“He asks that I go to this Mr. Creasey and hand him the box,” I said. “That is all.”
“Huh. Creasey’s a right evil bloke. No good will come of it.”
“Well, I did not expect the errand to be mundane. Why would Denis send Mr. Creasey a chess piece?” I lifted the box, which I’d rewrapped in its paper. “A white queen?”
Brewster pursed his lips then shrugged. “No idea. Is it solid gold?”
“No, quite ordinary.”
“Then it could mean anything, guv. Right. We go, me one step behind you. You throw the box at Creasey, and then you run the other way. Understand?”
“I will hand it to him politely, or better still, leave it with whomever answers his door. I agree we should not linger.”
“Good.” Brewster sent me a doubtful glare, but he at last ceased arguing, and we were off.
It was a foul day, too cool for summer and too warm for winter, the fog hanging in thick patches that grew denser as we approached the river. I’d acquiesced to letting Hagen, my wife’s coachman, drive us in the family carriage. I did not relish the idea of rolling into the docklands with the viscount’s coat of arms blazoned on the coach’s door, but the carriage did move us quickly through the crush.
Mayfair had been quiet, as most families that leased houses there had retired to the country for the remainder of the year. As we traveled through Piccadilly to Haymarket and into parts of London where residents lived year-round, the traffic increased. Not all had the means to escape the hot, stinking London summers, and laborers were needed throughout the year. Commerce did not cease because Parliament wasn’t sitting and thehaut tonhad departed for more salubrious climes.
Hagen drove us along the Strand to Fleet Street and then around the bulk of St. Paul’s to Cheapside. From that busy thoroughfare we inched down lanes until we reached the Thames and its many wharves. I was alone inside the coach, but I imagined Brewster, sitting on a perch on the back, watching the teeming masses with a sour eye.
At London Bridge, Upper Thames Street became Lower Thames Street. London Bridge had occupied this spot since the Middle Ages, although about ten years before my birth, the last of the houses built upon it had been pulled down, and the bridge widened and shored up. No more did heads adorn pikes at its end, just as hangings were no longer a public spectacle at Tyburn. Men and women were executed behind the walls of Newgate, in private, with other prisoners for their audience.
The Custom House stood at the end of the row of docks, with its wide frontage facing the Thames. To the east, the street ended in the wall that surrounded the Tower of London.
Hagen halted in front of the Custom House, and we found Hill Lane, a narrow artery that led north. The street was too large for the carriage, so Brewster and I descended and made our way on foot.
The lane was narrow, inky in the fog. I was now thankful Brewster had insisted on accompanying me. I’d have had to think long and hard before entering that passageway alone.
“Lacey? Good Lord, itisyou.”
I turned at my name and gazed, mystified, at the man who strode toward me from the arched doorway of the Custom House. He wore the black of a fashionable gentleman, with a tall hat slightly askew, his coat tightly buttoned. He had no walking stick and approached with a swift, easy gait.
As he drew closer, memory cleared, and I went gladly forward to meet him.
“Captain Eden,” I exclaimed.
The man grasped my hand and shook it hard. I faced Miles Eden, a fellow officer of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons. “It’s Major now,” he said breezily. “Was promoted after Waterloo.”
“Well deserved.” I stepped back to study him. Miles Eden was a tall man, standing an inch or so above me, with a thatch of light-colored hair that had grown thicker since I’d last seen him. Thin sideburns curved along his cheeks to a mouth that was prone to smiles. His eyes were brown, like strong tea, and his skin had tanned to a shade of butternut, a thin scar from Peninsula days white on his cheek.
Eden had been one of the few officers I’d respected. He’d gained his commission through family connections—his uncle was a baron—but he’d proved competent in leading men and thinking quickly in battle. He’d also been good-natured and likable though not a soft touch. His sergeants and men had respected him as well.
“Is it stillCaptainLacey?” he asked. “I’ve been away—Antigua, actually. I sold my commission, and since then have heard little of the Thirty-Fifth.”
“I indeed bear that title. I took half pay after Vitoria and came home.”
“After your injury.” Eden glanced at my walking stick in sympathy. “Waterloo would have gone quicker and not been so bloody if you’d been there, I’m certain.”
I had to laugh at the exaggeration. “I doubt that very much. Have you returned to England permanently? Or have you become a colonist in truth?”
“No, no, I am home to stay. In fact …” Eden stepped closer to me, bending to me as men and carts teemed around us. “I would not mind speaking to you about a thing, Lacey. You’re just the man to advise me.”
“Of course. I am happy to help, if I can.”
Eden relaxed as though he’d been afraid of his reception. “Would now be convenient? Or do you have business?”
He trailed off with a glance at the Custom House, where men flowed in and out, shippers paying duties or trying to collect goods held there. I’d heard that the Custom House regularly had plenty of brandy and other seized smuggled goods like gunpowder in their cellars. Indeed, the previous building, only six or seven years before, had exploded like a fiery volcano when it had caught fire. The building I faced now, built a little to the east of the original site, was quite new.
