Silence descended.
Was it too late?
Was Wincote the masked rogue? Did he have spies watching their every move? Did he already know that Miss Verity Vale had caught the coach from Shepperton to town?
To banish the pang of trepidation, Lawrence stared at the passing buildings, at those unfortunate souls nestled in doorways. Along Drury Lane, motherless urchins begged the theatregoers to throw them a halfpenny. Life dealt some a losing hand. In contrast, his hardships paled into insignificance.
It was while mentally shaking himself from this meditative mood that he noticed a man in an Elizabethan costume alight from a hackney on Drury Lane, near the entrance to White Hart Yard.
Layton.
Lawrence shuffled forward and pressed his nose to the glass as his carriage drove past and a man dressed in black vaulted to the pavement, too.
Wincote.
Anger swirled in his chest like a sinister mist. A black vortex that might suck a man into its dark depths and choke away his sanity. Evidently, the night was still young, and neither man had any intention of returning home. But what devilish deeds had led them to this part of town?
There was only one way to find out.
Lawrence hammered on the roof, much to the other occupants’ surprise.
“Is something wrong?” Miss Vale gripped the seat as the carriage jolted to a halt.
Lawrence lowered the window, eager to keep his quarry in his sights. Both men stood on the corner of White Hart Yard, deep in conversation. Wincote laughed and patted his friend on the back and then they parted. Layton continued along the street while Wincote headed into the yard.
“It seems our villainous friends have business in Covent Garden.”
“You’ve seen Mr Wincote?” Miss Vale swallowed deeply.
“He’s entered the yard, and Layton has continued on alone.” The need to stalk one of the men forced him to open the carriage door and vault to the pavement. “Wait here.” He fixed his gaze on Cavanagh. “If I fail to return in twenty minutes, take Miss Vale to Bruton Street.”
“Wait!” Miss Vale shot forward and grabbed his sleeve. “What do you intend to do?”
“Follow him, of course.”
“You’re not going alone.”
“I could knock Wincote to the floor with a flick of my finger.”
“And what if he has a weapon? Can you dodge a lead ball shot out of the dark?”
Only a matter of weeks ago, someone had shot Damian Wycliff in the arm at Vauxhall. If a man like Wycliff could be caught unawares, then the lady had a point.
“No doubt you have a weapon, Miss Vale.”
She nodded. “My crook.”
“How am I to move stealthily through the streets carrying a crook decorated with bows and ribbons?” Lawrence looked left. He still had Layton in his sights. But if he didn’t hurry, he would lose Wincote.
“I have a sheathed blade strapped to my thigh.” Miss Vale blushed when Cavanagh stared with admiration at her frilly pantaloons. “After the attack in the bedchamber, I never leave home without some form of protection.”
Lawrence might have cast his friend a baleful glare had he not noticed Layton disappearing into the distance. Panic ensued. The time for talking was at an end. “Forget the weapon. Wait here.”
Miss Vale was out of her seat before he had taken a step. “I’m coming, too.”
“Dressed as a shepherdess?” He was wasting time. There might not be a better opportunity to stalk these men. “You’ll draw too much attention.”
“I’ll wear your coat.”