Chapter 3
Simeon Martin found he rather detested most people.
It was an unfortunate discovery on his part, but perhaps it was a good thing.
These past few years had hardened him, making him sullen.
People tended to steer clear of him, allowing him to work his cases alone as a Bow Street Runner.
It was easier that way, and much simpler.
He answered to no one, except for the Bow Street magistrate.
More importantly, he wasn’t responsible for anyone besides himself.
Now, he sat in the darkened corner of the crowded Bottomless Pit Pub, observing the ruffians sitting at the table across from him.
He had been tracking a group of rebels garnering strength after the Corn Laws were passed by Parliament.
Little was known about this Anti-Corn Law ring, but after spending a small fortune on bribes, he was able to identify one of the members. Mr. Carew Boyle.
Mr. Boyle was of average height, a little on the thin side, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders, and he worked at a shop down the street. The suspect was sitting with three other men, all of whom were becoming increasingly inebriated.
The aging barmaid sashayed up to the table. “Can I get ye another drink, love?”
“Not at the moment,” he replied dismissively as he slid a few coins in her direction, hoping to satisfy her.
She deposited the coins into her ample bosom and left without saying another word.
He didn’t blame her for checking up on him. After all, he’d been sitting at this table for more than two hours watching these men toss back drink after drink of this cheap ale.
Simeon’s plan had been simple. He would follow Boyle until he led him to the group of rebels.
Then he could assess the threat. He needed to see if the group was organized, or if they were a bunch of unmotivated complainers.
Not that he blamed them for their anger.
He had been outraged when the Corn Laws had passed, despite his vote against it.
Regardless, it mattered not. He rarely attended Parliament. He didn’t belong there.
He shoved his drink to the side, causing it to slosh over the top.
He was a blasted viscount. What a terrible consolation prize!
Prince George had honored him by giving him the title of Viscount of Wentworth after his role in bringing down the smuggling ring in Gravesend.
He became Lord Wentworth while Dr. Emmett Maddix claimed Martha Haskett’s heart.
His first love; his only love.
Simeon had spent the past year trying to forget her, but how could he forget someone that he had fought so valiantly to find?
Unfortunately, once he finally found her, she had already given her heart to Emmett.
It didn’t matter that he had wealth, power, and now a title.
He wasn’t content. He was still trying to find a new purpose for his life.
The door was wrenched opened, and the last ray of light shone on the wall.
Two familiar faces ducked under the low frame and stepped into the room, but he felt no desire to make his presence known.
He was on an assignment, and he did not have time to chit-chat with Lord Jonathon Beckett or Benedict, the Marquess of Lansdowne. Nor did he want to.
Lord Lansdowne, dressed plainly tonight, scanned over the room until he spotted him. Simeon acknowledged him with a tip of his head, but he made no move to call him over. Rather than take the hint, they headed straight for him.
Once they approached the table, he politely acknowledged them. “Beckett. Lansdowne.”
“May we join you, Wentworth?” Benedict asked.
Reaching for his tankard, Simeon replied, “I’m on assignment at the moment.”
Jonathon knowingly glanced over his shoulder at the table where Mr. Boyle was sitting. “We’ll help you. Which one is your suspect?”
He scoffed, loudly. “I am quite familiar with your help. I experienced it firsthand in Gravesend, and, if you recall, your horribly executed plan got me shot.”
Benedict let out a laugh. “None of the agents managed to get themselves shot. Just the Bow Street Runner. Ironic, isn’t it?”
The barmaid bustled over to their table and asked, “Can I get you blokes some ale?”
“They were just leaving,” Simeon declared.
Sliding into the seat across from him, Beckett smiled up at the barmaid. “Pardon my friend’s boorish manners. We would like two tankards and bread, if you have it.”
“We sure do, love,” the barmaid responded, smiling. “We just baked a whole new batch.”
Watching her walk away, Simeon asked in a dry tone, “What do you want?”
“Just wanted to catch up with an old friend,” Benedict said, sitting next to Beckett.
Simeon took a sip of his drink. “We aren’t friends, and I apologize if I gave the appearance of such.”
Sitting back in his seat, Lansdowne regarded him for a long moment. “You seem different, Wentworth.” He snapped his fingers as if making a discovery. “If I have to guess, I would say you appear more bitter than the last time I saw you.”
