17. The Infiltration
The Infiltration
The dim alley behind the Sixes & Sevens was no place for honest folk—certainly not for Miles Sinclair and Lucinda Harrington.
Though it was only three in the afternoon, shadows clung to the crumbling brickwork, and the scent of something unwholesome lingered in the air.
It was the sort of setting that might provoke unease in others, but Miles was occupied with a far more pressing concern, like the lamentable tilt of Lucinda’s cap.
“Lower,” he hissed, tugging it down so that Lucinda’s curls disappeared beneath the coarse fabric. “You’ll pass for a scrawny apprentice, but not if you keep fiddling with it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If you keep mauling me like that, I’ll look less like a porter and more like a ragged scarecrow!” she snapped. “And since when does a delivery boy care about his cap?”
“Since this delivery boy is about to walk into a den of criminals and needs to be invisible,” he countered. “At least try not to draw attention.”
Lucinda muttered something about insufferable men but adjusted the cap herself.
Their disguises had been hastily thrown together.
The plan—if it could be called that—had only taken shape an hour prior.
With no time to scout the premises or bribe anyone for information, they had to rely on quick thinking and Miles’s knowledge of the establishment.
Unfortunately, Miles was a well-known patron, which meant he couldn’t waltz in as himself.
So, with Lucinda’s quick hands and a splash of soot, his usual polished appearance had been transformed—his cravat and jacket discarded, he was reduced to a vest and shirt which she crumpled.
Next, a few artful smudges and a cap tilted forward over his eyes.
Add an apron, and he looked every inch the beleaguered tradesman, a stark contrast to his usual refined self.
“At least try to slouch,” Lucinda muttered as she hefted her side of a crate of wine. “You still carry yourself like you’re about to demand the best bottle of claret in the place.”
Her conspirator hunched his shoulders and affected a scowl. “Better?”
She smothered a giggle. “Much!”
Together, they lifted the crate and approached the rear door of the Sixes & Sevens. Miles rapped sharply. When the door swung open, it revealed a mountain of a man, his bulk nearly filling the doorway.
“Delivery,” Miles announced. “Madam Bittermann sent for this vintage—special order, straight from the docks.”
The servant frowned. “Didn’t hear nothin’ about it.”
Miles sighed, exasperated. “That’s what comes of Madam always changing her mind last min’it. You know how particular she is.” He jerked his head toward Lucinda. “Boy, tell him what the master said when he packed us off.”
Keeping her eyes downcast, she coughed and grumbled, “Said if it don’t get put in the cellars quick, it’ll turn sour—like them last barrels got left in the sun. If this lot spoils, it’s on Madam’s ‘ead.”
The servant’s grunt might, by a charitable interpretation, have signified assent. He reached out to take the crate, but Miles held firm.
“Ah, no need to trouble yourself, sir! “We ‘ave several more crates where this came from. My delivery boy and I can spare a busy man like you any trouble if you’d unlock the cellar door,” he said, pointing to the exterior shutters that led below the house.
Lucinda marveled at the ease with which Mr. Sinclair carried off the deception, especially since the scheme to infiltrate the establishment had been entirely of her own devising.
When he described the servants as brutish sorts with more muscles than wits, disguises immediately appealed.
As merchants, she reasoned, they could gain access to the establishment.
Resolving it had to be wine porter disguises, she reasoned access to the cellars for a lengthy delivery would be ideal, giving them time to steal away into the rest of the dwelling to search and recover Periwinkle.
The man’s gaze flicked between them suspiciously, but Lucinda kept her head down, gripping her side of the crate like a well-trained drudge. Finally, with a grumble, the servant disappeared, closing the door. Moments later, the bolt on the exterior cellar shutters scraped open, and he reappeared.
“In ya get, then,” he barked. “Be quick about ya business.”
They descended into the cool, dimly lit cellar. The rows of wine racks stretched into the shadows, and the scent of aged wood and damp stone filled the air.
