" T he marquess's son?" Sullivan glanced at the door Fam had just closed and locked before pocketing the key. Smudge, who had followed Fam out, headed down the stairs, toward the kitchens, no doubt.
"Worry less about who's in my bedchamber and more about the cove you dragged me out of bed to see." He fixed the Irishman with his steeliest stare. Sullivan raised his hands in surrender and headed for the stairs to the first floor.
"Did Bow Street say what he wanted?" Fam asked as they descended the stairs.
"Not a word. Just asked for you, walked into your study, and sat down like he owned the place, arrogant bloody turnkey."
"Archer Colwyn is no simple turnkey, Sullivan. He is as canny and dangerous as they come. Spent nearly as much time growing up on these streets as my brothers and I did. Don't underestimate him. What did Mary Church tell you or did you get anything out of her other than a good fuck."
"The mouth on you," Sullivan chided. "Missus Church is a church-going woman, she is."
"So was Mary Magdalene eventually. What did she say?"
"Only that she'd heard rumors in the tavern for weeks now about the Four Horsemen stealing children and selling them to brothels, chimney sweeps, and worse. Said she'd keep an ear out for who might have started the rumors."
Fam threw open the door to his study and strode to the chair behind his desk. "You're here awfully early, Colwyn. Heard you were keeping West End hours these days."
"Have to be here early if I'm to catch you about, Dyer. I've been by the past few days, but you've always been somewhere doing business ." Fam heard Sullivan snort from his spot propped against the wall.
"I'm a very busy man. What can I do for you?" Smudge, sporting a face dotted with cream, trotted into the room and took up residence in his chair by the fire.
"Tell me what you know about the boy you delivered to Lady Camilla's in the middle of the night." The Runner flipped open the small notebook he always carried and touched a stub of a pencil to his tongue.
"Probably exactly what your friend Carrington-Bowles told you. We saw someone dump the lad in the street, scooped him up and fetched him to our Rose Street physician. I understand the boy is recovered enough to send to Chelmsford's country estate in a few days."
"Indeed. You sent one of your men after the cart that dumped him. Did he catch the man?"
"Unfortunately, not."
"Would you tell me if he did?" Colwyn scribbled something in his notebook. Fam and Sullivan exchanged a glance.
"Why are you really here?" Fam asked. "We've known each other too long to dance around each other."
"Children have been going missing in the Dials for the last six weeks or more.
Now some of those same children have shown up dead or dying on Horsemen's doorsteps.
You expect me to ignore that?" Colwyn had that eager bulldog glint in his eye.
They'd known each other twenty years, never really enemies nor allies, but always at the edge of a sort of gentleman's agreement to stay out of each other's way.
Problem was, neither of them were truly gentlemen.
"Do you really think any of the four of us would have anything to do with harming children?
" Fam could not keep the brittle edge from his words.
Colwyn knew the Dyer brothers' story, probably better than most. They didn't have much honor, but he was perilously close to insulting what little bit they had.
Colwyn sighed. "Whether you like it or not you and your brothers have something to do with these missing children, what, I have yet to discover.
But I will find out, and if necessary, I will turn you over to the magistrates.
If you discover anything you think I need to know I trust you'll send word by Dickie or CB?
" He closed his notebook and shoved out of his chair.
"Count on it." As usual, Archer Colwyn had not told them a damned thing.
The Bow Street man went to the hearth and scratched between Smudge's ears. "I expected to see you at Hiram Kamish's funeral." He glanced at the pendant hanging in the open v of Fam's shirt. "He was a good man." Sullivan took a step forward. Fam waved him back.
"You know why we stayed away."
"I do." The look he gave Fam made him believe Colwyn was telling the truth.
"Give my best to your missus and the little girl."
"She loves the doll you sent for her birthday. Thank you."
"She sent me a note. Clever girl, that one. You'll have your hands full when she's grown."
"Already do. I don't suppose you'd know anything about Viscount de Winter's little accident, would you?"
"Viscount who?"
"I thought not. Dangerous thing, cleaning one's guns when they're loaded."
"You and I would never make that mistake, now, would we?" Fam leaned back in his chair and propped his boots on his desk.
"Never, but we all make mistakes, Dyer. Have a care yours aren't fatal ones." He tapped two fingers to his brow and quit the room.
"What the devil was all that blather about?" Sullivan asked as he took the chair Colwyn had left.
"No idea, but I suspect Colwyn is up to something, and we'd better be ready for him. Tell Pigeon and Bull to send more men out in search of that damned cart. Tell Llewelyn to make the rounds of the sweeps. See what they know. Tell him to use my name."
"That'll put the fear of God in them. Before I do that, a wealthy cit from Lombard Street sent his man around to inquire about chasing off his daughter's suitor, second son of an earl with a nasty reputation with the whores and the money lenders."
Fam sighed. "Why do women become enamored of such blackguards?"
