Page 62

Besides, a cab would be harder for Desmond to track.

“Before we hail a hackney to haul Danforth’s sorry arse away in, what say you we first send someone in to inquire if he’s even there?” Robyn jerked his chin toward the sordid establishment. “Subtly, of course.”

A solid plan, but not easily carried out.

Dressed as they were, they could not snoop around.

Clerics in the seedy inn’s tavern would raise eyebrows and send tongues wagging.

The real challenge lay in finding someone trustworthy enough to complete the task. In this neighborhood, trust ran thinner than watered-down gin. And getting someone to do the job rather than abscond with the coin was harder than keeping a cutpurse’s fingers out of an open pocket.

“There’s no shortage of desperate unfortunates who’d be glad of a coin in their palm.” Robyn swept the street with his keen gaze, his voice pitched low. “But I would wager, they run off as soon as they can make a fist around it.”

Precisely Shelby’s thoughts.

He sharpened his focus on the shadowed nooks and alleys, searching for stealth movement.

Desmond’s men could be anywhere.

Watching. Waiting.

So far, he had recognized none of the cardsharp’s henchmen. But that didn’t mean they were not there, lurking like diseased rats in the refuse-choked alleys.

A gust of wind kicked up the stench of rotting cabbage, dead rats, and the tang of horse dung. A woman in a tattered, dingy gray-brown shawl hunched in a doorway, hacking into her palm. Across the street, a costermonger bellowed his wares, boasting of crisp, fresh pippins in a voice that cut through the cacophony.

Fresh, my arse—pippins wouldn’t be in season. By now, last autumn’s stores would be shriveled or soft.

A pair of women sauntered past, their bodices scandalously low, skirts swinging in rhythm with the exaggerated sway of their hips.

A fading bruise tainted the blonde’s cheek where a man’s touch had been too rough. The other, a dark-haired girl with a thin, hard mouth, glanced their way before dismissing them with a cynical roll of her eyes.

Recognition struck.

Shelby’s gut tightened.

“Maude?”

The blonde halted, shifting her weight onto one hip as she planted her hands on her hips. She raked her sharp, wary gaze over him, slow and assessing. “Do I know you, guv? Ain’t been my habit to spread my legs for a man of God.”

Nudging Maude with a bony elbow, her companion let out a wheezing laugh.

Maude’s crimson gown, once rich in color, had dulled over time, the fabric faded and thin in places. The bodice, tight-laced to emphasize her curves, plunged indecently low, its yellowing lace trim fraying at the edges. A patched shawl, barely fit for warmth, dangled from a shoulder, and when she shifted, the edge of striped stockings peeked out beneath her skirts, just above a pair of scuffed ankle boots worn down at the heels.

The other doxy had opted for a blue-and-black striped dress that clung in all the wrong places. The material had seen better days, its seams gaping in spots, the faded silk ribbon threaded through the neckline doing little to disguise the poor fit. A bonnet too large for her head perched askew over the limp, poorly pinned curls beneath.

In an attempt at refinement and likely to hide pox or other disease marks, the women had powdered their faces, but the effort had missed the mark. Maude had applied rouge too thickly, making her look like a painted doll, and her lips, though stained red, had already smeared unevenly at the corners.

The other tart favored a heavier hand at cosmetics. Her soot-darkened eyebrows and lashes had smudged to such a degree, it appeared as though she wore a half-mask.

Shelby held Maude’s stare, waiting for her to recognize him.

Maude curled her mouth mockingly, then flattened into a thin, contemplative ribbon.

Eyes rounding, her jaw went slack.

And there it was.

“Saints alive. You.”