Page 2 of Crimes, Conspiracies, and Courtship (Paddy’s Peelers Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 1

Late September 1819

Covent Garden, London

H arry Walters whistled an old sailor’s tune as he leaned against the damp brick wall. He had claimed a better-smelling alley than the last one. Odd, being it was a seedier part of Town, on the outskirts of Covent Garden. A rustling to his left sent a side-glance in that direction. A large rat peeked around a barrel, his whiskers trembling as he sniffed the air, black orbs darting back and forth. Their eyes met, and the rodent scurried away.

“Intelligent little vermin,” Walters mumbled and returned his attention to the gaming hell across the street. The moon was hazy in the thick fog, casting irregular shadows up and down the street. There wasn’t as much traffic tonight. The clip clop of horses pulling hackneys for hire echoed on the slick cobblestones. Pedestrians had dwindled as the hours passed.

He was a man of patience—had to be in his profession. Walters had been following the Duke of Colvin for three months now and had come to know him, in a sense. His Grace went to White’s or one of the gentlemen’s clubs two nights a week to keep up appearances with his peers. Three nights a week he wandered Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens or went to the theatre in Covent Garden.

Walters did his surveillance on these three nights, watching the duke arrive in his shiny black landau and blazing emblem, drawn by a team of sleek black horses. If he went to a play and had a woman accompanying him, it would be a short night for Walters. If the duke was alone, he would emerge from the theater, walk toward his coach, but duck into a hackney waiting just behind it. Then Walters knew the night was just beginning as he followed Colvin into the rougher parts of Covent Garden. The duke enjoyed gambling and doxies away from the eyes of the ton .

It was the same routine for Vauxhall, arriving in his own conveyance but leaving in another. Whenever Colvin was alone, he was looking to satisfy his baser desires. Since the duke’s father had died six months ago, Colvin’s tastes had become more and more vulgar. The reins restraining him had been cut, and he had moved from well-known “nunneries” to businesses willing to look the other way at some of His Grace’s pastimes.

A woman and boy ambled up the street toward Walters, and he dipped his head, letting his cap shadow his face. He pulled the collar of his wool coat up, warding off the chilly fog as it threatened to envelop the city. As the pair approached, the woman halted in front of him, a gap showing in her broad smile.

“Ho there, ‘andsome,” she crooned. “Ye’re looking lonely this fine night.”

He shook his head. “Thank you for asking, ma’am, but I’m waiting for someone.”

“Ye don’t need to wait anymore, lover.” She peered into his face and poked his linen shirt, hooking a finger in the material to pull him closer.

A strong odor of gin washed over him.

“Who ye waitin’ fer? I can beat her price and show ye a better time.” She pushed some stray frizzy hair back under her cap and winked at him.

He shook his head, reached down without looking, and snatched the boy’s hand hovering above Harry’s pocket. “I believe you’re a bit too friendly, boyo.” He gave a tight grin as he clasped the lad’s thin wrist. “If you were a few years older, I’d snap this fragile bone. But since I’m in a fine spirit, I suggest you move on before the situation gets ugly.”

The pair moved on, the boy scurrying while the woman threw an insult over her shoulder. Harry snorted and shook his head just as a hackney pulled up to the back of the gaming hell. The duke emerged, seeming irritated, slapping his gloves against one palm before entering the vehicle.

Who put a pin under his saddle? he wondered as he crossed the street and ambled toward the hackney. Walters was surprised when he heard the duke bark his home address. Must have lost quite a sum.

As he emerged from the side street, hailing his own ride home, he checked the time. Barely midnight. What had Colvin’s hackles up to make him leave so early?

The hackney eventually made its way to Cheapside, turning onto Gracechurch Street. He paid the driver, then took the stairs to the front door of his home—the only real home he’d ever known—his mind on this latest case. It was usually quiet this time of night, so it surprised him to hear the sound of muffled laughter coming from the parlor.

He stopped outside the partially open door and only heard more chuckling. All sounded well, he thought, as he took the stairs.

“Harry!”

Walters stopped, looking over his shoulder as Paddy O’Brien’s head stuck through the doorway. “Come in and join us, boyo. We’ve got business to discuss.”

“Now? It’s after midnight.”

“Thank ye fer da time, but last I checked, ye were no night watchman.” The Irishman waved him into the room. “An old friend o’ mine is here. An old friend from the Home Office .”

Those last two words were enough explanation.

Walters followed Paddy into the parlor, nodding to Lord Chester Hatford. “My lord, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

It was a cozy room, with a dark-green Wilton carpet spread before the hearth, a tinder box on the mantel, along with small frames of the O’Brien clan. The clan Paddy proudly called his family to anyone who cared to listen. He and Margaret O’Brien had collected seven misfits throughout their lifetimes, educating them, sending each in the direction best fitting their personalities and talents.

Maggie had mandated they all posed for a miniature at sixteen, then added it to the mantel collection. The matriarch and patriarch were in the center. The others were arranged by age rather than when they were found, alternately on each side, starting with Harry, Gus, Sampson, Clayton, Benjamin, Elijah, and Honora.

Each child was now a successful adult, living their own life, as well as being vital components of the O’Brien Investigative Services. The agency had been nicknamed Paddy’s Peelers by the Bow Street Runners they worked with. Paddy being Patrick O’Brien’s nickname, and the Peelers being the moniker given to constables and their men in Ireland.

Lord Chester interrupted his musings. “O’Brien has some of the best whiskey in Town. Have a glass with us.”

Paddy handed Harry a glass of amber liquid and nodded toward a chair across from Hatford by the fire. The guest leaned forward, his silver hair still showing streaks of auburn. His broad shoulders and trim body belied his sixty years.

