Page 45

“Grief hath no lullaby.”

—Unknown

I nside his head, Peregrine was raging with frustration. A furious, silent litany hurled itself at every obstacle in his path. He had already wasted too much time going to the estate to retrieve Hodges and his weapons. Every second scraped at his nerves like grit under the skin.

Nearly two hours had passed since he’d learned of Charity’s disappearance, and who knows how much longer it had been since she had been grabbed.

Now, at least, on his return to London, Hodges riding at his side, Peregrine felt some of the pressure loosening its hold on his lungs.

Hooves pounded the dry road in a dull, rapid tattoo as clumps of earth scattered in its wake, matching the pace of his racing heart.

Traffic picked up as they re-entered London. Their steeds slowed their gait, winding around the slower moving wagons and carriages at every opportunity. Hodges shouted for Peregrine to slow down, but Peregrine could not hear him over the roaring in his head.

A sudden blur darted across the cobbled lane.

Small. Fast. Unmistakably a child. Peregrine sawed at the reins, instinct taking over, hauling the bit hard against the horse’s mouth.

The animal reared slightly, hooves striking sparks off the stones as it checked mid-stride.

With a wrench of his weight and a tight pull to the left, he swung the mount wide, narrowly avoiding the child.

The horse skidded, muscles bunching as it fought for balance, but it stayed upright.

The near accident was enough to jerk Peregrine free of his inner turmoil, shaking him. His inattention had nearly consigned another to their death.

Just as you may have consigned the duchess, his mother observed coldly.

No. She was alive. He had to believe it. Even if she was kidnapped again, this time he would save her. There was no price he was not willing to pay to right this wrong.

That was why he was racing to the slums of London to find Red Hand. The criminal cared for little more than indulging his greed and ensuring his own continued existence. So if Peregrine lacked a better currency… well, there was always the option of dire threats.

Peregrine and Hodges did not bother with subterfuge this time. Peregrine tossed a coin at a street urchin and bade him to keep watch over their horses while they went inside Red’s favourite haunt.

The dirty pub was busy, the barstools and tables filled with gruff men in sweat-stained clothing, enjoying a watered-down ale after a long day of work.

Peregrine tossed another coin at the bartender and called for two pints and then made his way toward the redheaded man tucked away at the table in the far back corner.

To give him credit, Red did not bolt out the back door when he laid eyes on Peregrine’s stony countenance.

His left hand slid from the table, disappearing from view.

Likely to ready whatever weapon he had available.

Peregrine prevented him from taking any further action by tossing a coin-filled velvet bag onto the table and then settling onto the seat opposite him.

Hodges remained standing, putting his back to the wall where he could keep an eye on both Peregrine and the rest of the room.

“I would like to engage your services,” Peregrine said, his voice cool.

Red squinted at the bag as though it might contain a spitting viper.

“Ah now, engage my services , is it? That’s a pretty turn o’ phrase, comin’ from a man who once held some loftier ideals o’ morality.

” He leaned back, fingers steepled. “If it’s blood you’re after, Lord Fitzroy, you’ll find my prices steep.

You sure you can stomach what you’re buyin’? ”

Peregrine lifted his chin. “You do not know what services of yours I am seeking. I had hoped, as a friend with a vested interest in the power now changing hands, you might be persuaded to offer something not among your… usual dealings.”

“Well now. Colour me intrigued—and just a touch suspicious.” He tipped his head. “Go on then, Fitzroy. Let’s hear what flavour o’ madness you’re after.”

“Information, for the most part.” Peregrine tugged his cravat down just enough to reveal the bruises ringing his neck, and Red let out a low whistle. “I believe I have encountered the person leaving his work in your ‘yard.’ An assassin with dark hair, skill, and a long list of people to see.”

“One man’s doin’ all that? Och, I’d say you’ve met the Maker,” Red breathed, glancing at Peregrine’s neck now with something that looked like respect. “He’s not cheap, that one—and he don’t take just any job.”

Wonderful. “I don’t suppose you have heard anything about who he might be working for, or where he might be found? ”

Red Hand snorted, putting his hand on the coin purse. “The Maker’s a free agent. His contracts don’t pass through any books.”

Peregrine laid his hand over Red’s, stopping him. “I have more questions. What do you know about counterfeiting banknotes?”

