Ben hid his smile. “Sounds good, Bess. Thank you.”
“I’ll take a plate too. Mum only cooks a meal once, and I’ll be late tonight,” said Roger Lynch, giving the lass a wink and laughing when she blushed. Gus glared at him.
When the pretty barmaid had left the back office, Roger’s smoky green eyes turned on Gus. “You’re right dull, considerin’ how smart you are.”
Gus pulled his cap off his dark hair and ran a hand through the tangles. He growled at the young man. “What the devil is that s’posed to mean?”
“Instead of pinin’ after the woman who doesn’t love you—like that,” Roger added quickly when Gus rose to his full height and hovered over the boy.
August Rutland was a huge man, as big as Paddy, and as good with his fists as he was with a pistol. His dark-brown hair was unfashionably long and always pulled back with a leather thong.
“Bess is smelling of April and May when she looks at you, and you break her heart every time,” Roger continued undaunted. “Maybe I’ll try wooin’ her.”
Gus rolled his dark eyes. “She doesn’t want me, so stop yer Banbury tales before my fist ends up in yer mouth.”
“In a foul mood, ain’t we?” asked Clayton with a grin. He was dressed in homespun wool, slightly tattered, a brown cap set rakishly on his auburn hair. He was still undercover with a gang of men working for The Vicar. “The truth does that to a man.”
Gus picked up his ale, gulped it down, and slammed it on the table. “Sorry, Lynch. I’m hungry, and it’s been a fruitless day.”
Roger grinned. “It’s all right. I know you like me.”
Gus grunted while Clayton snorted, his green eyes sparkling with humor.
“Have there been any murders reported in my neighborhood? Maybe an alley off Wormwood?” asked Ben, getting to the point.
All three stopped to stare at him. “An alley off Wormwood? That’s dueced specific,” said Roger.
“There are murders all over London every day. Someone in particular you’re wondering about?” Gus pinned Ben with a stare.
“Remember Mr. Felton, the night watchman?” asked Ben.
Gus and Clayton nodded.
Roger shrugged. “Didn’t you mention something about his wife? She’s a knocker-up?”
“Yes, well, she’s his daughter, and she thinks she witnessed a murder yesterday morning.”
“She thinks?” Clayton raised a brow.
Ben described the scene and the possible murderer. “No shots sounded, but she saw a knife in his hand.”
Roger let out a whistle. “Doesn’t sound good. He’s likely floating, and we won’t see him for a while.”
“Rooney wasn’t around today, but no one mentioned it. He was one of the men who wanted out.” Clayton stopped talking as Bess came in with plates on her arm and a jug of ale.
When she set a plate before Gus, he gave her a side-glance and mumbled, “Thank ye, Bess.”
The girl’s face lit up, and she self-consciously pushed a brown curl beneath her mobcap. “Yer welcome.” She refilled the men’s bumpers and left.
Clayton began again, “Describe the man.”
Ben did as asked.
“The devil if that doesn’t sound like Rowland. Got that scar as a boy in his first fight. Acts like a rooster, parading around with his chest puffed out, wanting to lead the wolf pack. Says the ones left are spineless, and he’ll make ‘em into men.”
“Do you think he got rid of Rooney?” asked Gus.
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Clayton chewed on a hunk of bread. “He may be trying to impress The Vicar. He’s a hobbledehoy—guessing about eighteen, maybe twenty. Arrogant enough to think he’s got the experience to move up with a few misdeeds, and young enough to end up in the Thames himself.”
