“Did you leave a note?” he asked when she reached him. She wore a bonnet now, the same cloak, and boots.
“I did and left it by the front entrance. Doddy was not pleased when I told him he was staying.”
“Because he is a protector,” Patrick said. “Now, in you get, then.” He lifted her into the carriage.
“Where are we going?” she asked as the carriage rolled away from the Monmouth town house.
“To a place where we know a man who used to be an informant years ago. It’s our hope he is alive and also still drinking there, as he used to every night,” Patrick said.
She didn’t answer that, just turned her eyes to watch the buildings as they rolled through the dark London streets.
“We will find him, Sophie.” He laid his hand on top of her gloved ones that were clenched in her lap. “I promise.”
“He could be anywhere,” she said to the window.
“We are very good at finding things,” Stephen said. “Trust us.”
She didn’t answer that.
He watched as they entered one of the seedier areas of London—St. Giles. The carriage slowed and stopped. He pulled the curtains shut.
“Stay here, Sophie. Stephen and I will be back soon. This place is filled with men who have drunk too much and would think nothing of taking advantage of a woman, no matter what her standing in society may be.”
“I will do as you say,” she said.
“Good girl.” Patrick squeezed her hand before moving toward the door.
“Please be careful,” she whispered.
Nodding, Patrick could do nothing more to reassure her, and he and Stephen left the carriage.
The Fiddle was a small building pressed up beside two others with a facade that was as unappealing as what they would find inside. Pushing open the scarred front door, they were greeted with dim light and raised voices. Smoke from pipes and the scent of ale thickened the air as they pushed their way through patrons to the bar.
“My lords,” the innkeeper said, recognizing them even though it had been years since they’d entered his establishment.
“Toad,” Stephen said with a slight inclination of his head as he moved to lean on the counter, heedless of the ale and filth on the surface that now seeped into the sleeve of his overcoat. “We need some information. Is Bailey here?”
Toad scanned the room with the ease of familiarity. He would know the names of most who were in here. “There,” he said, jerking his head to the left. He then poured ale into glasses that he had wiped with a filthy cloth, setting them before Patrick and Stephen.
Paying for the drinks, they made their way to a booth to the left, where Patrick saw the man they were looking for. They’d paid him a considerable amount of money over the years for information.
Patrick lowered himself onto a seat beside Bailey, who was face-first in the ample bosom of a laughing woman. She was patting his head as if he were a child.
“Bailey,” Patrick said, reaching over the table and tugging the straggly gray tail that hung at the base of the man’s head.
“Ouch!”
“I see you have not slowed down in your old age.” Stephen sat beside Patrick.
“My lords!” The man’s eyes bulged as he looked at them. He immediately tipped the woman off his lap and shooed her away without a second glance.
“We need information, and we need it fast,” Patrick said, getting straight to the point of their meeting. Bailey, if allowed, tended to waffle.
“Of course,” he said, licking his lips as he eyed the pouch of coins Stephen tossed around in his hands.
“A man named Jack Spode kidnapped a child and his nanny tonight from his family home, and we want to know where the child is being held,” Patrick said, keeping his eyes on the man across from him. Small, with bright blue eyes and, some wouldsay, a sweet smile, the man looked harmless… but he was far from that. Bailey had his ear to the ground and knew most underhand things that were taking place in London because he was often involved in them.
“This child is important to me, Bailey. I will pay handsomely for his recovery.” It was small, but he saw the twitch in his eye—a sign he knew something.
