"I assume the Admiralty will disavow any knowledge of my actions?"
"As always."
With a chilling scrape, Rem's chair slid back and he stood, tucking the documents into the waistband of his breeches. "I'll contact you when I have information to pass along." He ground the cheroot beneath the heel of his Hessian boot, "You know how to reach me."
Briggs nodded, arising as well. "The Crown is grateful—"
"The Crown can be grateful when I've done my job," Rem replied in a low, terse tone. Purposefully, he stretched, deftly dispelling the coiled intensity that until now had permeated his powerful body.
In a heartbeat he was the Earl of Gresham again.
"I'd best be getting home, Briggs. The storm is subsiding."
"Yes, as should I," Sir Edmund echoed, all traces of his earlier gravity having vanished. "Although I fear the remainder of my evening will be dull compared to yours. Whoever she is this time, don't keep her waiting."
"Fear not," Rem returned, cocking a brow at Briggs's ironic taunt. A woman? At the onset of a mission? Briggs knew better. "My partner will be savoring my company within the hour."
"May
you enjoy a fruitful evening." Briggs donned his hat. "Good night, Gresham." Without a backward glance, he was gone.
At the loud mention of Rem's name, one of the seedy derelicts loudly swilling gin in the opposite corner of the room lifted his head. "'Ey, Gresham, did y' just get 'ere? 'Ave a drink with us!"
A corner of Rem's mouth lifted. After all his years at sea and, more recently, his countless hours surreptitiously visiting unsavory docks and taverns such as this one, fitting in with the dregs of London came as naturally to him as attending an Almack's ball.
"Why not, Sullivan?" he answered easily, heading toward the intimidating mob of unkempt patrons. "I certainly didn't ride all this way in a bloody downpour to eat Boyd's miserable excuse for food."
Shouts of appreciative laughter greeted his pronouncement. "Did ye 'ear that, Boyd?" another voice called. "Bring th'man some gin! That way 'e can wash away th'taste of yer food!"
With a good-natured grin, Boyd crossed the room and handed Rem a bottle. "Need a glass?"
"No. I'll do just fine without one." Straddling a chair, Rem took a deep swallow of the cheap liquor.
"Where've ye been, Gresham?" Sullivan demanded, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. "What do earls do when they're not drinkin'?"
Lowering his bottle to the table, Rem chuckled, unbothered by the rowdy, pointed referral to his title. He was well aware that every low-life in that room knew he was anything but a pampered nobleman. They also knew he could single-handedly take on the whole lot of them—and win. If the former weren't impressive enough to earn their respect, the latter most definitively was.
"Well Gresham?" Sullivan persisted. "What do titled navy captains do when they're not at sea?"
Rem deliberately tossed off another gulp of gin before replying. "The same things you do." A pregnant pause. "I've been occupied."
Hoots and howls accompanied Rem's implication.
"Was she any good, Gresham?" a grimy fellow with two missing teeth piped up.
Coming to his feet, Rem shrugged, a mischievous light in his eyes. "You know better than to ask me that, Parker. How many times have I told you I never discuss a lady's attributes—at least not publicly?" Rem glanced out the front window, his gaze lingering for the briefest moment on Boyd. "Speaking of which, I'd best be on my way."
"I heard ye say y'were meetin' someone. She waitin' for ye?"
"Yes, indeed. This moment, as a matter of fact."
More raucous laughter. "Be off with ye, Gresham. Before she finds someone better—like a duke!"
"A distinct possibility." Rem headed for the door, depositing the empty bottle on the counter without breaking stride. "I'll do my best to prevent it. Good night men, Boyd." Nodding in the tavern keeper's direction, he slipped out into the night.
Boyd polished two glasses until they gleamed.
The men returned to their drinking.