Simon cast him a look of annoyance. “I am. Happy?” He tipped his head towards the door. “Now leave.”
“But we haven’t gotten our drinks yet,” Beckett said with a shake of his head. “Walking away now would be inconsiderate.”
Boyle and his friend started laughing loudly and clapping each other on their backs. Simeon’s plan had just gotten more complicated. He highly doubted that Boyle would lead him to the other rebels if he was too drunk to do more than stagger.
“We have a job for you,” Benedict said unexpectedly.
“Not interested,” came his quick reply.
Beckett placed his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “The pay is generous.”
“Find another Bow Street Runner.”
The barmaid walked up with two tankards of ale and a tray of bread. She placed them in the middle of the table and hurried off.
Lansdowne reached for the bread and broke off a piece. “A young woman is in trouble.”
The refusal was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t find the strength to say it. Blazes! How could he deny their request if a woman was in trouble?
He lifted his brow. “Why ask me?”
Beckett slid the tankard in front of him. “Frankly, because you are the only Bow Street Runner that we can trust. Plus, you are adequate at your job.”
“I assure you that I am more than adequate,” he contended, while ironically feeling a source of pride at Jonathon’s words.
Shrugging, Beckett replied, “We shall see.”
“Someone is going to great lengths to sabotage Miss Emma Pearson’s Season,” Benedict explained. “A burr…”
Simeon spoke over him. “Who is Miss Pearson?”
“She is the ward of my brother, Lord Downshire,” Beckett shared.
He let out a low, approving whistle. “The ward of the Marquess of Downshire. That’s an impressive guardian to have.”
Lansdowne continued. “As I was saying, a burr was placed under her saddle, resulting in her being upended in Hyde Park. Then, later that evening, her glass of champagne was laced with laudanum, causing her to pass out during the opening set of the ball.”
“Both could be labeled as accidents. Burrs are not uncommon, and she might not have been the intended target of the laudanum. How do you know someone meant to do Miss Pearson harm?” he questioned.
While lowering his tankard, Jonathon answered, “If not for both incidences occurring so closely together, it might have been dismissed as a coincidence. However, the servant that had handed Miss Pearson her drink was also seen milling around the stables under false pretenses.”
“Again, why me?” he asked. “Surely, any agent could be tasked with keeping her safe.”
“That’s true, but we aren’t sure what we are up against,” Beckett replied. “We need someone that we can trust to ensure Miss Pearson’s protection while we continue to investigate. Besides, this falls under the Bow Street Runners’ jurisdiction.”
Reluctantly, Simeon had to admit that Beckett had a point. The Home Office dealt more with foreign threats. “Do you have any suspects?”
Benedict tossed back his drink and placed it on the table. “We do. Mr. Peter Lockhart. He mistakenly believed that Miss Pearson and he were to be wed. Apparently, he did not take kindly to her becoming Lord Downshire’s ward.”
Reaching for the bread, Simeon asked, “Has he made any threats?”
“Not yet,” Beckett said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a large stack of notes. “But he’s written every month for the past two years.”
Beckett placed the pile in front of him.
“Have you read these?” Simeon asked.
“We have,” Lansdowne confirmed. “Other than sappy declarations of love, Lockhart says little else.”
“Perhaps he’s just a spurned lover and not the perpetrator,” he suggested.
Jonathon nodded. “There’s a chance, but my brother believes Lockhart is behind this.”
“Unfortunately, I am working a case right now,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll find another Bow Street Runner to—”
Lansdowne spoke over him. “It has to be you.”
Simeon diverted his gaze away from the agent’s gaze. He didn’t want this assignment. “I assure you that there are other, more competent—”
Beckett cut him off. “Please,” he stated in a firm voice. “Miss Emma Pearson is family, and we protect our own.”
Hearing that plea come off Beckett’s lips caused his resolve to crumble. How could he deny their request now? He sighed. “Fine. I will meet with Lord Downshire tomorrow to discuss the case, but I won’t make any promises.”
Both men broke out in wide, relieved smiles. Simeon almost smiled back at them… almost, but then he saw Mr. Boyle heading towards the door. He rose from his chair.
“I trust that you two can make it out of the rookeries alive?” he jested.
Without waiting for a response, he headed out the main door and pulled up the collar on his worn brown jacket. He watched as Boyle staggered back and forth on the cobblestone street, skirting piles of animal dung, and singing a jolly tune.