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“I know this is hard for you, Birdy, but we both know it is best that he leaves.” Crispin waved at the ship carrying Hardy Carmody back to Canada, even though he knew the man wouldn’t see him. Her father’s announcement of his immediate departure that morning shocked them, but Crispin was beginning to understand the wisdom of Carmody’s decision.

Her father gave Birdy no time to fuss and worry over him. She was spared days of handwringing and second-guessing her father’s plans. It wasn’t cruel; it was clever.

“I have to tell myself that I’ll see him again,” Birdy said at last. “That’s the only way I’ll get through this.” Birdy stood at the London Dock and watched the ship until it turned out of sight in the basin.

“We will. I’ve no doubt of it.” He hoped he wasn’t lying. “We may stay here as long as you like.”

“It’s too sad. I need a distraction. What shall we do? We could try locating Mr. Shaw again. I find it odd that he hasn’t checked in for days. Do you suppose Dunwoody discovered his betrayal and discontinued his services?”

“Since we were still paying him, I’d think he’d tell us so to collect one last coin.” As he answered, they began walking toward the Thames along Church Street. If they made it to the Gun Dock in time, she’d be able to see her father’s ship heading out to the open sea.

Passing the church, shouting voices and ringing bells stole his attention. Pulling Birdy a little closer, they pressed on toward the dock. They were nearly there when the cause of the commotion became clear. Someone had pulled a body from the Thames.

As far as Crispin knew, it was uncommon but not altogether unusual for bodies to wash ashore before the river turned for the Isle of Dogs.

“Come,” he said, “Let’s walk another way.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I need to see.”

“That’s a bit morbid, isn’t it?”

“I have to see that it’s not my father or anyone from his ship.”

“If it will bring you peace of mind, we’ll investigate.” He led her to where a crowd had gathered around the poor departed soul. A dockworker with a long pike pole stood nearby with a bowed head.

“It’s not your father,” Crispin said confidently before he realized he recognized the man’s face. “Dear God, it’s Mr. Shaw.” This wasn’t the first drowning victim he’d seen. The similarity to the first one was unnerving.

“You know the gent?” one of the dockworkers asked. “Help us carry him on up to the church, then.”

“I…um…certainly.” Someone produced a scrap of sailcloth, and Thomas Shaw was wrapped up like a fish. Grabbing up a handful of the cloth, Crispin heaved with the other volunteers and helped carry the man to his final rest.

Birdy followed along silently, but Crispin knew better than to mistake her stony look for indifference. She glanced back at the water one more time before following along to St. John’s church.

Left waiting on the steps with their burden, the curate on duty waved them away when he realized the deceased was not of his parish. The curate claimed the church could spare no ice, and they were directed to carry the body to the nearest inn.

To Crispin’s relief, a workman’s cart was commandeered for the rest of the journey and he was able to beg off any further involvement. He’d supplied the man’s name so he wouldn’t be buried anonymously, but it was all the information he had. Many of their meetings had taken place in the shadier parts of Town. Places he wouldn’t normally go made all the more dangerous by Birdy insisting on accompanying him. Many of Shaw’s acquaintances were unsavory characters. Perhaps it should be no surprise that he ended so badly.

“Let us be away from here,” he said to Birdy as soon as the body was settled on the cart.

“We can’t,” she replied. “We’re the only ones who know what he was doing. I know it sounds mercenary, but we should check his pockets. He may have one of our notes on him. What if he was coming to see us?”

“I guess we’re part of the wake now. While I’m no expert in the matter, he does not look long dead. He may have met his end only a few hours ago. Do you recall him mentioning any family?”

“The only thing he revealed about himself was that he worked in Dunwoody’s stables and that he needed money. Despite our initial meeting, he was pleasant enough, and I came to think of him as an honest fellow.”

“I did as well. I’m sorry he came to such a bad end. It’s entirely possible he was in his cups and tumbled into the water. He was often less than sober.” Though, from his limited experience, Shaw didn’t appear to have drowned as much as he appeared to die from something else and then placed in the water in an attempt to dispose of his body.

“What if he was killed because of us?” Birdy whispered as they trudged along behind the cart.

“Impossible.” Crispin tried to sound reassuring. The notion had occurred to him as well. “Our association was brief. He was a clever enough fellow to have run at the first sign of danger. We do not know what other nefarious enterprises he may have indulged in for money.”

“I suppose.” She said nothing else until Mr. Shaw was laid out in a room at the inn while the innkeeper scrambled for enough ice to keep him fresh for the coroner.

