Page 19 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)
Together, they slipped from shadow to shadow along a circuitous route leading to the rear of the house in question.
No sooner had they pressed against the house’s back wall than an energetic knock sounded at the front door.
Several voices joined that of Three-Finger Jack.
Steadman lifted from a crouch to peek through a window.
Without glancing down, he motioned to her.
She copied his method, peering through the window while keeping her head mostly out of sight.
Four men sat around a table, pouring drinks for one another and laughing.
Their words were clearly audible, having to do with bedding women and shooting animals.
Regardless of the small talk, they appeared to be waiting for something.
Morgan’s suspicion was verified minutes later by another knock on the door, this one less raucous.
“Another guest?” she whispered.
Steadman shrugged, never allowing his eyes to leave the scene.
She watched with him as a fifth man entered the room.
A suit of the finest London quality draped his short, pudgy frame and he carried an ornate cane crowned with a silver handle.
He removed his beaver pelt top hat and set it on the table before he plopped into a chair.
Morgan’s gaze drifted toward Steadman to find a deep scowl on his face. Her instincts lit.
“You know this man.”
He cut his eyes at her and uttered a name like a curse. “Dunwoody. Lord Atwood’s accomplice.”
His words communicated what she felt. Vindication.
Their theory about the source and reason for the extortion scheme had all but been proven correct.
Her conviction grew as the men discussed another job.
The details of the plan were clearly already known among them, so the nature of it escaped Morgan.
However, the primary purpose of the meeting appeared to be the establishment of a time—two nights hence.
After perhaps a quarter hour of discussion, Dunwoody produced a small bag that clinked when he dropped it on the table.
Jack sifted through its contents, nodded with a broad smile, and slapped Dunwoody on the shoulder.
“Give our regards to your master,” he said with a laugh.
Dunwoody grimaced and dusted his shoulder with a handkerchief. “Of course. Now, if you will excuse me.”
When Dunwoody rose, Steadman grabbed Morgan by the sleeve to prompt her to follow him. He crept away from the house and onto an adjacent street for a roundabout journey to the inn.
“I must infiltrate this gang.” Steadman’s first non-whispered words in an hour carried the weight of determination and righteous resolve. The prospect of him rubbing elbows with such rough and unscrupulous men unsettled Morgan.
“But how?” Her question must have belied her nerves. He regarded her sidelong for a stretching moment.
“Do not worry for me. I know of criminals, louts, and ruffians. I will dress roughly, befriend Three-Finger Jack at the tavern, and worm my way into his gang under an alias.”
“Worm your way in? How do you mean?”
He smiled. “Through the use of my abundant charm. Even louts cannot resist an abundance of charm.”
“I see.” She contemplated his reply. “So, when you charm a woman, are you also then a worm?”
“I said ‘worming’ my way in. That does not make me a worm.”
“I think it does.”
He laughed. She had missed his laugh these past days. So rich and warm, like a crackling fire. He flicked a hand at her. “Worm or not, I will infiltrate the gang.”
Concern over his plan drove Morgan to risk overstepping her bounds. “You should stay away from those men. I worry they might kill you if they learn who you are. Surely, there is another way.”
He peered at her again, deepening her discomfort. “Morgan Brady. If I knew no better, I might think you care for me.”
Her discomfort spilled its banks and flooded her sensibilities. With mounting pique, she lengthened her stride as if to leave him behind. “Of course, I care for you. As a friend. Or a former friend, at least. Regardless, I fear for you.”
He caught up with her and hummed softly. “Your concern does me great honor. I thank you for it. But I can manage rough men and have done so more times than I can count. So, do not fear for me, Miss Brady.”
Morgan nearly stumbled in the road. She had been prepared for any reply, for any excuse, for any defense.
However, she had not expected him to address her as “miss” anything.
The small word reached into her soul and stirred the ruins of her crumbled womanhood, breathing life into the dimming coals of all she had left for dead.
It was all she could do to dredge up a response.
“But in times past, you always had your fearsome reputation as a weapon, as a defense. This time, you would be just another ruffian, another street tough, lower than the gutter and worth nothing but to use and to discard.”
“And you care about me that much, do you?”
“As a friend, as I already made clear, even if such feelings are not reciprocated. You should pay more attention to save me from witless repetition.”
He chuckled. “I heard you before. Your mention of our friendship was so pleasing that I needed to hear it again.”
“Are you now satisfied?”
“Yes,” he said. “And the friendship is reciprocated.”
“I thought you vowed never again to become friends with a woman. To let a woman draw close to you.”
He sighed and stared ahead. “That’s a complication, for sure.
” Then he looked at her again, the half-moon rendering his eyes pits of unreadable shadow.
“As a friend, I assure you I will take care to not get beaten or otherwise killed. And as a friend, I ask you to recuse yourself from the investigation for the sake of your welfare. I shudder to imagine what these men would do to you if they knew the truth of your sex.”
Morgan considered his reasonable request and disregarded it. The iron of her spine turned into shining steel. “As a friend, sir, I will do what I must to assist you, despite your protestations.”
He frowned at her. “What exactly do you mean to do?”
“Just wait and see, worm.”