As the servant’s heavy footfalls faded up the stairs, the crate was set down. “Right,” Miles murmured. “No sign of Miss Bittermann, which is a blessing. Let’s find Periwinkle before our luck turns.”
Lucinda lifted a finger as a faint sound carried through the ceiling—a distant bark. Her eyes gleamed. “Periwinkle,” she whispered.
Miles tensed, but Lucinda caught his arm before he could move. “No,” she said. “If we both disappear at once, someone will notice. You need to keep bringing in the crates—give me time to search. I’ll be back before you miss me.”
Reluctantly, he nodded. “Just be careful.”
Lucinda melted into the shadows, and her conspirator turned to his task, working with deliberate slowness. He hauled each crate carefully, pausing between trips as though giving his imaginary partner time to catch up.
As he worked, his gaze landed on an odd shelf of bottles labeled Patrons Only . Johan’s warnings surfaced—stories of potions meant to addle the minds of gamblers filtered into his mind. In case it should prove useful, he slipped a bottle into his empty crate and took it out to his cart.
Reentering the cellar with another load, he heard the scrape of boots on stone.
The hulking servant who had let him in was descending. Miles lowered his gaze beneath his cap and continued his work, affecting a sluggish pace.
“Where’s the boy?” the servant grunted.
“Taking his own sweet time, that’s where,” was the grumbled reply.
“Typical. He’s me sister’s lad—and slow as a wet week.
I told her, ‘Mark my words, he’ll try my patience,’ and here we are!
Off dawdling, no doubt, while I do the real work.
” He huffed, straightening as though grateful for an audience.
“Young ones these days, eh? What can you do?”
The servant’s eyes flicked toward the stairs as though considering whether to check for himself, but the delivery man hadn’t finished his wingding.
“And I tell you,” Miles added with a weary head shake, “if he doesn’t hurry back, I’ll drag him by the ear next time. If I have to wait any longer—”
The servant let out a grunt of disgust, turned on his heel, and stomped back up the stairs, clearly eager to escape the tirade.
Miles smirked, adjusting his cap, his mind racing. Lucinda, you’d better be as good as you think you are.
Upstairs in a deserted, long-forgotten storage closet, Rudi Bittermann was fast losing patience.
He gripped the end of a length of thick rope in one fist, its other end still knotted clumsily into a noose that now hung slack about the dog’s neck.
The wretched animal had been a nuisance from the outset—snapping and twisting like a wild thing when his men dragged it from the park.
It had fought with the courage of a street cur, teeth flashing, claws skittering on the cobbles—until brute force and a well-placed kick had subdued it.
Even then, it had taken Rudi himself to jam a muzzle over its snout, though not before it had bloodied a knuckle and torn his sleeve.
That had silenced the little brute for a time. Tethered in the dark with the rope lashed to a pipe, it had sulked in sullen silence. But now it had wriggled loose—clever little pest—and was raising the alarm with sharp, indignant yaps that echoed off the plaster and made Rudi’s temple throb.
He had no time for this nonsense. Worse, he had no patience for Lilith’s orders.
When his men returned with the mutt, stuffed in a sack, and whimpering, she had been explicit: “If it’s damaged, it’s worthless to me.
” Rudi knew better than to cross his sister.
Where Lilith perceived advantage, she was not to be thwarted—even if it meant preserving the wretched creature’s existence.
But keeping it quiet? That was another matter entirely.
With a black scowl, Mr. Bittermann brought the rope down in a vicious arc. The rope snapped against the dog’s ribs, sending it skittering back with a yelp.
“Had enough?” he growled, stepping forward. “Or shall I drive the lesson home?”
The mutt whined, trembling against the floorboards, but Rudi had no time for mercy. He brought the rope down again, harder this time, savoring the way the dog flinched, the way its paws scrabbled for purchase against the worn floor.
“Shut. Up.” Whack!
Before the next blow could land, something darted between him and the mutt—a blur of movement, fast and reckless.
“Don’t you dare!”
A boy hit the ground hard, arms flung protectively over the trembling dog.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, panicked breaths, but he didn’t move, didn’t lift his head.