Shaw might have been sleeping cold and wet, so quiet and still was his body. It wasn’t until Crispin looked more closely that he realized the man’s head had been dealt a crushing blow.

As surreptitiously as he could, Crispin emptied Shaw’s pockets and laid the bounty out on the table. Oddly, the man had enough coin to have bought himself a room for the night. Perhaps he hadn’t drunk himself into an early grave and it was unlikely his death was the result of a robbery.

A small, folded square of wet paper was quickly slipped into Crispin’s pocket for further investigation. It would need to be dried out before it could be deciphered, if the Thames hadn’t already washed the ink away.

The coroner would hopefully use the man’s coin to provide a decent burial. The note was for him and Birdy to worry about. While the others trickled away, he and Birdy waited for the coroner’s arrival. They could do little more than provide the man’s name, former occupation, and add another coin to the small pile to ensure words would be spoken over his grave.

The afternoon brought a soft but steady rain. It took an hour to find a hack for hire that would take them all the way back to Mayfair.

Using the nub of a good beeswax candle, Birdy painstakingly dried out the note until it could be safely unfolded. Water had played havoc with the ink, yet some appeared readable.

“Was it for us?” he asked at last.

“I don’t think so, but…maybe? It’s either two words or one very long word. All I can say right now is that it starts with an s . I think. The second word has a q or a p . Possibly a g , but I don’t think so.” It was frustrating work, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that the note was both important and meant for their eyes.

“Let me see.” Crispin leaned over Birdy’s shoulder as she held the paper up to the candlelight. “The first letter may be s , but as for the rest of it, I can’t say. We don’t know that the note was for us. It could be the name of a racehorse for all we know.”

“Too much of a coincidence that his body was found so near to where we were. Especially after not seeing him for a few days.” Shaw had harbored no loyalty to Dunwoody and his notes detailing the old lord’s decline had been happily delivered.

“No matter what the note says, we need to leave Town first thing in the morning. I can drive my father’s coach to a posting inn where we’ll find a coachman. I’ll have it worked out by daylight.”

“I’m not staying here alone. I’ll help you steal your father’s coach.” Whoever had convinced Crispin that he needed to do everything himself had done him a disservice. This was not the time for her to sit back and allow him his privacy. If she expected the walls around his heart to fall, she needed to start hammering away at them.

“That’s no place for a lady. I’m merely borrowing it without express permission.”

“I’ll wear my buckskins,” she fired back. “We’ll call it a raid.” If he thought she was kidding, he was in for a rude surprise.

“We aren’t calling it anything. You’ll wait for me at the Lyon’s Den.”

“You’ll need a lookout. A good one.”

“Damn.” Crispin stood and started to pace the room. “If I get caught, well, I’m my father’s son and will come to no actual harm. If you get caught…I do not know what my father would do.”

“Then I better not get caught.”

“I’ll loan you some clothes,” he said at last. “It might be safer if you’re in disguise. Hell,” he said, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “I don’t know if this is going to work. We can’t buy or hire a coach until morning, after I’ve had a chance to stop by my bank.”

“Your father owes you. Let’s go get that coach and slip out of Town before the first light of morning. We’ll hire a proper coachman outside of Town. My father left me with money.”

“I can provide for us, Birdy.”

“I am your wife. What’s mine is yours.” She fixed him with a stare that brooked no arguments.

“Put these on.” Apparently resigned, Crispin grabbed a pair of breeches and a coat from his travel case and tossed them across the room. “You don’t have to look so tickled about it.”

“I’ll be ready and packed in ten minutes.” She hurried to her room to dress. Crispin had provided trousers and a coat but no shirt or waistcoat. Pulling the coat tight across her chest, Birdy tied a brown silk sash around her middle as a belt and hoped for the best. She chose a pair of white stockings and her low-heeled walking boots to complete the outfit. Twisting her hair into a loose bun, she tucked it beneath a hat her father had left behind. Turning the coat collar up and pulling the hat brim down low to cover her face, she presented herself for inspection.

Crispin gave her a narrow-eyed once-over when she emerged from her chamber, and grimaced. “You’ll do, I suppose,” he said grudgingly, and then “Stay close.”

They left the hotel through the kitchen and started for Wimpole Street.

“He keeps his rig in the Harley Mews, so we’ll turn on Wigmore and sneak around to the back of the house. Keep your hat pulled low and your collar turned up. And, for God’s sake, stop walking like a woman.”

“Then stop taking me by the arm as if I’m a woman. I’m supposed to be a stable boy. You should pay me no heed at all.”

“I could not bear for you to be hurt. So many people have been hurt, or worse. I can’t stop thinking of Mr. Shaw’s fate.”

