Good Lord. A shudder rippled through her. She couldn’t imagine what the tattle papers would say about such an event. She tugged on white gloves and smoothed her pants much like she’d smooth her skirts. Then she rapped three times on her door and waited for Morgan to open it. Less than a minute passed before the door swung inward to reveal him waiting for her, and she followed him out the door, down the hall, and into the back alley of their home.
“You’ll sit here.” He pointed to the groom’s seat.
“Obviously.” Joan allowed a bit of dryness in her response as she took her brother’s offered hand and sat on the small seat.
“Now, keep your head down, and I’ll take a bit of a roundabout way to the holding place. We’ve not moved the culprit into the prison yet, which makes this easier. I wouldn’t dare take you to that hellhole.”
Joan nodded and adjusted her placement on the seat, keeping her eyes and face averted downward.
Morgan snapped the ribbons and directed the horse to the front. Soon they were traveling through Mayfair toward Whitehall. They passed Charing Cross of Central London, moving down to Horse Guards, the seat of the War Office. Joan kept her head lowered, only her eyes darting about, taking in the scenes of a bustling Westminster.
Morgan took a small side street and then turned right onto a larger lane. The curricle coasted over the cobblestones and then came to a stop in front of a very ordinary black door. Upon his arrival, a man stepped out from the building and studied Morgan coolly. “I’ll see to your horse,” he said after a moment, his voice deep and gravelly.
“I’ll take the lad inside, see if he remembers anything important,” Morgan replied, then indicated with his head to the door. Joan stepped from her perch, fleetingly taking note of how odd it was to have no help alighting from the carriage.
She kept several paces behind Morgan as they approached the door. It was maddening, for she wanted to ask Morgan a million questions but she had to wait, silently filing them in her mind for later. How did the man know that the groom, who was usually the one to mind the horses, was the one who had information? Had Morgan sent a missive ahead? Or had this been the plan all along? She wouldn’t doubt the latter. Irritating that he had worked out this adventure in his head long before approaching her to participate, as if he’d known she’d agree.
Which, of course, she would.
And had.
But that wasn’t the point, was it?
She pushed her thoughts aside and took in her surroundings. The hall floor creaked with each step, and the scent of pipe tobacco hung in the air. The walls were a dingy white with plaster peeling where they met the ceiling. Morgan stopped beside a door and opened it, revealing a worn wooden table and four chairs.
“Sit.” He motioned to a seat and then took one beside her. “Now, let me explain what is going to take place,” Morgan whispered softly, as if the walls were thin or had ears. “I will bring in another gentleman. He will be an assistant, should the person you are to see become belligerent. I’ll remain by your side, and I ask you don’t speak. Your voice will give you away. Merely listen, and when you have what you need, lay your hand on the table and drum your fingers, agreed? Oh! I nearly forgot. Keep your gloves on. Those dainty hands of yours will tell our secret quicker than a word.”
Joan nodded, her heart beating fast.
“Charles,” Morgan called, and soon there were footsteps echoing in the hall. The door swung open and two men came in, one in handcuffs. The handcuffed one was set in a chair across the table, a wide toothless smirk distorting his features with sarcastic mirth.
“Ah, James. We meet again.” Morgan reclined in his chair, giving the appearance of one utterly at ease.
“Ya got more questions? I tol’ ya, I won’t sing.” The man crossed his beefy arms and then turned his attention to Joan.
Joan could feel his gaze like a slimy touch along her skin. It was foul, permeating the air around her. Morgan spoke, interrupting her urge to scoot farther away from the offensive man.
To begin, Morgan asked some innocuous questions. Joan watched carefully, noting his demeanor and using it as a foundation to build upon.
“What day is it?” Morgan asked calmly.
Other than a furrowing of his brow, likely from the lack of importance in the question, the man answered swiftly.
Morgan asked a few more similar queries before launching into the important subjects.
“Who are you working with?”
Joan studied the man, noting the way his hands flexed on the table, not into complete fists but enough to show tension. On the next question, his eyes turned upward, not in recall but to avoid eye contact. His posture was alert, not relaxed, and the small details of his answers didn’t coincide.
When she had seen enough, Joan set her hand on the table and lightly drummed her fingers.
Morgan asked several more questions, likely to deflect any suspicion of their signal, and then dismissed the man.
In short work, they were walking out to the waiting curricle. Joan stepped up, took her seat, and breathed deeply the air of freedom.
“So?” Morgan asked as they started back toward home. “I tried to ask the sort of questions that needed a yes-or-no answer to make it easier.”
Joan considered what she’d learned. “That did help, but I’m afraid I don’t have the specifics. I’m not a mind reader.”