CHAPTER 22 #2
Sheffield spoke slowly, appearing to choose his words with care. “His eyes are slate-blue, and his gaze scrapes like flint over your skin. He has broad cheekbones—they’re sharp as well—and his face tapers to a pointed chin with a cleft. There’s a small, but noticeable, scar cutting across it.”
Raven gave an approving nod. “You’re learning to notice the little things, just like one of us urchins.”
“High praise, indeed,” responded Sheffield dryly. “Oh—and one last thing. Daggett moves with a catlike grace, and yet his gait has a tiny hitch. He seems to favor his left knee.”
“You’ve painted a very good picture, sir.” Raven tugged at his cap and turned for the door.
“Just a moment.” Sheffield stepped into a small storage alcove. He reappeared a few moments later wearing a shabby coat, well-worn boots, and battered hat.
“Give me a little credit,” he murmured in response to Raven’s raised brows. “I’m trying to establish my own friendships in the area, and I’m not so beef-witted as to think I can do that if I’m prancing around in my Mayfair finery.”
He joined Raven by the door. “Er, we need to move very stealthily. I would prefer that Lady Cordelia doesn’t see us leave.”
“I wasn’t planning on going out through the main corridor,” answered Raven. “We’ll use the side door next to the storage room at the back of the building. The stairwell leads down to the cellar warehouse, and from there, we can slip out into the alleyway leading to the chandlery yard.”
“We can?” Sheffield looked perplexed. “How the devil do you know that?”
“You still have a lot to learn about skulduggery,” responded the boy patiently. “It’s important to be familiar with your surroundings, and have several options of how to slip away if trouble suddenly strikes.”
“Point taken.”
Raven cracked open the door, and after a glance around, he gestured for Sheffield to follow.
It wasn’t until they had reached the cellar and made their way out to the alleyway that Sheffield ventured to ask, “Do you think we have a chance of learning anything about Daggett?”
“Oiy, if the dastard is up to mischief around here, one of my friends will know it.”
* * *
Lady Cordelia looked up in surprise as the clerk announced that there were visitors wishing to have a word with her.
“Wrexford! Yes, yes, do come in.” She waited until the clerk withdrew and shut the door behind him before addressing Charlotte in a taut whisper. “If you’re dressed like that, I take it there’s trouble.”
“That remains unclear,” answered Wrexford, before Charlotte could answer her. “We’re hoping you might help rectify that.”
“H-How so?”
“Did Raven come here earlier to ask you a mathematical question?” responded Charlotte.
“Yes, he did,” answered Cordelia.
The answer appeared to soften the tension in Charlotte’s face. “Perhaps we’re seeing specters when there’s naught but thin air.”
“Then Sheffield wished to speak with him,” continued Cordelia.
Wrexford felt a tickling of foreboding.
“I’ll go ask him why.”
Cordelia returned a few moments later. “That’s odd—he’s not there.” She quickly checked the adjoining storage room, then turned to them with a mystified shrug. “He must be here somewhere. The door to my office has been open and I didn’t see him leave the building.”
Charlotte closed her eyes for an instant.
Wrexford, too, was now sure that mischief was afoot. “Is there another way out of the building?” he asked.
“I—I confess, I don’t really know.” She hurried to the doorway and called for the clerk in the copy room to join them. “Mr. Mulligan, is the front entrance the only exit from the premises?”
“No, milady,” he answered without hesitation. “There’s a back stairwell leading down to the cellar storerooms.”
“There is?” Cordelia’s brow furrowed. “Then why do we always take a roundabout route to go there?”
“Because . . .” The clerk’s face turned a trifle red. “Because the smell isn’t fit for a lady.”
The word that Cordelia muttered under her breath wasn’t fit for a lady, either.
Mulligan’s ears were now a vivid shade of crimson.
“Show us the stairwell,” murmured Wrexford.
“Perhaps I should come with you,” suggested Cordelia. “I know my way around—”
“That won’t be necessary.” He hesitated. “Is there any place around here where Sheffield might be headed?”
“He sometimes has a pint of ale at the Golden Galleon,” volunteered Mulligan.
“Thank you.” To Cordelia, Wrexford added, “If he returns, please ask him to wait for us.”
“What—” she began.
But the earl and Charlotte had already disappeared around the corner of the corridor.
* * *
After resettling his hat a little lower on his brow, Sheffield took a swig of ale and slanted a look around.
Smoke shrouded the taproom, the flickering oil lamps doing little to penetrate the haze.
Given the less-than-pristine state of the tabletops and pewter mugs, that was perhaps by design.
It appeared that the Golden Galleon had lost its shine several centuries ago.
Sheffield winced as he watched a barmaid hurry by with a tray heaped with bowls of fishy-smelling stew—the only identifiable signs of its contents were several eel tails sticking from the soupy broth. He had not yet given himself the pleasure of dining at the tavern.
“Anudder drink, ducky?” asked the barmaid, pausing on her return to the kitchen. “Or a platter of mussels?”
“Thank you, but no.” However, Sheffield did slide several coins across the sticky wood. “If an urchin comes looking for ‘Sheff,’ bring him to me.” He had chosen a table tucked in a shadowed corner, allowing him to survey the room without drawing notice.
“My pleasure.” She leaned low and tucked the coins down her bodice. “Anything else I can offer you?”
“Not at the moment.”
His reply earned a throaty laugh. “What a pity.” She gave a flounce of her skirts. “Just wave if ye change yer mind.”
As he waited for Raven, he kept an ear cocked to the jabbering voices around him. A group of sailors—one sounded vaguely American—was playing darts in the alcove behind him. The rhythmic thump of steel against the painted board punctuated the curses uttered in several different languages.
He was so caught up in his surroundings that he wasn’t aware of Raven’s arrival until the boy jabbed a fist rather sharply against his shoulder. “Never woolgather in a public place, sir,” whispered the boy. “You’ve got to stay alert. Trouble can sneak up on you when you least expect it.”
“I’ll remember that,” muttered Sheffield as he slapped the boy’s hand away from his mug. “Any luck?”
The question drew a smug smile. “Swill the rest of your ale and come with me.”