“Has a shop in Cheapside.” Sam huffed a laugh. “Pretends it’s a proper business, a secondhand place and a pawnbrokers. His real work he keeps hidden, probably in the back or a cellar, or in his attic. Somewhere the Runners and the bailiffs won’t work too hard to find.”
“Or he pays them to look the other way.”
“He could do.” Sam and Eamon shared a look of distaste, both more repelled by corrupt men of the Crown than outright thieves.
“I will call upon him,” Eamon said. “Ask why he’s not answered my letters.”
“Because he’s afraid you’ll find him out.” Sam saluted Eamon with his cup. “Which you will, lad. I have no doubt.”
“I’ll have a bloody good go at him,” Eamon promised.
And if Mr. Clive had been cheating Caro and her son out of Leo’s rightful inheritance, Eamon would make the man pay dearly.
“Good for you, lad,” Sam said. “If you need me help, you give me the nod. I’m here most nights.”
Sam had the reputation for making problems disappear—permanently. Not someone a sensible man would join forces with, but Sam had always been a loyal friend, no matter his reputation.
Eamon thanked him and they imbibed a while longer, Sam reminiscing about the adventures they’d had in the old days. Eamon listened and tried not to think of Caro and her kisses, or picture her curled up in bed in her grand house, damp from sleep. The visions would not depart, however, no matter how much brandy he drank.
In the morning, Eamon rose earlier than he’d had since his army days and took a hackney to Cheapside. His head was fuddled by the foul brandy, but he forced it to clear as he rode along in the rather smelly coach.
The eastern parts of London were already alive with activity. The markets began early, and every cook, chef, and provider knew that the best bits went to those who arrived first. Each market he passed was bustling as Oxford Street became Holborn and then Newgate Street.
Eamon turned his face away when the coach passed the grim wall of Newgate Prison. His father had never ended up there, thank the Lord, but he’d spent days in the Fleet, with five-year-old Eamon to keep him company. Not an experience Eamon ever wished to repeat.
Newgate Street took a jog near St. Paul’s, its great dome rising through the fog, and merged into Cheapside.
The shop Sam had indicated lay near the turning to Milk Street. Eamon instructed the coachman to pass it and let him down near Poultry, with its view of the great Bank of England and Mansion House. No sense rolling up in front of Clive’s door, giving the man a chance to flee out the back.
Eamon paid the hackney driver, then took his time strolling back toward Milk Street.
Businesses were already open, with owners displaying wares on the pavement. Eamon paused outside a secondhand bookshop to thumb through a few tomes. He selected a pocket-sized volume on medieval manuscripts, marveling that a printer could tuck so much information into such a tiny book.
The bookseller wanted to chat about the weather, the crowds on the street, and every other topic he could think of, but Eamon paid over a tuppence for his purchase and gently pried himself away.
Clive’s business was located a few doors down from the booksellers. An unpretentious black painted door led Eamon into a small shop that held a jumble of secondhand goods displayed in a haphazard fashion. Polished cups and plates of middling quality stood next to wicker sewing baskets, and pewter candlesticks mingled with vinaigrettes and brandy flasks.
The very thin young man who looked up from behind a walled counter when Eamon entered could not be Mr. Clive. He was fifteen at most.
The counter closed off shelves that displayed more expensive items: watches and fobs, thick gold rings, gold snuff boxes, cameos and lockets, and a few tiny pictures of painted single eyes, the sort exchanged between lovers. Presumably those who pawned them could no longer bear to have their ladylove giving them a one-eyed stare, or else someone had inherited the trinkets and hadn’t known what to do with them.
Eamon put on the stuffy, blue-blooded accent he’d learned so well from his father and addressed the young man.
“A fine morning to you, sir. I hear this is where I can inquire about buying some pictures. Some good pictures, you understand.”
The lad grinned and leaned through the counter’s window. “French pictures, sir? Have those in the back.” He winked.
Eamon drew himself up. “Certainly not. What do you take me for?”
The youth immediately straightened, flushing. “Beg pardon, sir. We get all sorts in, don’t we? Wanting all manner of things.”
“Well, I am not all sorts. When I say good pictures, I mean those of quality. I have heard that Mr. Clive is one to provide them.”
“Right.” The young man hesitated, uncertain, before he bounded like a rabbit through a wooden door behind the counter, slamming it shut.
Eamon was left to meander about the shop, wondering if Clive would appear or if the youth had given him warning to escape.
He idly opened a jewelry box that held an assortment of necklaces and bracelets that must not be worth anything, or else they’d be locked behind the counter. Nor would Eamon have been left alone in the shop with them.
