Chapter 7 #3
He chucked her under the chin, just as if she was five years old, damn him, and stepped back.
“Turn around, Miss Honey.”
She stared at him blankly and he made a turning motion. “Turn around and count to ten.”
Frowning, she did as he told her, counting to ten before glancing over her shoulder. He was gone. Izzy swallowed, turning in a circle but finding no sign of him. Despite his warning to keep away from this path, she knew she would ignore it.
She would pray that he survived his reckless plan and walk this path every day until she saw him again.
The Swan, Little Valentine, 18th January 1816
Aubrey did not know precisely what he expected when he walked into The Swan later that day.
Perhaps that Alfie would be just the same mischievous, swaggering lad he’d been the last time they’d met, or that perhaps he’d be sullen and sulky.
What he got was a cool-eyed, business-like greeting and no preamble.
Two glasses of ale sat before the lad, and he silently pushed one towards Aubrey.
“I’ve sketched out what I know of Jefferson’s house,” Alfie said, setting a piece of paper down. “Though I imagine you know it better than I do.”
“Jefferson?” Aubrey echoed, unable to hide his astonishment. “You don’t mean—”
“Lord Jefferson, aye, I do. Did you not know the fellow was a crook?” Alfie said, his lip curling in disgust. “And his lovely house is in Mayfair. Been there, have you?”
Aubrey’s heart kicked in his chest. Though he had been given no information to make assumptions, he had imagined the fellow Alfie had sold the diamonds to would be an upper middle-class fellow living in a quiet, suburban locale.
Breaking into Lord Jefferson’s home in bloody Mayfair—hell! What the devil was he getting into?
Alfie snorted and snatched the plan up, folding it carefully. “Thought as much. Look, just leave the job to me. If you don’t trust me, you can wait around the corner, out of sight, and be there to watch me come out. I’ll hand the goods over and be on my way.”
Aubrey reached out and grabbed his wrist before he could put away the plan and plucked the paper from his fingers. Smoothing it back out on the table, he regarded the sketch with growing misgiving. “Where are they most likely to be?”
Alfie laughed, though the sound held little amusement. “Look, you don’t trust me an inch, I get it. I don’t even blame you for it, but this is not a job for an amateur.”
“That’s got nothing to do with it,” Aubrey said crossly.
“I’m still bloody furious with you, and don’t think I’m not, but I’ll not have you risking everything while I sit safely out of the way.
I’m not a coward and I’m not the kind of miserable bastard that would send a boy to his fate without standing beside him. ”
Alfie bristled visibly at being called a boy and then let out an impatient sigh, dragging a hand through his short hair.
“That’s even worse,” he said, shaking his head.
“Don’t you see? You’re trying to be decent, but you’re only going to make it even more likely that you’ll be the one who sends me to the gallows. ”
“Fine. Test me,” Aubrey said, folding his arms. “You clearly think I’m incapable of stealth or… or anything that you are good at. Set me a trial, if I fail, I’ll wait out of sight for you, but if not… we go in together.”
Alfie considered this, taking a sip of his ale. “So, I’ll set you a challenge, and you’ll do it?”
“Within reason, yes. Don’t go thinking up something ridiculous just to punish me,” he added, wondering if that had been such a reasonable suggestion after all.
Aubrey waited with increasing apprehension as Alfie sat back, arms folded, a look of intense concentration on his face. “All right,” he said. “What time does your butler lock up at Hatherley Hall?”
Aubrey frowned.
“Oh, stow it, I’m not about to mill the ken,” Alfie said with a sneer.
“I didn’t think it,” Aubrey retorted, nettled by the way the young man insisted on acting the injured party. “It depends, but not until after midnight if Hawk’s in residence. He keeps late hours.”
“A footman will stay by the front door?”
“Yes, certainly if anyone in the household is still out, and in case of late callers or emergencies.”
“And where is the brooch?”
Aubrey opened his mouth and closed it again. “In a locked chest in my room.”
Alfie grinned.
“You can’t be serious?” Aubrey objected.
“You said I could set any challenge. Well, I challenge you to break into the hall with me and steal the brooch. Don’t worry, you can keep hold of it,” he added dryly.
“Well, that’s hardly a challenge. I know the layout, and if I’m caught—”
“If you’re caught, you’ll look a right pillock and have a lot of explaining to do, but it won’t get about the village or get the magistrate called in.
We can say we were just larking about,” Alfie said firmly, which was a reasonable enough conclusion.
“The hall is the biggest house around these parts too, and the most like Jefferson’s.
So it will give you a feel of creeping about such a place in the dark, and don’t think I’m going to go easy on you.
This is a serious job and if you mess up, you’re out. ”
“When?”
“Tonight,” Alfie said, looking far too pleased with himself. He expected Aubrey to bungle it. “And don’t think you’re going in dressed like that, either.” Aubrey looked down at his pristine white cravat and realised it would shine like a beacon in the dark. “What, then?”
“You’d best come home with me, and we’ll see what we can find,” Alfie said. “Drink up.”
Tobacco Docks, East London, Little Valentine, 17th January 1816
Thick fog coiled like sickly clouds over the London docks, extinguishing the light from the moon and muffling the rumble of carriage wheels over cobbles.
Silas Mourney strode through the unpleasantly damp soup with ease, accustomed to the reek of the nearby Thames and unconcerned by the pervading darkness.
A barrel-chested fellow of average height, he was stocky as a cart horse but not nearly so sweet-tempered.
Pausing beneath the flickering yellow glow of a lamp, the uneven light fell upon his pockmarked face, scored with savage scars, the price of the ambition that drove him and his insatiable desire for revenge against any that slighted him.
He leaned against the lamp, the only sound the distant slap of the tidal river against the docks or the occasional rattle of rigging caught in the icy wind that howled along the wharf.
In the distance, footsteps sounded, and Mourney straightened, alert for the new arrival, another poor devil who owed more than they could pay. Still, payment was acceptable in many forms, and Silas Mourney could be flexible when the need arose.
A man approached, his anxiety obvious as his eyes darted furtively about him, though seeing anything in the murky darkness was a forlorn hope.
“You got ‘em?” Mourney demanded, his voice as harsh as the crack of a whip.
“Aye,” replied a sullen voice.
“Give ‘em here.”
The man handed the untidy parcel over reluctantly and Silas grinned as he unwrapped the dirty oilcloth to reveal a set of lock-picks, a distinctive design, the handles inlaid with a fine mother-of-pearl motif. “Nice work, old man. You’re a skilled craftsman, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m clear, then?” the fellow said, his voice trembling.
“Your debt is paid,” Mourney agreed, more than satisfied.
“W-What you gonna do with—”
“Mind your own bleedin’ business,” Silas growled, his small eyes glinting menacingly in the sallow gaslight.
“Alfie’s a good lad, Silas, and no more than a babe, he’s—”
“He’s a thieving little shit who’s taken the piss and made me look like a bleedin’ fool,” Silas replied through gritted teeth.
“My men got lifted for those cursed diamonds and I got nowt. He owes me blood, and I mean to collect. Now get out of my sight before I decide these little beauties aren’t recompense enough for what you owe me. ”
It appeared his guest’s bravado was all used up, and the man turned on his heel and ran, leaving Silas Mourney to gloat over his coming triumph, and to imagine the satisfying spectacle of Alfie Marwick with a noose about his neck.