“Hatford has a tale I t’ought ye’d find interesting.” Paddy threw back the rest of his Irish whiskey and poured another, standing by Harry, his forearm resting on the top of the leather chair. His Irish wolfhound, Aonarach, moved from the hearth to sit beside Paddy, his great tail thumping against the stone. The gray wire-haired beast was a mammoth of a dog and never left his master’s side unless told to.

“No offense, my lord,” began Walters, “but it never seems to bode well when we meet up in the wee hours of the night.”

Hatford snorted. “You aren’t wrong. I’ve explained the situation to O’Brien, and he’s suggested you are my man. Have you had any dealings with the Spencean Philanthropists?”

Harry whistled. They were a radical group who had tried to overthrow the government several years back. The Home Office had planted a spy, stopped the plot, and arrested the men. Unfortunately, the spy was considered unreliable due to his past, and without better testimony, the cases had been dropped. “What are they up to now?”

“I’m afraid more of the same. Arthur Thistlewood is the leader now, and he’s out for blood. Thinks force is the only way to be heard. We’ve been trying to find out what they’re planning.” Hatford sipped his whisky. “I’ve been on the case for the last two months.”

“Do you have someone in place?” asked Walters.

“Yes, a fellow named George Edwards. Do you know him?”

Walters nodded. “He makes statues, doesn’t he? Last I heard, he was in Windsor with a small shop.”

“That’s how we found him. Major-General Sir Herbert Taylor commissioned a sculpture from him and ended up recruiting him.”

“I never considered him in the role of spy,” Walters mused.

“Who knows what goes on in a man’s head,” added Paddy, then tipped his head toward Harry. “His own family could pass him by on the street when he’s in disguise and never recognize him. A grand magician o’ appearance, he is.”

It was true. Walters prided himself on the ability to alter his appearance. There were times it was better he wasn’t recognized—for him and those he loved.

“I trust Edwards. He’s been accepted by Thistlewood and is gaining recognition within the group. Even began recruiting a few members himself for credibility.”

“So why do you need me?” Walters was curious now. He had helped on several cases with the Home Office and was more than happy to do whatever he could to support the Crown.

“While Edwards has been worming his way into the Spenceans, I’ve been tracking their finances.” Hatford grinned. “It seems we’ve been following the same wretched duke.”

Walters rarely showed surprise, but this news almost dropped his jaw. “The Duke of Colvin is giving money to radicals?”

Hatford nodded. “I believe someone is blackmailing him. Rumor at White’s was his father was a cheat in cards?—”

“My client’s father, the late Earl of Darby, lost a huge amount to the late duke in a sham of a game. Now he wants retribution for that and the present duke’s… misdeeds.”

“Well, it seems the son has been charged with the same offense as the father. To avoid scandal, he agreed to stay clear of White’s. However, the proprietor did whisper in the ears of other club owners. He’s been discreetly banned from the tables in any respectable place in London.”

“That’s why he’s been moving into the less reputable gaming hells,” murmured Walters. “He lives like a king but relies on the tables to keep him afloat.”

“Colvin’s never been politically active, taking his seat in the Lords for important votes. I asked myself, why would he support the Philanthropists and risk high treason?”

“Either someone knows more of his dark side than cheating at cards, or they’ve promised to restore him to the tables at the clubs.” So Walters wasn’t the only one following the duke. “How does he transfer the blunt?”

“He’s been dropping off a payment at a coffee house in Cheapside. The first Tuesday of every month, Colvin arrives at five o’clock, orders a cup of coffee, and sits by himself while he drinks it. Within fifteen minutes, he drops a coin on the table and walks out.” Hatford leaned forward again, pinning Walters with a grim stare. “He leaves the coffeehouse, pulls out a small leather pouch from under his waistcoat, and drops it at the corner of the building, in the alley.”

“And?” Interesting this happened during the day and on one of Walters’s off days.

“A boy pops out from the shadows and snatches it. Been going on for several months now.”

This was an odd turn of events. Was he being blackmailed for his weekly forays into the dark back rooms of gin houses? Did someone else know of Colvin’s slide into depravity? And if so, who? Walters drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. His client, the Earl of Darby, was keen to bring this man to justice for other past—and personal—wrongdoings. If they could arrest Colvin for treason, it would be a boon for everyone. Except the duke, of course.

Paddy rubbed his jaw, the scratch of a day-old growth breaking the silence. “I wouldn’t mind seeing dat despicable arse in the Tower.”

“Better yet, a noose around his neck,” added Walters. He turned back to Hatford. “Again, why do you need me?”

“Two reasons. I need to know what Colvin is doing when he makes his social calls outside of polite society. We need something solid in order to question him, let alone arrest him, because he’s a peer.” Hatford fixed his tired brown eyes on Paddy. “It irks me how he can hide behind a title.”

“If anyone can trap da devil, it’s my Harry.” He gave the man in question a hearty slap on the back, which caught Aonarach’s attention. He gave the room a short, deep ruff . Paddy reached down the scratch the hound’s ears.

“And the second reason?” Walters asked, wincing at the sudden assault by Paddy.

“I need someone to keep an eye on Edwards. I’m afraid he’ll get in too deep and find himself in trouble.” Hatford finished his drink and set the glass on the side table with a thunk . “Of course, we might also need one of the Peelers to testify if we are able to make a case.”

Walters snorted. “Me?”

“I know you left Bow Street due to unwarranted accusations but later vindicated. I also know it was after you found incriminating evidence in a case that led to the higher echelons of society.” Lord Chester paused as if embarrassed. “Considering your history… Well, we wouldn’t want a repeat of the trial a few years ago. No insult intended.”

Walters nodded. “Of course, and none taken.” He stood and reached out his hand to shake Hatford’s. “I’m happy to do my duty, Lord Chester. Just let me know when and where to start.”

“How about now?” asked Hatford with a grin.