His oversized cap had been knocked askew in the rush, casting a deeper shadow over his face.
For a moment, Rudi stared, thrown by the sheer audacity. Then his mouth curled into a sneer.
“How dare I?” He swung the rope down in a sharp arc, the blow landing squarely across the boy’s shoulder. “Where did you come from, brat?” Whack! “How dare you, boy!” Whack! Whack!
Lucinda flinched with each blow, but she did not shrink away. Instead, she clung more fiercely to the shivering dog, shuddering as the heavy rope struck again and again.
A voice, muffled beneath the cap, cried out, “Don’t be so cruel!”
Rudi let out a contemptuous chuckle. “Cruel?” he echoed. “You think this bit of twine is cruel?” With deliberate slowness, he let the makeshift weapon fall to the ground. “Let me educate you, little whelp.”
He raised his hand to strike, but before the slap could land, a voice bellowed from the hallway. “Rudi! Trouble out front—best come quick!”
Rudi swore in Dutch under his breath, glancing toward the door. Business first. This could wait. But he was not the sort to leave a lesson unfinished. He drew back his hand and struck a vicious, ringing cuff to the boy’s ear.
The brat’s head snapped to the side. He swayed for a moment, then crumpled, unconscious.
Rudi stomped out, locking the storage closet as he left.
Behind him, the boy lay motionless, arms still wrapped around the trembling dog.
In the cellar, Miles applied himself to his task with the deliberate ease of a man well-versed in labor—though in truth, he had never handled a wine crate in his life. He kept an ear out for any sign of Lucinda, but the thick stone walls muffled most sounds from above.
Every so often, the hulking servant overseeing him—whom he had privately dubbed ‘the mountain-man’—peered down the stairwell to check on him. He would then holler up through the external access hatch, something to suggest his nephew was without.
“Oy! Stop sniffin’ about and get on with it!” he bellowed, making a grand show of impatience. “You’re slower than a three-legged mule, you are! If I have to haul the rest meself, I swear I’ll—” He cut off with a sigh loud enough to carry. “Bah! Useless.”
The servant grunted, unimpressed. “How many more crates?”
Miles made a show of mopping his forehead, though he hadn’t broken a sweat. “Just a few more,” he replied with a genial grin. “Wouldn’t want to deprive your fine establishment of its well-earned drink.”
Above them, a door slammed, and the sound of boots on the stairs sent a prickle of warning up Miles’ spine. He didn’t need to look to know trouble was coming.
Two burly men descended into the cellar, one of whom Miles recognized—Rudi Bittermann.
He pulled his cap lower and kept stacking bottles.
Rudi eyed him with cold amusement. “Clever little scheme your masters have,” he mused.
“Send in boys under the guise of a wine delivery, one slips upstairs, and before anyone’s the wiser, there’s silver missing.
” He folded his arms. “Except this time, your lad decided to save a dog instead of minding his business. Your delivery boy’s earned himself a lesson.
Clear off while you’ve still got legs to carry you. ”
Unable to countenance leaving Lucinda behind, Miles continued in his charade.
“I knew that boy would land me in trouble. Don’t blame me masters, sir, blame me sister—she begged me to take him on, said he needed honest work.
” He shook his head as if offended. “And what does he do? Makes a fool of me. If he’s been impertinent, sir, let me deal with him.
I’ll box his ears for upsetting you fine folks. ”
Rudi’s smirk was humorless. “Already done. I’ve boxed them myself, now off with you.” Rudi shooed the wine porter towards the rear stairs. “I’ll send the lad along when he’s learned his lesson.”
Miles took a shaky step back, his voice tight with frustration. “No, but…but…”
Rudi pointed toward the rear stairs. “Off with you, we don’t want the likes of you or your wine here. If the Berry Brothers did send you, I’ll be telling them to hire honest boys instead of street rats with sticky fingers.”
Miles went silent—any further protest, and they’d suspect something worse. He forced himself into a reluctant retreat, his mind racing. If Lucinda had been caught, he’d need another plan—fast.