Precious cargo?
The words took the air from his lungs.
A cold certainty settled in his gut.
Daphne had gone to meet her aunt. An aunt who cared more for her own comfort than her niece’s safety. The need to race to the coffeehouse had him checking the time again. Half past six.
He wanted to put his fist through the wall.
He’d been a fool to let her go.
Saint-Clair must have read his mind. “Where is Miss Harland?”
“Meeting her aunt at Pickins in Bishopsgate.” Less than two miles from the docks. An odd choice of location, now he thought of it.
“Irving has a warehouse near the Red Lion Brewhouse. The landlord heard him mention it to his coachman.”
“Yes, Burr Street. It’s on our list.”
The pieces locked into place he tried not to panic.
“Go. I’ll wait with Edwina.”
He was already at the door.
“You’re certain this is Irving’s warehouse?” Dominic watched the shuttered doors from behind a row of wooden barrels. The air was sharp with the scent of scorched malt and the briny exhale of the Thames tide.
“His is the one marked W on the brickwork.” Montfort nodded towards the building. “But even at this hour, I’d expect some activity.”
All was quiet but for the slap of water against the quay and the ghostly groan of mooring chains. Mist rose from the river, creeping across the stones like an omen.
“We should move.” Stanton straightened and pulled his hat down over his brow. “The watchmen do their rounds. I’d rather not explain why we’re loitering by the brewhouse.”
Dominic agreed. He crossed the yard, his friends at his heels. The main doors were barred from within, but a smaller door to the side yielded to Montfort’s knife in under a minute.
“I’ll never ask how you learned that,” Stanton murmured.
“It’s useful if his mistress locks him out,” Dominic said.
Inside, iron columns rose into the dark, swallowed by shadows overhead. The warehouse had been cleared. No barrels. No crates.
Montfort stepped forward. “The cargo’s on the water. The lighters will have taken it downriver already. If Irving sails on the morning tide, he’ll load through the night.”
One word turned his blood cold.
Was Daphne the cargo?
Was she being loaded onto a vessel miles from here?
“Irving’s been planning to flee from Moseley for days.” He should have had eyes on the warehouse sooner. “He’d rather take his chances in India than end up in St Martin’s Burial Ground.”
“His manager runs the English operations and did an interview for the paper last month, lobbying for the London to Birmingham railway. He has a warehouse there already, and plans?—”
The door behind them creaked on its hinges. Dominic’s hand went to his coat before he saw it was Jones.
“Thank the Lord it’s you, sir,” his coachman whispered, scanning the gloom. “I’ve been hiding outside for an hour. They took Miss Harland through the yard of the coffeehouse and brought her here. But the lady tipped off the waiter and I tracked them to the docks.”
Pride hit first. She’d seen the trap before it sprang. Cold fear came next, beneath it the relief that she was still breathing and within reach.