“His death is heavy on my mind as well. All the more reason for us to leave under cover of night.” Now that they’d begun the adventure she was eager to be out of Town. If they didn’t succeed in getting the carriage, she was prepared to steal horses and ride for the country.

Crispin appeared to hesitate. “I should have asked Mumford or Davies for help. It’s been an age since I had to hitch horses to a coach.”

“We haul Carmody goods over land as well as water,” she said with a laugh. “I can hitch a wagon in my sleep. It can’t be that much more difficult to hitch a coach.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anything you can’t do.”

“I can’t waltz,” she replied. “The dance is too slow, too methodical. I want to run and jump as the music soars. I’m horrible to partner with.”

“We’ve never waltzed.” He spoke the words as the notion occurred to him. “Someday we’ll waltz, and I’ll let you go as fast as you please.”

“I’d kiss you for that, but I’m supposed to be a lowly stable boy right now.”

“Turn here,” he whispered. “We’ll need to be quiet now.”

The mews were calm and while there was no sign of life, Crispin knew stable boys would sleep near to their charges. His father’s horse stalls were clean and quiet. A sign, he hoped, that the stable boy had completed his tasks for the night and slipped away for a pint somewhere.

Moving the coach required both their efforts, and he pulled while Birdy pushed. It was a fine coach, well sprung and rarely used. His father traveled less and less as he aged, and it was likely the horses needed exercise. The four horses kept were all harness trained, as the old man had given up riding just last year.

Whatever Birdy whispered to the horses settled them down, and they stepped into place as if eager to be away. The team was hitched quickly and as quietly as they could manage. He only needed to do one more thing before he left, a little something to let his father know who’d taken his rig.

Fishing the coin his father had given him from his pocket, Crispin laid the six pence silver on the floor where the coach had been. His father would know.

Even though they reentered the hotel through the kitchen, they attracted a little more attention than he was comfortable with. Those who saw him probably thought he was sneaking a boy up to his room for nefarious purposes. Shit . He’d go from a suspected resurrectionist to a sodomite.

Considering the state of Butterworth’s poor head, he wrote his instructions out on hotel stationery while explaining them to his stalwart valet. Whatever wasn’t packed for their escape should be taken to be stored in his rooms at his father’s house on Wimpole Street.

“You’ll need a man, my lord.” Butterworth sat up straighter in his bed. “I can be ready in just a tick.”

“Unless you can drive a coach, you’ll be more help to me keeping our things safe here in town. “Take this,” he said, handing Butters a few gold coins and bank notes that equaled the man’s yearly wages. “If my father turns you out, find somewhere to stay and take our things with you for safekeeping.”

“When will you return?”

“When it’s safe.” It was the best answer he had. He didn’t know how long it would take but he wouldn’t return to Town until Birdy was safe or Dunwoody was dead.

Leaving Birdy in her disguise waiting with the coach, Crispin carried the trunk and traveling bags she’d packed out himself. Climbing up to the driver’s seat felt odd and unnatural. But he’d driven in many carriage races in his youth and was confident he could get them out of town without tipping over.

Birdy insisted on riding up top with him. He should have staunchly forbidden it, but he enjoyed her company. Despite her odd garments, considering recent events, he felt safer having eyes on her. Stunned by Dunwoody’s willingness to commit another murder, he would take no chances with Birdy’s life.

They reached St. Albans before daylight, but it had been a tense four-hour journey. Crispin was exhausted from looking over his shoulder while keeping the team at a steady pace. They’d have to switch out the horses for fresh ones at the coaching inn. His father would get his animals back.

He’d one last task to perform before he could rest. Still in disguise, Birdy would need to stay behind with the horses until he secured a room at the inn so she could transform back to his wife. After a few hours’ rest, he’d start looking for a coachman seeking occupation. While they’d been short on luck lately, he hoped to also find a tiger, or possibly a guard.

With the stable yard full of grooms, drivers, and stable boys, it was easy enough for Birdy to sneak back into the carriage and change her clothes. When she emerged, his wife once again, she pretended to have been sleeping inside. No one noticed the disappearance of an oddly dressed stable boy in all the activity. But, even dressed as a woman, Birdy garnered a certain amount of attention just by looking foreign. It was something he was going to have to learn to live with, but not today. Any poor soul who let their eyes linger got a withering scowl.

The room was adequate. The food, eaten in the privacy of their room, was slightly better. When they were done eating, they left the plates in the hall and, eager to fall into bed, Crispin pulled Birdy into his arms and held her tightly.

