Page 16 of How to Fall for a Scoundrel
“What is it?” Ellie squinted with little success in the vague direction he was looking.
“Something else I learned as a criminal, Eleanor, is to take note when something seems out of place.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you see that beggar, in the doorway across the street?”
“No,” Ellie said bluntly.
He glanced down at her with a smile. “Oh, put your spectacles back on, you ridiculous thing. You’re wrong about thinking they make you look less attractive. You’re gorgeous either way.”
Ellie’s mouth dropped open at the unexpected, offhand compliment. She snapped it shut and willed the blush in her cheeks to subside as she delved back into her reticule. Spectacles back on, she glanced across the street.
“Now I see the beggar. The one with a dog?”
“Yes. Do you notice anything unusual about him?”
Ellie considered the question. The man was sitting in the doorway of a disused shop, his legs stretched out in front of him, a scruffy black mongrel curled up on the step next to him. His face was partly obscured by a military cap, and a large blue overcoat covered the rest of his form.
“He’s wearing a military hat. Which might suggest he’s a veteran who’s fallen on hard times,” she ventured.
“True. But his overcoat doesn’t make sense. The cut and the cloth are of the highest quality, the collar is velvet, and unlike those trousers of his, and his boots, there’s not a hole or a patch anywhere on it. It’s pristine. Which means he only recently acquired it.”
“Maybe some kind soul gave it to him? Or do you think he stole it?”
“The poor wretch looks too skinny to have been able to steal it. A stiff wind could knock him over. And it’s a damned fine coat to give away, even out of pity. So the question must be asked, where did he get the money to buy it?”
Harry took her arm and led her down the steps, then across the busy road, dodging carriages and milk carts as they went. The dog heard their approach and lifted its head, but didn’t growl. The man, who had been dozing with his chin on his chest, started awake with a jolt.
Harry touched his hat in greeting, and the man squinted up at him in obvious surprise.
“Good day, sir. Charles King.” He nodded at the man’s ragged cap. “Do I have the honor of addressing a former member of the rifle brigade?”
The man’s face lost its suspicious look and his bearded jaw widened in a smile. “Indeed, you do, sir. Sergeant John Morris, Ninety-fifth Regiment of Foot. At least I was, until a musket ball broke me collarbone and I was invalided home.”
He extended his hand and Harry shook it, showing no disdain for the man’s grubby fingernails or generally unkempt state.
“Was you in the Rifles too?” Morris asked. He got to his feet a little unsteadily, and Ellie felt a flash of pity. The man was barely a decade older than herself, but he seemed frail and malnourished.
“I’m afraid I didn’t have that glory,” Harry chuckled. “My contribution to His Majesty’s cause was a little more—how shall we say?—clandestine.”
Morris’s eyes widened at the inference. “You mean you were a spy?”
“A mere gatherer of gossip.” Harry waved his handin an airy, dismissive gesture. “Now happily returned to England, and doing what I do best, investigating crimes in our fair metropolis.”
Morris’s face fell. “Oh?”
“Is this your usual spot, Mr. Morris?” Ellie asked gently.
Morris crossed his arms in a defensive gesture. “Maybe it is.”
“Then perhaps you might be able to help us. A rather valuable book was stolen from Mr. Bullock’s museum over there a few days ago. I don’t suppose you happened to notice anyone loitering about or leaving the place in a hurry?”
“I never saw nobody do nothin’,” Morris muttered.
“That’s a pity.” Harry let out a sigh. “Because I pay extremely well for useful information.”
Morris bit his lip, looking indecisive, as if he wanted to say more but was holding himself back, but Harry didn’t press him. Instead, he bent down to stroke the dog, which was rubbing itself against his shins in a shameless demand for attention.