“But you still need to go and look?”
“I know it’s not logical, miss, but it’s like I hear their voices in me head, calling out to me.”
“Emotions are not always logical,” Francesca murmured wryly. “Do you want me to come with you, Lil?”
Hope shone in her eyes, mingled with a tremendous relief. “Oh, would you, miss? I don’t think I can do it on me own.”
“Of course I’ll come. Just let me fetch my cloak.”
“The places I’ll be going to aren’t very nice,” Lil warned anxiously.
“Then no one will recognize me, will they? Not that I would care if they did.”
“You don’t want to cause a scandal, miss,” Lil warned, with something of her old self.
Francesca laughed a little wildly. If only Lil knew. Scandal seemed to be her middle name!
Sebastian threaded his way through the crowd. Even this late at night, the streets in the poorer parts of London were awash with the homeless, the unemployed, the drunkards and the urchins, as well as the gents out for a good time and the thieves who preyed upon them.
He’d been watching the house in Mallory Street Hal had told him about. Knowing that Jed might well have been warned, Sebastian exercised caution. Mrs. Slater’s bully boys might be waiting for him to show up so they could finish him off once and for all.
Mallory Street was a busy thoroughfare, all the more so since many of London’s slums had been demolished to make way for train lines and new stations. The poor and the dispossessed had to go somewhere, and Mallory Street was better than some of the other areas. He proceeded along at a leisurely pace, dawdling outside the gin palaces and the drinking dens, ogling the tarts as if he were enjoying himself mightily. He’d dressed himself up as just another inebriated toff, slumming it, with his top hat askew, cane swinging erratically, and cigar planted firmly between his lips. He was playing a part.
“You make a good toff.” Martin, his valet, had grinned at him as he set out.
“Nothing good about this toff,” Sebastian had said.
“Do you still want me to watch over Miss Greentree?”
“Yes, Martin, I do.”
“I thought maybe I could come along with you instead. Keep a lookout for suspicious characters.”
“That’s what you’ll be doing in Wensted Square.”
“Right you are, sir.”
Martin could be a little overenthusiastic, but he was good in a crisis and Sebastian knew he was loyal and honest, at least where his master was concerned. But it was Martin’s unfailing cheerfulness and optimism that always impressed Sebastian the most, even while it drove him to distraction.
He paused across the street from number 44, and while pretending to stagger drunkenly, adjusted his hat brim so that his features were all but hidden by the shadow it cast. All London streets were lit by gas lamps now, even Mallory Street, but many of the courtyards and alleyways were still as dark as ever. Unfortunately for Sebastian there was a lamp right next to where he was standing, opposite the house.
A passerby bumped against him, and he felt the questing hand of a pickpocket. Quick as a flash he caught the nimble fingers, bending them back, saying gruffly, “Keep away from me if you know what’s good for you.”
There was a grunt of pain, and the fingers fluttered in his grip.
“It’s me, guv’ner. Dipper.”
Sebastian turned to face his captive. A thin man who looked about fifty but was probably at least twenty years younger, his face lined and drawn from a lifetime of poverty and graft, his eyes sly and watchful from a lifetime of staying one step in front of the law.
“Yer asked me to meet
yer, an’ ’ere I am.”
“So I see. What have you to tell me?”
Dipper was busy pulling thick woolen gloves onto his hands. “Got to look after ’em,” he explained, wriggling his fingers. “They’s me tools of trade, Mr. Thorne.”
“Dipper…”