Fredrick realized his misstep and he rushed to correct it. “She gave me leave to, but only because we are friends. I daresay you are reading too much into this.”
“Or perhaps you are not reading enough into it,” Roswell countered.
“You are infuriating,” Fredrick muttered.
Roswell chuckled. “I will leave you be, but I would be blind if I didn’t notice the growing attraction between you and Miss Sutherland.”
“I have no desire to take a wife,” Fredrick said.
“I never said anything about marriage,” Roswell remarked.
Fredrick turned his head towards the window, hoping this line of questioning would come to an end. Did he find Emilia to be intriguing? Yes. But that didn’t mean he had any interest in pursuing her. They were just friends. Why couldn’t his brother be satisfied with that response? He most certainly was.
A silence descended over the cab as they ventured further into the rookeries. Fredrick’s gaze fell upon the desolate figures shuffling along the narrow pavements, clad in ragged attire and bearing faces that were marked by dirt and despair.
The coach came to a stop and Roswell opened the door. After they stepped onto the uneven pavement, Roswell said, “Followme. The factory is only a short distance away. I didn’t want to give our presence away by arriving in a coach.”
Fredrick walked alongside his brother as he attempted to ignore the putrid odors emanating from the destitute people they passed. An animal carcass lay before them, forcing them to carefully detour around the unsightly spectacle.
It wasn’t long before they arrived at a looming, darkened factory, its imposing two-level brick structure standing recessed from the road. No light came from within, which wasn’t surprising for the late hour.
Roswell came to a stop and said, “I hope this isn’t a waste of time.” His voice held a weariness to it.
Fredrick placed an encouraging hand on Roswell’s shoulder. “Don’t give up hope. We will find Caleb.”
Roswell gave a solemn nod, his countenance etched with unwavering resolve. His brother’s reaction didn’t surprise Fredrick. The life of a spy allowed no room for self-doubt. It required relentless determination, regardless of the odds stacked against you. One single misstep could be the difference between life and death.
Lowering his hand, Fredrick followed his brother towards Lord Drycott’s foreboding factory. Upon reaching a nondescript side entrance, Roswell reached for the handle and muttered, “Locked.”
Roswell crouched down and withdrew two long metal pins from his jacket pocket. With calculated precision, he inserted them into the lock and, after a few tense moments, they both heard the unmistakable click of the door unlatching.
Rising from his crouched position, Roswell reached for the handle and gently turned it. The door creaked open, and they stepped into the building, with the only illumination coming from the moon’s pale beams filtering through the grimy windows.
They walked further into the hall and Fredrick observed crates of all sizes haphazardly stacked along the walls. Fredrick moved closer to one of the crates and noticed that the markings on the outside were from a renowned French company.
“Roswell,” Fredrick said in a hushed voice. “These crates must have been smuggled from France.”
His brother walked over to stand next to him and replied, “This is further proof that Lord Drycott is smuggling goods but Kendrick is more concerned withwhohe has transported in.”
“What is this factory supposed to be?” Fredrick asked.
“According to Kendrick, it is used for cloth weaving, but it is nothing more than a workhouse. The people are paid only ten shillings a week, and I doubt that covers more than very sparse meals for them.”
Fredrick’s heart ached for the laborers toiling in these harsh conditions. How were they able to survive on such meager wages? With the average wage ranging from twenty to thirty shillings a week, it appeared that Lord Drycott was indeed taking advantage of his laborers.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the dimly lit hall, signaling the presence of an intruder or a guard. In the shadows, Fredrick and Roswell stood frozen, their hearts pounding. They couldn’t afford to reveal themselves. Lord Drycott mustn’t learn of their investigation into his smuggling operation.
As the tall, broad-shouldered figure came closer to where they were hiding, Fredrick retrieved his pistol that was tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He hoped he didn’t need to use his weapon, but he was determined to be prepared for any situation.
The clouds must have shifted because a beam of moonlight streamed through the windows, revealing the man’s face. Caleb. They had found him, and he was alive.
Roswell stepped out from the shadows and demanded, “Where in the blazes have you been?”
Caleb’s face took on a stunned expression, clearly not expecting to encounter them in the darkened factory. “Roswell?” he asked.
“Yes, and Fredrick is with me,” Roswell replied.
Caleb’s face broke out into a big smile. “It is about time that you found me,” he said. “I had almost given up hope.”
