And this time, the plan would be his alone.
9
SLUGS
Portman Square was a tranquil place early on a Wednesday morn. No hawkers or milkmaids tarried and solely a few carriages trundled abroad, most residents still in slumber.
Miles smacked his gloves against his thigh, nodded to Fairfax his butler and then stormed from the door of his townhouse, marched his way down the steps, across the road, through the iron gate and into the elegant central garden.
His visit to the Regiment Office had ceded the information that Cecil bloody Webb lived but a stone’s throw from himself – in George Street, a single terraced row further into Marylebone, if one ignored the mews to the rear of his house.
Over the past weeks, Cecil Webb could easily have caught sight of Miles taking up residence in his Portman Square townhouse. So could Webb have accessed the mews in order to nobble the carriage? Bide his time and push Miles into the path of that stagecoach? Or pay those thugs to waylay him on Pall Mall?
Miles’ step slowed then paused as the scents of autumn calmed him, the path littered with leaves that had melded to a carpet of gold.
It had been a while since he’d last set eyes on Webb but he could recall his aspect as though yesterday – a little slovenly, a lot shifty and with a weak chin. From the court-martial proceedings, Miles recalled he was a third son to an army colonel but had been involved in some Town scandal and so been offloaded to the army. Strings had been pulled and a lieutenancy within the dragoons had been purchased by his father.
Webb had not been under Miles’ direct command but that of another captain, though the hearsay on him was: fairly useless but fairly harmless.
Though not quite so harmless when Miles, departing his tent late one night to answer a call of nature, had caught a glimpse through trees of Webb handing over woollen cloaks and bayonets to Spanish mercenaries in exchange for a bag of coin.
Miles had bellowed, the mercenaries had fled and the whoreson had been caught in the act.
On another occasion, he might just have cautioned Webb but the icy Spanish Meseta winter had been upon them, a blockade had prevented new supplies and his men were bloody freezing. The loss of cloaks had been of more concern than the bayonets.
Webb could have been more in the suds but his father had intervened and he’d been lucky to be court-martialled and cashiered out, departing the army in disgrace.
Not much of a stretch to conclude Webb would bear a grudge.
A flurry of bronze leaves skittered across the path and Miles resumed his step, departed the central garden and made for Baker Street. Here, on the main thoroughfare, London had awoken with a vengeance and he was forced to dodge doormat vendors, baskets of hot loaves, carts filled with sand and a bellows mender, before turning into George Street.
Miles debated tactics.
He could just keep watch, but in his view, action brought quicker results, and furthermore, Miles felt he’d discern more if he confronted this fellow face-to-face and gauged his reaction. Perchance he’d slotted back into civilian life with ease, found a profession that suited.
Halting on the pavement, he looked up at Number Five George Street. Converted into lodgings for gentlemen bachelors, six shillings secured a reasonably sized bedchamber, parlour, and dressing room, along with the shared services of a valet and a maid. Similar to the Albany where Alasdair lived but cheaper. A terraced abode of smart brickwork, it had windowed attics that must be quite a climb for some poor devil.
A weary maid answered the door and gave the room number of Webb.
Needless to say, it was the attics.
After four flights of stairs, Miles raised his fist to knock on the doo–
It opened before his knuckles could so much as graze the wood and a hatted figure nigh clattered into him.
“What the…” The hat rose to reveal a man, still a little slovenly and a lot shifty but his weak chin had been corrected by a starched cravat and high shirt points.
“Webb.”
Grey eyes the colour of thruppence widened, skin blanching. “Firth.”
“I hoped to have a word? If you’ve time.”
“I’ve n-nothing to say to you.” He endeavoured a sidestep.
Miles countered. “Nothing for a former captain?”
His eye twitched. “Not my captain,” he mumbled, before attempting a step to the other side.
