Page 51 of The Swan Detective (The Swan Syndicate #2)

The thief stared at Stella as if what she said meant nothing to him. “Never heard of you.”

Her brows lifted, and she gave him a serious pout.

“Really? Well, that’s disappointing. I suppose that doesn’t surprise me here in London.

I do most of my business along the western coast, into Scotland, and soon Ireland.

” She leaned over and gave him a sly smile.

“You must admit it’s more dangerous to carry certain…

” She paused to consider the appropriate word.

“…prohibited supplies while sailing past Parliament, especially now with so many rules against French-made products.”

His eyes went blank as he took in the information. While she waited for him to put two and two together, she sat back and surveyed the room. Fitz had moved from the back of the room to a spot closer to the door.

After several minutes, the thief grunted, then nudged the man next to him. “Get the messenger.”

The other man waved toward the bar.

Stella’s nerves ratcheted up, not understanding who this messenger was. She sighed inwardly when André arrived at the table. So, that was what they’d been using André for. Michelson had been right.

“Can I help you, sir?” André gave a nervous glance to Stella and the thief, as if he didn’t understand why he’d been called over. He was either an excellent performer or truly feared these people. She didn’t blame him. He was playing a dangerous role.

“I need a message delivered to Captain Leclair,” the thief said. “This woman calls herself Lady Swan. She supposedly runs her own cargo and is interested in the Deschanel collection.” He laughed, and his buddy joined in.

André, attempting to fit in, smiled and nodded in agreement. “I’ll see if he’s in.” He was gone in a flash.

Stella didn’t turn to see where he went, but assumed he was off to the clubhouse. “How long will this take?”

“Not long.”

Stella stood, keeping her arms away from any grabby male hands. “Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll wait with my man. As I stated earlier, you’re not my only business, and my time is short.”

When the other man began to stand, Michelson stepped next to her. “Your ale just arrived, and we need to complete the final decisions on the return cargo for The Monk.”

Hensley and Jamie thought it best if she could mention a contact in France.

No one wanted to specifically mention the monastery or give away any names, fictitious or otherwise.

Jamie had been the one to come up with The Monk.

While not completely spot on, it held a ring of truth.

And it wasn’t like the bad men didn’t have their own aliases—Le Renard and The Horseman were perfect examples.

More importantly, it created an air of mystery.

A well-planted seed that, with the proper germination among the right people, opened up dozens of opportunities within Hensley’s network.

She reclaimed her seat with Michelson at their table while the thief kept his eyes on her. At least, Michelson hadn’t lied. There was a fresh mug of ale, and she took a long, slow sip, hoping the drink would calm her nerves.

This one moment would determine whether the plan would move forward or they had to return to the drawing board.

B eckworth stared down at the clubhouse from their warehouse lookout.

“Take a seat and let us keep an eye out, little man.” Lando gave him a good-natured thump on his shoulder. “You’ll wear yourself out before the action starts.”

“At least he stopped pacing.” Jamie leaned back in a chair. He’d dragged two others over from another office, but Lando rarely sat.

Beckworth wasn’t typically a pacer, and it wasn’t lost on him that whenever he did it, Stella was somehow involved.

It usually happened as an exasperated result of something she said, did, or was about to do.

This time, his pacing was entirely focused on her well-being, and the fact that, once again, he’d been left behind to watch and wait while someone else was responsible for her safety.

He trusted Michelson, but the only thing that made him not race over and sneak into the pub was knowing that Fitz was there too.

It wasn’t that he trusted Fitz more than Michelson; Fitz had uncanny senses and the ability to get inside the head of a mark.

Beckworth possessed the same skill—all good spies did.

But there weren’t many that delved as deeply as Fitz, whether it was understanding his prey or creating the persona he blanketed himself in.

Of course, Stella kept her dagger handy, and she wasn’t afraid to use it—as she’d already proven with the thief.

Her skill in hand-to-hand fighting had greatly improved.

He remembered a time in Baywood, laughing with glee, when she surprised Finn with a combination martial arts toss followed by her dagger at his throat.

