said, raising his voice over the rattle and screech of a passing train. “No loose ends … that’s my motto.”
He whistled, strolling away, heading toward Southampton’s docks and the last ferry to the Isle of Wight.
CHAPTER 1
October 1867
Dr. Julia Lewis flinched as a spray of saltwater slapped her face.
She braced herself on the heaving deck as the steamer’s bow rose and fell, the ship plunging toward the Isle of Wight. At that moment, she’d happily exchange her lot for London’s clammy fogs, solid pavements, and a line of patients queuing at her clinic.
Kate Connelly’s right hand anchored her straw bonnet. She took Julia’s arm with her left. “Come away from the rail, Doctor Julie,” her maid said. “You’re looking all green, you are.”
Julia shook her head and tightened her grip. “I’ll disgrace myself on the deck if I look away.”
“’Tis mind over matter, they say.”
“More like my head over the rail in another minute.”
Julia dragged her eyes to where sea and sky met and tried to fix her gaze on the line. It wasn’t easy as the paddle-wheeled vessel pitched and churned. She was never a happy sailor. Julia’s trip across the Atlantic to medical school in America hadbeen a voyage of prolonged torture. As for the steamer to the Isle of Wight, there were many days when the strait that separated the island from Britain’s south coast was in a placid mood. That afternoon, it kicked and scowled.