“Don’t wander off while I’m sleeping,” he implored. “Trust no one.”

“Trust me,” she replied. “I’ll sleep in the coach once we get started again. I’ll stand guard while you rest.”

“Lie with me for a bit, then. Just until I fall asleep.” He remembered falling asleep with her in his arms. When he woke, he was alone. Dread and panic hampered his movements as he scrambled from the bed. Surely, she wouldn’t have gone far.

Why was she gone at all? She’d promised to stay, hadn’t she? Damn . As he pulled on his trousers, he realized there was a pitcher of water and a washing basin on the small table, as well as a stack of folded flannels. She must have gone downstairs to fetch them and returned, but where was she now?

He was out the door and to the stairwell when he spotted her ascending the stairs, holding a tray of food. Biting his tongue to keep from needlessly asking where she’d been, he could only relieve her of the tray and return to the room.

“You promised to stay put. Can I no longer trust you?”

“I promised nothing, and you can trust me. You were stirring and I knew you’d wake soon and want something to eat. The serving girl was happy enough to sell me eggs and rashers as long as I carried them up here myself. Rather than plan our next move in the public room downstairs, I thought we might break our fast in our room, where we might discuss our journey in private.”

“Stop being sensible. I’m angry. No, not angry, upset. I was afraid for you. I don’t want to find you floating in a river somewhere.” Just the thought made him queasy. If only she knew how afraid he was to fail her.

“I’m not being reckless. I have my knife,” she said, patting her skirt. “And this,” she added, producing a percussion pistol from her waistband.

“Where did you get that?”

“Manton’s Gun Shop. It was my father’s first stop when we arrived in London. I’ve only tested it on the shooting range, but it seems a smart piece.”

“My father usually keeps a sturdy flintlock under the seat of the coach. While it is somewhat comforting to know we have them, I hope our firearms remain untested.”

“Then we need to plan our next move carefully. Come sit,” she motioned to the tray of food. “I’m hungry. You’re hungry. By the time we’ve finished, the dining room below will be full of travelers. If we’re to find a coachman, it’s our best chance.”

“I hate when you’re logical when I’m still upset.” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling because he knew he was being ridiculous. “Our next stop after this should be Stilton.”

Rejuvenated by sleep and food, Crispin’s mood was considerably lighter when they made their way through the public room. In the far corner, he spotted a man in a coachman’s hat sharing a meal and a pint with a lad who might have been his son. If he was already assigned a coach, chances are they’d be eating near the stables. The man’s greatcoat was frayed, and the lad had outgrown his suit at least a year ago.

The man’s face was a mask of worry and concern. He appeared tired, but occasionally smiled warmly as the boy spoke animatedly. The man had the look of someone waiting for an opportunity. Crispin was about to provide it.

“There,” he said to Birdy, nodding his head toward the man’s table. “I’m guessing he needs employment, and we haven’t the time to be overly particular. Let’s go speak with him.”

“Pleasant afternoon to you, sir,” Crispin said as they approached. “Please forgive my disruption to your meal. I was hoping, perchance, that you might consider occupation as my coachman. We’ve need of a tiger as well.” As Crispin spoke, he noted a flicker of interest in the man’s eyes. “Lord Morgan,” Crispin said, introducing himself and extending his hand. “I’ve a fine traveling coach and four with no coachman. Might we come to an agreement?”

“Where you headed?” the man asked, turning to his young charge. “I told you things were looking up.” He stood and shook Crispin’s hand. “Name’s Johnstone. John Johnstone. I am indeed a coachman. My son, Luke,” he said, pointing to the boy, “he works with me. Sturdy lad. Hard worker. He’s worth the extra blunt.”

“Great North Road. From here to Stilton to Doncaster with a final destination of Grimsby. I’ll hire for as far as you can get us.”

“We ain’t likely to find return work from Grimsby unless this is a round trip.”

“We’ll pay extra,” Birdy chimed in. “Enough for you and your son to return to the North Road to seek other opportunities.”

“How soon you leaving?” The man’s eyes lit up as if he’d just been handed a lifeline.

“As soon as possible,” Crispin replied, as he extended his hand once again. “Do we have an agreement?” Before the man could respond, Birdy laid a coin on their table that was enough to cover the price of their meager meal three times over.

“You have yourself a coachman, milord.” Johnstone shook his hand with what appeared to Crispin to be relief. “Show me our rig.”

“Right this way.” Crispin glanced over at Birdy and tried to smile in a way he hoped appeared reassuring. If there were a wishing fountain nearby, he’d throw in a penny and wish for an uneventful journey.