"Most of the time the blackguards come dressed in sheep's clothing, like second sons of marquesses. Women aren't the only ones who need to take care."
A few hours later, Fam still sat at his desk going over the various pieces of parchment on which he'd scribbled bits and pieces about the missing children and dead climbing boys. He hated puzzles, never had the patience for them. He preferred quick and permanent solutions to problems.
Con was the puzzle solver. Right now, he had his hands full with the aftermath of a counterfeit operation in his corner of the Dials and a wife who tended to do exactly as she pleased.
Fam, Warrick, and Ban might tease him mercilessly about Marianne, but they agreed she loved their brother and kept him from worrying about them in the guise of keeping them safe and happy.
Or at least as happy as the four of them could manage.
He'd done so all their lives. It was time he took care of himself, of his own happiness.
A brief, sharp rap at the door drew him from his brown study and sentimental musings. "Come," he barked.
"Pardon, guv'," Llewelyn ducked under the door frame and took a few steps into the room. "We'll just be a moment."
"We?"
"Good morning, Mister Dyer." Ethan, dressed in a pair of Fam's buckskins and boots and a linen shirt strode past Llewelyn as if doing so were the most natural thing in the world. "I've come to borrow a book or two." Good to his word he headed for the bookshelves across the far end of the study.
"Llewelyn?" Fam demanded, his mood alternating between shock and amusement.
"He said he was bored," Llewelyn explained. "Last time he was bored he climbed out the bloody window and damned near broke his neck. If he's reading, at least we know where he is. I swear the man is related to that sister-in-law of yours when it comes to causing trouble."
"Tell him the rest," Ethan called over his shoulder as he pulled down a tattered copy of Tales of King Arthur .
"The rest?" Fam suspected he was not going to like the rest .
Llewelyn hung his head and scuffed his boot across the carpet. "I lost a wager, so I had to bring him here. This is the only room in the house with books."
"You were wagering with him?" Fam found it harder and harder not to laugh. He refused to look at Ethan for fear of what the man's expression was at besting one of meanest bully-boys in White Chapel.
"Me and the lads. We were playing cards, and he took us all like a right damned Captain Sharpe. A visit to your book room was all I had left to wager."
Fam sighed. "Let him pick his book, take him back, and don't play cards with him again. Wait 'til the boys down at the Prospect hear about this. Dylan Llewelyn taken by a Grosvenor Street dandy."
"You wouldn't," Llewelyn gasped.
"I will if you make the mistake of underestimating our prisoner again."
Llewelyn glared at Ethan's back as he continued to study the bookshelves. The sound of raised voices and hurried steps on the stairs drew all their attention to the door.
"I don't care who sent you, blackbird, you can't just--" The door slammed open and a pale, thin man dressed in the dark clothes, beard, and curls of Bevis Marks ran to Fam's desk and dropped a heavy net-worked purse in the middle of the papers scattered across the oak top.
Sullivan grabbed the man's arm and tried to drag him away.
"Wait," Fam commanded.
"My name is Ezra Kaufman," the man of about thirty years or so said. "Judah Kamish told me to come to you. My son has been missing these two weeks. His name is Jacob, Jacob Kaufman. He's six years old."
"Have you reported this to the magistrates? To Bow Street?" Fam fought against the sinking feeling in the pit of his belly.
"They've done nothing. They never do for our kind.
" He banged his fists on the desk. "The rumors say you and your brothers are taking children.
Kamish says that is a lie. I don't care, Mister Dyer.
If you have my son, take the money and give me my boy.
If you don't have him, take the money and find him.
" His eyes were wild, red-rimmed, and he had the look of a man who had neither slept nor eaten in weeks.
"What makes you think I can find him?"
"To find a chatta , it is best to hire a chatta. " Kaufman met Fam's gaze head-on.
Fam gave a short, dark laugh.
" Chatta? " Sullivan asked.
"Sinner. Mister Kaufman is willing to pay the devil himself to find his son.
" He studied Kaufman carefully before he pushed the purse back across the desk.
"Go with Mister Sullivan and give him every detail you can think of about the day your son was taken.
Llewelyn, go with them, take it all down, make a copy, and take the copy to our Rose Street physician.
He'll know what to do with the information. "
Kaufman stared at him in disbelief. Sullivan picked up the purse and put it in the pocket of the man's long, black coat. "Come along, Mister Kaufman," the Irishman gently said as he pulled him toward the door. "We'll fetch you a glass of brandy and see what we can do to find your boy."
"Mi-Mister Dyer..." Kaufman rasped and then his voice broke.
Fam turned to Llewelyn. "See him home in my carriage and then stop by Rose Street." He finally looked at Ethan who stood leaned against the bookshelves, two books clutched to his chest and the most solemn of expressions on his face. "I'll see to Captain Sharpe here."
In a thrice the room was empty and quiet once more. Ethan regarded him steadily, his face unreadable.
"What are you looking at?" Fam asked.
"That's the question, isn't it?"