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ords were slurred. The man was obviously drunk.
“I’m not going to rob you,” Maximus said impatiently. “Where do you live?”
But the man wasn’t listening. He’d started wailing weakly, his entire body thrashing rather like a landed flounder.
Maximus frowned, looking around. The people of St. Giles had begun to creep from their houses in preparation for the day. Two men scurried by, their faces averted. Most here knew better than to show interest in anything resembling danger, but a trio of small boys and a dog had gathered at a safe distance across the lane, staring.
“Oi!” A little woman wearing a tattered red skirt advanced on the boys. They made to run, but she was quick, grabbing the eldest by the ear. “What did I tell you, Robbie? Go’n fetch that pie for yer da.”
She let go of the ear and all three boys darted off. The woman straightened and caught sight of Maximus and the wounded man. “Oi! You there! Leave ’im alone.”
Tiny though the woman was, she was brave enough to confront him, and Maximus had to admire that.
He ignored the man’s continued moaning and turned to her, whispering. “I didn’t do this. Can you see him home?”
She cocked her head. “ ’Ave to see to me man, then start me work, don’t I?”
Maximus nodded. He dipped two fingers into a pocket sewn into his tunic and came out with a coin, which he tossed to her. “Is that enough to make it worth your time?”
She caught the coin handily and glanced at it. “Aye, ’spect it is.”
“Good.” He looked at the wounded man. “Tell this woman your place of residence and she’ll see you home.”
“Oh, thank you, fair lady.” The drunken man seemed to think the little woman was his savior.
She rolled her eyes, but said with a sort of gruff kindness as she came over and bent to take his arm, “Now what mess ’ave you gotten yerself into, sir?”
“ ’Twas Old Scratch, plain as day,” the man muttered. “Had a great big pistol and demanded my purse or my life. And then he hit me anyway!”
Maximus shook his head as he moved off. Stranger things had been imagined in St. Giles than highway robbery by the Devil, he supposed, but he hadn’t time to stay and learn more about the matter. It was already far too light. He swarmed up the side of a building, making his way to the roof. Below he could hear the clatter of hooves and he swore under his breath. It was early yet for the Dragoons to be about St. Giles, but he didn’t want to take the chance it might be they.
He ran across the angled rooftops, leaping from building to building. He had to descend to the ground twice, each time for only a short run before he was back traveling by London rooftop.
Twenty minutes later he caught sight of Wakefield House.
When he’d first started his career as the Ghost of St. Giles, he and Craven had very quickly realized that he would need a secret means of access to the town house. Which was why, instead of approaching the house directly, Maximus slid into the gardens in back. They were a long, narrow strip of land between the house and the mews, and at one side was an ancient folly. It was small, little more than a moss-covered stone arch enclosing a bench. Maximus entered and knelt to sweep aside a pile of dead leaves by the bench. Underneath was an iron ring set into the stone paving. He grasped it and lifted and a square block of stone pulled back on well-oiled hinges, revealing a short drop to a tunnel. Maximus lowered himself inside and pulled the covering stone back on top. He was in complete and utter blackness.
Wet blackness.
Maximus crouched, for the tunnel was only about five feet high—not nearly tall enough for him to stand upright—and began crab-walking through the cramped space. The walls were barely wider than his shoulders and he brushed against them often. Water dripped in a slow lament, and he splashed through stagnant pools every third step. He could feel his chest tighten, his breath coming too light and fast, and he fought to breathe deeper, to lay his hand against slimy brick without flinching. Only a few feet further. He’d used the tunnel for years. He should be resigned to its horrors—and the memories they evoked—by now.
Even so, he couldn’t help but draw a deep, relieved breath when he came to the wider entrance to his underground exercise room. He felt carefully along the wall as he stepped down, searching for the small ledge that held tinder and flint.
He’d only just struck a spark when the door that led to the house opened and Craven appeared with a candle in hand.
Maximus exhaled in relief at the light.
Craven advanced toward him, holding his candle high. Maximus had never told his valet his feelings on the tunnel, yet as in innumerable times past Craven was lighting the candelabras set into the walls as swiftly as he could.
“Ah, Your Grace,” the valet drawled as he worked. “I’m gratified to see that you’ve returned in one piece and with barely any blood about your person.”
Maximus glanced down and saw the rusty stain on his tunic sleeve. “Not mine. I found a gentleman who’d been robbed in St. Giles.”
“Indeed? And was your other mission fruitful?”
“No.” Maximus stripped off the tunic and leggings of his costume, swiftly donning his more usual breeches, waistcoat, and coat. “I have a task for you.”
“I live to serve,” Craven intoned in a ponderous voice so solemn it could only be subtle mockery.