“That it’ll put a rope round your neck.” When Peregrine didn’t lift his hand, Red added, “I don’t touch it, and not just ‘cause it’ll get you hanged.

Takes coin, connections, a press, steady supplies, and a forger who don’t drink or talk.

That’s rarer than hen’s teeth, that is. Killing’s a simpler business. ”

“Yes, you are too principled by half for doing such things.” Peregrine grinned at Red Hand, showing his teeth. “But as you say, people talk. And I want to know if you might know who would do such things. I’m looking for a certain illegal press printing bills.”

“One in particular? Good luck wi’ that. You can’t swing a dead cat in this city without hittin’ someone trying to forge bills.”

“I imagine it narrows the field somewhat if we’re looking for a press in the slums with ties to my mother—and a banker named Goldbourne. Established. Organised. And, I suspect, recently relocated. Within the last few months, perhaps.”

To his credit, Red Hand looked thoughtful. “Aye, well. I could put my ear to the ground, see what slithers out. And if I do find it, what’s in it for me?”

Peregrine lifted his hand, freeing the purse.

Red picked up the purse and gave it a testing heft. “Money’s a fine thing, sure. But knowin’ what you usually deal in, I’d rather have a favour, Fitzroy. Somethin’ I can call in later, when it suits me.”

“Information in kind?”

“Maybe that. Maybe somethin’ else. We’ll see.”

Peregrine did not like the idea of owing anyone an unnamed favour, much less one of London’s bludgeon men. He leaned across the table, holding the man’s eyes. “I warn you now. I am not my mother.”

“An’ thank Christ for that. Do we have a bargain?”

“For a price like this, I want every rat of yours scurrying along the streets, looking. And not only do I want them looking for that printer, I want them also looking for the duchess. I believe she may have also been taken by the Maker.”

Red whistled softly through his teeth again, this time regretfully. “Your lady’s been taken. That’s a bloody shame. Why not let the proper authorities chase ghosts for you? Or are they not so proper when one of yours goes missin’?”

“They are still looking, but probably in all the wrong places. And you can help me find out whether anyone has claimed her reward.”

“Well now, seein’ as I’m properly motivated, I’ll send my boys to do what I can. And I’ll check with Nibs while I’m at it. He’s the one keeping the black book she’s on. If the bounty’s been paid?”

“Then someone’s made a very short-sighted decision,” Peregrine said, the cold beginning to bleed through. “I’ll bury them with it.”

Red looked at him sidelong. “You might not be your ma, Fitzroy, but you’ve still got a bit o’ her nasty in you, when you feel like bringin’ it out to play.”

To that, Peregrine had no reply. Right now, he had no desire to be nice.

Not in a world where Charity was lost to him.

The bounty remained unclaimed. That, at least, was something. It was the only scrap of encouragement to be found in a night that had otherwise yielded nothing. When dawn broke without so much as a strand of Charity’s golden hair to show for their efforts, Hodges put his foot down.

“Let Red’s lot do the heavy liftin’.” He said firmly, steering Peregrine back toward his mount. “You’re no good if your head’s turned to mush.”

It said everything about his condition that Peregrine did not protest harder. A few hours’ rest, a change of clothes, and a shave did just enough to bring his thoughts back into order. One thing was certain: he would not stay here, cloistered at a remove from the action.

He considered returning to the palace but discarded the notion just as quickly. He had no appetite for courtiers, and even less for the demands of royalty.

The arrival of a note from Ravenscroft resolved the matter. Peregrine could hear the man’s voice ringing in his ears as he skimmed the page. Ravenscroft harangued him for disappearing all night and insisted he come to Atholl House to assist with the search for the duchess.

Quinn—likely playing nursemaid at Hodges’s behest—insisted Peregrine eat something first. Not the worst suggestion, considering he couldn’t recall his last proper meal. While the staff assembled a plate, he requested Goldbourne’s ledger be brought to the study.

Once there, he swept aside the usual clutter. Letters, invitations, neatly stacked insignia of a life he barely inhabited. None of it mattered now. Not his reputation. Not some overstuffed drawing room. What mattered was stopping whatever it was his mother had set in motion.

A knock at the door. “The ledger,” Hodges said, holding it out. “You want me to hang about?”

“No. Saddle the horses. We will leave for Atholl House as soon as I finish making a copy of this list. ”