Deepening Hopkins’ consternation, Nick tied the cravat securely around his ribs. He’d tuck a knife on each side, snug to his body, hidden between his shirt and coat.
“I need four knives,” he said, adding when Hopkins did not hop to the task, “Two to hold at me side; and one to tuck in each boot.”
“Is that really necessary, sir?”
Nick grinned. Truth be told, he itched for the opportunity to throw his knives. He preferred the sword, but taverns were too crowded for that.
He tousled his hair, and that proved to be too much for Hopkins to endure. Darcy’s valet departed, mumbling under his breath as he disappeared down the hall.
Pretending he already had the shivs tied to his sides, Nick practiced pulling the blades out, adjusting the cravat around his middle until it was at the perfect angle to free the knives from their sheathes without disturbance. He missed the special vest Connell had taken from him. That had room for three blades: one at each side and another between his shoulder blades. He sighed. A man must make do.
The colonel rapped on the door and stepped inside. He wore simple garb, but it was still too fine. He handed Nick four sheathed knives. “I do not know what you want with so many weapons, but my father agreed on your promise that you shall not use them toharm another.”
“Not even if it’s to defend meself from attack?”
Richard shook his head. “You have already been spared from the noose, and he will not house a murderer.”
Nick mumbled, “When ye put it that way…” But what other way was there to put it? He’d lived his entire life scrapping to survive. Life had become cheap, something his peers cast off like yesterday’s linen. He’d felt the same until he’d found a reason to live to a good, ripe age.
Except she hadn’t wanted to grow old with him.
He shook his head. Alex had made her choice, and he had to move on. He had a job to do and a family to repay for saving him from the gallows. They were good people. If finding Darcy meant he could serve them a good turn, then he’d look under every bridge and crawl through every hovel to find him.
CHAPTER 22
Grabbing the knives, Nick hid them on his body and turned to the colonel. “Yer coat’s too fine.”
“It is the simplest I could find.”
Nick grunted. It probably belonged to a servant. But even a servant’s lot was better than that of the rough folks who made their living from the wharf.
Once they left the pristine west end of town, Nick asked the carriage to let them off. They were near Limehouse Reach. Drunks were plentiful, and he found one passed out against a wall. “Take off yer coat. The stench of his’ll help us blend in where we’re going.”
The colonel did not protest. He stripped off his coat, then draped it over the man whose smelly garment Nick had quickly removed. “At least he shall stay warmer during the cold months to come.”
Nick smiled at him. “Ye’re a good man, Colonel.”
“Call me Rich. That is what Darcy calls me.”
“Rich,” Nick repeated. “I’ll not have ye calling me Blackburne anymore. It’s Nick to ye from now on.”
Nodding in the direction they needed to head, Rich said, “Narrow Street is this way.”
Nick was grateful for his knowledge of London’s streets. While he had a vague idea of the city’s geography—sailors were a chatty bunch—that was the extent of his knowledge.
They continued forward, passing several narrow streets and dark alleyways. One look around told Nick it was inhabited by people who’d given up on having anything worth having long ago. The dirty streets and putrid air reeked of despair.
“I’ll do the talking,” Nick said. “Stick close and watch me back.”
They stepped inside a tavern dimly lit with sooty lanterns. Dark shapes and shadows huddled over tables, speaking in low voices. Smugglers making deals, no doubt. The tavern’s position on the bend of the Thames made it an ideal spot for such business.
Nick sauntered over to the bar and asked for a tankard of ale for him and the colonel. While the barkeep tapped the barrel, Nick asked, “Ye seen any fancy gents millin’ about here lately—say, a week ago?”
The man’s expression and posture remained unchanged. “We don’t get many gents this way.” He set their tankards on the counter and shouted over them. “Molly!”
A pretty lass with an empty tray in her hands walked toward them, a bounce in her step and a glint in her eye. When she set the tray down on the counter, Nick knew to keep an eye on her hands.
She leaned close to the colonel, fluttering her eyelashes and reaching over his chest to brush a piece of flint away.