It was all in jest when they’d been working on their defensive skills, something they’d agreed to remain proficient in.

If it had been a real match, Finn wouldn’t have let the session end there.

But the look in his eyes—a mixture of shock and awe—had Beckworth and Ethan doubled over in laughter until tears fell.

If he recalled correctly, AJ and Maire had clinked their wineglasses together as if they never had a doubt.

Stella had been right. The men hadn’t been taking them seriously, and Finn had paid the price.

He grinned at the memory as he stared down at the clubhouse. Only one or two men had entered in the last hour, and none had left. “Are we certain they’ll send André if Stella’s offer is enticing enough?”

“Can’t be a hundred percent,” Jamie answered. “But they made him a messenger, so it makes sense he’d be the one sent.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Lando stood straighter. “Here we go.”

The street lighting wasn’t the best for identifying people. Although everyone felt positive they’d be able to identify André, Beckworth had given him a timepiece on a silver chain to wear so he’d be easier to spot. He didn’t want to miss anything where Stella was involved.

His focus returned to the man rushing through the street and entering the clubhouse, agreeing that it was André.

“He seemed to be in a hurry,” Jamie observed.

Beckworth’s chest tightened at what that might mean and forced a breath. André was simply being prompt in delivering the message. There could be other reasons for his haste, but Beckworth refused to ponder them.

“Get the men in place and give the signal to Chester’s man,” Jamie ordered.

Lando nodded and turned for the door. Before he left, he nudged Beckworth. “Don’t worry, little man. We’ll be ready.”

Ten minutes later, André left the clubhouse, but instead of returning the way he came, he paused at the entrance to the alley. He appeared to be removing something from the bottom of his boot before turning down the dark lane.

“That’s our cue.” Jamie rushed out the door with Beckworth a step behind.

They raced down the stairs, stopping to turn out the lantern.

Jamie inched the door open with Beckworth peering over his shoulder as they searched for Chester’s man.

He was across the street, tucked into the alcove of a dress shop.

He nodded, giving them the all clear. They burst out of the door and jogged to the end of the block, where the door to the clubhouse was visible.

“If we’re going, it’s best to do it now.” Beckworth pushed Jamie, who didn’t protest.

They strolled toward the clubhouse as if they were on their way to the next pub before turning into the alley and returning to their jog.

The first of Chester’s urchins waited on the next street, and she pointed to the left.

At the next corner, an old woman dragging an empty cart behind her nodded to the right, and the men turned again.

Halfway down the block, an old drunk teetered on an oak barrel, a bottle of something gripped in an aged hand.

The liquor would be real, and the old drunk, who was more sober than he appeared, would stink of stale whiskey.

Beckworth grinned. All these years later, Chester still loved using old Thomas.

Thomas waved his arm toward the right before almost falling off the barrel. A couple of doors down, a young girl stood next to what appeared to be an empty building or perhaps a small warehouse.

Beckworth winked at Thomas as he passed and grinned when the old man winked back.

Jamie stopped by the young girl and looked around as if searching for something or someone.

The girl tugged on his pants, and when he looked down, she held out her palm.

A paper swan, its wings battered by many handlings, was still identifiable.

This was the building for the meet.

Jamie took the swan, and the girl raced off, instantly swallowed up in the shadows.

“That worked better than expected,” Beckworth observed.

“It was a fifty percent chance at best that André would be able to pick up the swan and drop it off here.” Jamie turned the origami piece over in his hand and tried to entice a wing to stay upright.

“If they’d sent anyone back with André, it would have made our task more difficult. We’re not even sure Leclair will come.”

The team had considered various possibilities when they’d discussed where the meeting would take place.

Leclair wouldn’t want anyone talking at the pub.

Too many ears. And they wouldn’t take someone they didn’t know to the clubhouse.

If André wasn’t able to give them a heads-up on the location, Chester had several men in place to follow Stella.

It was a risk, but still doable. Whether Leclair would attend the meeting was the critical question.