Edward stopped and turned, frustrated by the interruption. It was not uncommon for him to be approached in the halls of Westminster. He was, after all, one of the more notable figures in this circle and plenty of men wanted to avail themselves of his influence. But this morning was not the right time for it.
The man in front of him did not have the polish of a man who belonged in the building. He was expertly nondescript—plain faced, plain clothed. He stood out here for his lack of finery and the trousers he wore instead of formal breeches. But everything else about him was designed to blend in. “Can I help you, Mr.…”
“My name is Mr. Nigel Patterson, from the Home Office.”
The disquiet that had settled in his stomach at the sight of the man began to churn. It was rare that Edward had anything to do with the group of men responsible for maintaining the nation’s safety. He could not think of a good reason why this man would be seeking him out. “How may I be of service?” he asked, ensuring that his tone was smooth and showed no signs of his disquiet.
“I wanted to discuss a young man that you recently helped release from jail.”
The churning picked up pace. Fiona had been picked up for throwing food. The Home Office didn’t waste their time on petty misdemeanors. Even the upgraded charges of assault weren’t worth the time of a department that often focused on international espionage.
“You’re better off directing your enquiries to my man. I barely know the lad. I stepped in as a favor for a friend.” It was better the Home Office think Finley unimportant, beneath the notice of a duke.
“So you do not know the character of the man you’ve brought under your roof?”
“A deuced idiot is who I brought under my roof. Someone whose curiosity put him at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Mr. Patterson shook his head and clasped his hands in front of him. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more serious than that.”
Edward paused for a long moment to push back the rising nausea. This was not the first time he’d been approached by the authorities—William had been in trouble with the law on several occasions—but it was the first time he’d felt more sick than angry.
“Mr. Patterson, I think it’s better if we met elsewhere to discuss this. I can meet you at the Lucky Penny in an hour. It’s the grey building on the corner of Long Acre and Endell Street.”
The investigator cocked his head, an interested expression on his face. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be familiar with the Lucky Penny.”
Edward wasveryfamiliar with the establishment. The proprietor could be counted on for his discretion. Edward paid him well every month for the sole use of a private parlor and a private entrance. Paid himverywell.
“The rabbit stew is exceptional. They don’t serve rabbit at White’s.”
Chapter 24
The next sixty minutes was the longest hour of Edward’s life. What the devil had Fiona done to end up a target of the Home Office? Being arrested for disorderly conduct wasn’t enough to warrant such investigation—tomato throwing be damned.
His heart galloped in his chest, but externally he retained the same bland, impassive look he wore when dealing with more trivial matters. He had learned as a boy not to show fear. Fear only inspired bullies to push harder, knowing they were close to the kill. Like wolves tasting blood. Thetonwas no different. Nor London’s law enforcement. Any hint that Edward was uncomfortable would tell his adversaries exactly where to push the knife.
He arrived a few minutes early and ordered two tankards of ale and bowls of rabbit stew. By the time the investigator arrived, he was dunking fresh bread into the thick, brown soup.
Patterson grunted as he slid into the booth.
Edward waved his hand at the meals in front of them. “I took the liberty,” he said. “It really is very good.”
Patterson hesitated. To not eat would be rude. To eat would be unprofessional. The inspector seemed flustered by the loss of control of the situation so early in the conversation. Which was exactly as Edward had planned. Pressing his lips together, Patterson pushed the bowl to the side.
Edward shrugged. “Your loss.” He continued to eat, nonplussed.
“What do you know of Mr. McTavish?” Patterson said.
“Nothing more than that he is the son of one of my tenants.” A lie. Mr. McTavish didn’t exist, butMissMcTavish was his future wife. Patterson had no idea the ground he was skating on.
Patterson pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. “Mr. Alastair McTavish is your tenant, yes? The same Alastair McTavish that was responsible for the Abingdale uprising last year?”
“I wouldn’t call it an uprising,” Edward replied.
“What would you call it then?”
The crackle of flame and the acrid, burning smoke. The scythes and pitchforks. The yelling. The way he’d been forced to dodge bottles of beer and pats of mud as he called for calm. Oh, it had been an uprising. Only the explosion of Asterly’s steam engine had stopped blood from being spilled. But death had occurred anyway. The vision of that young boy, bleeding and burned, still showed up in his dreams some nights.
He gave a little shrug. “It was more…a heated discussion about how to move forward.”
