They kept up a moderate trot. The fetid stench grew more and more pungent toward the bridge. As did the Romanian chant, rumbling louder, its effect so stark, it felt as if the ground beneath Brock pulsed.
“Good evening, Brockway, Kimpton, Wimbley.” Griston appeared from the dark like a specter, blocking their forward momentum. He sat atop a large bay with one hand on the reins, the other hidden within a pocket of his cloak.
“Excellent, Griston. We are on the trail of my granddaughter.” The baron’s voice boomed in the night, overtaking the lapping waves of the shore below. “Join us, sir. All hands on deck, as it were.”
Had the baron not heard them say that Griston’s man was seen in the house? The man did not have his wife’s composure or wit.
Griston swayed in his saddle then righted himself, looking at Brock. “I believe I can be of assistance,” he said, his gaze altering slightly, somewhere past Brock’s shoulder. He pulled out a flintlock, lifting it in Brock’s direction.
A fear unlike Brock had ever known pumped through his veins. Looking over his shoulder was not an option. He froze, as did his horse. As did Kimpton and his horse.
“I say, sir—” the baron stuttered.
“I shall kill you.” The menacing proclamation came from Brock’s right. An accent he recognized from the Faulks’ garden earlier that evening. “Your fate is cemented—” Griston’s gun discharged without warning in a deafening blast, cutting the man’s words short. He fell to the ground in a mass of undignified refuse.
Brock’s horse bolted, nearly felling him along with the stench of gunfire. He grappled to rein in control of his mount and his erratic pulse, catching sight of the man on the ground. His straight light hair showed silver under the sliver of moonlight, his boots reflecting their shine. His coat was of an excellent cut, except for the dark spot now spreading across the chest, and there was nothing about the man that Brock recognized.
Griston tossed his gun atop the dead man. “I caught him carrying the child,” he said. “Follow me.”
“Lady Cecilia said the man that tried to take her worked for you,” Brock bit out. He had no reason to believe a word Griston said.
“The man was a turncoat.” No inflection varied in Griston’s monotone. As he was their only hope to find Harlowe and, by God’s grace, Irene, they followed.
He led them across the bridge into Lambeth, to Southwark, and to Rotherhithe. He pulled up at the dock. Brock made outWhite Doveon the side of a schooner. “Maudsley’s rig?”
Griston pointed past theWhite Doveto a well-turned-out two-mast brigantine. “No. TheWoodlark.” The four of them dismounted. Griston pulled out a second pistol. “I take it you’re armed.”
“Of course,” Kimpton said.
Griston held out his palm, indicating the wood-slatted path. “After you.”
Brock wasn’t so easily convinced. “We’re just going to follow you? Onto a boat? How are we supposed to know this isn’t a trap of some sort?”
“You make a fair point. I am no longer armed, but it’s your privilege whether or not to believe me.” Griston called, “Ahoy there!”
Brock’s insides struck hard against his ribs.
A small, wiry man appeared portside. “Hey now. What’s this about? Ye can’t just storm me ship with no call.”
“Where’s the captain?” Kimpton demanded.
“He ain’t ’ere. I’m the first mate. Me name’s McGee.”
Brock studied Griston’s flat expression, his perceptivity clawing at him. On sure feet, Brock hurried after Kimpton and Wimbley to the boat.
Kimpton reached the short, toothless man and shoved him against the bulkhead, his forearm against the man’s throat. “Your prisoners, McGee. I won’t ask twice.”
McGee lifted one arm and angled a crooked finger to a narrow companionway. “At the bottom,” he croaked out. “Turn right.”
“My thanks,” Kimpton said. “The baron here will keep an eye on you.”
The baron yanked out his pistol and trained it on McGee’s temple. “Take your time, gentlemen.”
A notch of respect for Wimbley rose in Brock as he hurried down the stairs after Kimpton, a prayer on his lips. They made the designated right, coming to a halt in front of a door bolted from the outside. Kimpton pulled out his revolver and readied it; Brock followed suit.
Kimpton glanced over his shoulder. Brock nodded, then Kimpton slammed back the bolt and kicked in the door. The space was nothing but a dank hole, the floor covered in damp straw. A lamp that hung in the corner did not leave much for illumination, only reaching out four feet or so.
Glacial shards lacerated Brock with fear. The putrid smell knocked him against the wall, clearing the fog from his head. He spotted a mud-encrusted, barefoot child cowering in the corner. If it hadn’t been for the patches of glowing white peeking through the filth, he would have missed her completely. “Irene?”
