To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

They’d rescued two more girls since Molly Doyle; in both cases, the instant the need was identified Deverell had stepped in and organized a swift and heavily guarded operation utilizing his friends and their undoubted expertise. Both rescues had gone off without a hitch.

If they could drive off the slavers she would on one level be satisfied enough; the agency could continue its work untrameled—and indeed, with the additional support the recent weeks had brought, would be stronger and more effective than ever.

But the existence of their “procurer” sent an icy chill through her; that someone like that could exist, circulating in their privileged world yet preying on the most vulnerable, indeed using their position to do so, filled her with a repugnance impossible to swallow. Impossible not to act upon.

She glanced at Deverell; even veiled by the shadows, not only his impatience but also his steady confidence were easy to read. She caught his eye, let something of her own anticipation show. “So by the end of the day after tomorrow, with luck you might know the procurer’s identity.”

He met her eyes and nodded. “It’s what we’re all waiting for—and then we’ll act.”

Late the next afternoon, every sense alert, Malcolm moved unhurriedly through the sulphurous murk hanging low in the crowded passage known as Swan Lane, not far from London Bridge.

Buildings pressed close on either side; regardless of their appearance, all were occupied—any could be hiding interested eyes, yet the late-afternoon fog was a dense veil, obscuring vision beyond a few feet. Sounds echoed eerily in the enclosed space; the immediate smells of woodsmoke, rotting refuse, sewage, and the metallic whiff of the fog were all overlaid by the unmistakable stench of the nearby docks.

Malcolm’s destination loomed on his left; soundlessly he turned up a flight of narrow, rickety steps and climbed to the tiny room tucked above the rough tavern after which the lane was named. He paused on the landing and looked down the steps, listening to the cadence of the scuffling foot traffic below. No disturbance, no change; he didn’t think anyone had seen him, let alone followed him.

Satisfied that the stairs would give warning of anyone tempted to creep close enough to listen outside the door—always a risk in this neighborhood—he lifted the latch and went in.

The room was dusty and cramped; squeezed beneath the rafters, it held a bare wooden table supporting a single candle, already lit, three stools, and nothing else—other than Jennings, propped on one stool, patiently waiting, a dutiful and thankfully intelligent lackey.

Jennings rose.

Closing the door, Malcolm smiled easily, removing the dark, wide-brimmed hat he’d worn to disguise his shining head and fair features, neither of which belonged hereabouts. For a second, he studied Jennings—round face, stocky build, neat and clean, looking oh-so-like a tradesman’s son. He was the same age as Malcolm but in experience a world apart; considering the ready smile Jennings returned, Malcolm cynically wondered which way Jennings would jump if his loyalty were ever tested.

Not that it mattered; Jennings was not, when it came down to it, his principal line of defense. Should he be caught and persuaded to speak, anything Jennings might say would only support Malcolm’s own assertions—that Malcolm was merely his guardian’s pawn, nothing more than a higher-level lackey, the next rank up from Jennings in a heirarchy controlled with an iron fist from the top.

Jennings thought the careful plans Malcolm related came from Malcolm’s unknown governor, to wit Henry, while Henry thought that all the plans of how to accomplish the abductions and deal with the white slavers had originated with the likewise unknown contact, Jennings.

Only if Jennings described in Henry’s hearing the instructions Malcolm had regularly communicated, which supposedly came from his governor, would there be any reason even in Henry’s mind to question the construct Malcolm had created. And how likely was that?

Drawing out one of the stools, Malcolm sat. “We have another job. Not quite the sort of thing we’ve done before.” He met Jennings’s eyes, read the eagerness therein, grimaced and let a hint of uncertainty—the first he’d ever displayed before Jennings—slide through his voice. “If it were me…frankly, I’d leave this lady be. This is too rich for my blood—too risky.”

He paused, frowning, letting Jennings see how troubled he was. “But the governor’s set on it, so…” With a shrug and another grimace, he outlined what men would be needed, where and when the snatch was to take place, and exactly how it was to be done.

Jennings’s eyes widened at the details, but Malcolm had chosen him not just for his so-average appearance but also for his nimble wits. Despite taking no notes, Jennings could be relied on to remember every detail, no matter how minor, how seemingly inconsequential, and given the implications of the where, when and how, he needed no further explanation of the risks.

After a moment of thought, Jennings nodded. “I know where I can get two reliable men smart enough to do exactly as I tell them, and a suitable carriage.” He met Malcolm’s eyes. “But given the danger, are you sure we shouldn’t have more men?”

Malcolm shook his head. “According to my governor, in such an area more than two men would invite attention, and that we wish to avoid at all costs. The danger will come not from seizing the lady but from being noticeable and thus traceable on the way to the second house.”

Jennings frowned. “You’re right—this is certainly different to the others—but,” he shrugged, “I’m sure we’ll pull it off.”

“Indeed.” Reaching beneath his cloak, Malcolm drew out a purse and tossed it on the table. It clanked; Jennings eyed it, mentally weighing it, then nodded and reached for it.

“Offer more than the usual rates if the men haggle.” Malcolm rose and met his lieutenant’s eyes. “Just make sure we have two good men to carry out the deed and that they stick to the plan exactly.”

Jennings nodded and pocketed the purse.

Placing his hat back on his head, settling it so the wide brim shaded his face, Malcolm turned to the door. His hand on the latch, he halted, hesitated. His motto was: Caution was always wise. He turned back.

Jennings looked at him inquiringly.

Malcolm’s features remained set; inwardly, he smiled. “One thing—if on the day after tomorrow I fail to show at our next meeting, then you’d best assume that regardless of our carefulness my governor’s been found out. If that happens, I’d strongly advise you to disappear. Not just from the area, but from London.”

Jennings held his gaze unblinkingly, then said, “I’ve an aunt in Exeter—I might take myself down there to get some sea air.”

Malcolm let his lips quirk, a touch rueful. “An excellent idea.”

With a nod he turned to the door.