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Yesterday, Hannah might have agreed with her. But today, she was not so sure. One glimpse of the sailor’s eyes at the wharf this afternoon had reignited those guilt-racked nightmares of a pickpocket with haunted gray eyes hanging from Tyburn Gallows.

Tearing her gaze away from the window, she studied their tightly clasped hands. She was an adult. A forward-thinking, intelligent woman with, as Sophia had so recently pointed out, a healthy dose of independence. It was time to put her irrational fear of this place behind her. “It is fine,” she said. “We will be gone from here soon enough.”

“Yes,” Sophia reassured. “In no time at all.”

The carriage rolled forward. Was it her imagination that it was moving more slowly than normal? A dog barked. As though issuing a warning, another dog responded. Hannah suppressed a shudder.

“Tell me when we have reached Holborn Street,” she said, keeping her attention on her lap.

Sophia squeezed her hand gently. “I will, and until then, we shall discuss Mr. Cantrell’s growing interest in you.”

Hannah’s head jerked up. “No. We most certainly will not.”

Sophia grinned. “Would you truly rather me discuss it with Elinor?”

“Sophia, you are completely incorrigible!”

“So you and Elinor have repeatedly informed me,” Sophia said unrepentantly. “But if you are allowed to show your independent streak at the London wharf, I should be permitted to be completely incorrigible on occasion.”

“This should not be one of those rare occasions.”

“I disagree. This is the perfect time.”

“But there is nothing to discuss. Not only is Mr. Cantrell Father’s solicitor, but he must also be close to twice my age.”

“If he is truly as old as all that, then he is most definitely in want of a wife,” Sophia said. “Besides, I cannot see why you are so opposed to the notion. He is pleasant enough to look upon and has a respectable career and income.”

“You sound as though you are making a purchase.”

Sophia shrugged ruefully. “I daresay many matches could be categorized that way.”

But not Hannah’s. Her heart issued a familiar silent entreaty. She was twenty-three years of age and likely should have been married off before now, but thankfully, her father was as adept at recognizing fortune hunters as she was, and he had turned away several would-be suitors due to suspicious motives. Marriage had to be more than a business contract. Hannah was familiar enough with those to know that she wanted something beyond a financial agreement with the man she married.

Swallowing her fears, she raised her free hand. “Please, Sophia, no more.”

Sophia’s smile was gentle. “Very well. But though you may not have desired this discussion, it has passed the time well. We are now safely on Holborn Street, and you may focus on your cargo inventory list for the remainder of our journey.”

Chapter 6

Samuel paused his walk down Bow Street to study the sky. Clouds obscured the sun, but if the shadows were any indication, it was between noon and one. He could confirm his estimate by consulting his pocket watch—the one he’d purchased with duly earned wages—but he knew better than to pull out a shiny timepiece within sight of London’s darker alleys. Besides, he was no stranger to marking time by the sun and constellations. He’d been doing it for years.

He ran his finger between his neck and the collar of his newly purchased shirt. He was unused to the tight fit, which was only made worse by the ridiculous cravat that current fashion dictated he wear. Until this morning, he’d had no notion that the traditional loose clothing sailors wore was so much more comfortable than the breeches, fitted jacket and shirt, and cravat every other gentleman in England sported. He’d drawn the line at purchasing a wig, however. Captain Lund had worn one when formality had demanded it, but he’d been considerably older than Samuel and had disavowed the practice whenever possible.

Visiting a tailor had been a priority after securing himself a rented room. Thankfully, Samuel had sufficient money tucked away to take care of his immediate and basic expenses. But the sooner he found employment, the better. And though it still felt foreign to consider working anywhere beyond the HMS Swan, he’d had weeks to think on it as he’d lain in his cot, recovering from his injury. With his future in the Royal Navy in jeopardy, an idea had begun percolating in his mind. The Blind Beak had offered him a new chance once before. Was it too much to hope that he’d be willing to do it again?

Samuel scanned the road. A gentleman approached Number Four with purpose in his steps. A cat darted out from behind a pillar ahead of him, and across the street, a door swung open, releasing a burst of voices as two older men sauntered out. Samuel’s stomach tightened. He’d not set foot in the Brown Bear since the day he’d exited with Marsden at his side, but he assumed its function as a place to hold and interrogate suspected felons remained unchanged. And that the Blind Beak still partook of his luncheon there. Offering a silent prayer that his hunch would pay off, Samuel approached the popular establishment, pushed open the door, and walked into the dimly lit room.

The public house was busy. The murmur of multiple conversations was interspersed with an occasional shout, laugh, and clatter of plates and cutlery hitting wooden tables. Samuel stepped to the side, making use of the deeper shadows along the walls while he perused the room. He had no way of knowing if Marsden was still working for the Blind Beak, and identifying any of the other runners he’d seen while waiting in the anteroom at Number Four twelve years previously would be a stretch. On that fateful day, he’d been more consumed by concern for his own welfare than by remembering the faces of others.

He turned his focus to the table at the center of the room. It was likely no coincidence that the Blind Beak had chosen to sit there all those years ago. He had no reason to hide and would undoubtedly relish the opportunity to listen in on the various conversations going on around him. Two men sat with their backs to him, conversing with a third man. Samuel took another step to the right, and his pulse quickened. The third man was stoutly built and wore a dark jacket over his white shirt and cravat. A black band ran across his forehead, disappearing from sight beneath his white wig.

As far as Samuel could tell, the Blind Beak had scarcely changed. But Samuel had. In almost every facet of his life. Would the Blind Beak recognize that? More to the point, would he recognize Samuel at all? It might be to Samuel’s advantage if he did not. Samuel took a deep breath through his nose and released it slowly through his mouth. This was his chance to implement yet another change. As long as the two men at the Blind Beak’s table didn’t get in the way. One of them pushed his chair back. Samuel hesitated no longer. With firm and determined strides, he approached the table.

The Blind Beak’s companions were on their feet in an instant, their hands reaching for the pistols at their waists. Samuel halted. Had the men’s ready weapons been insufficient clues, their catlike reflexes and protective stances would have given them away. There could be no doubt that these were the Blind Beak’s men. Or, rather, Sir John Fielding’s men. If Samuel was to get beyond an initial greeting with the gentleman, he’d best start thinking of him by his title and given name rather than the nickname whispered with trepidation throughout the alleys and jail cells of London.

“I mean no harm,” Samuel said, raising his hands so the men could see that he was unarmed. “I simply desire a word with Sir John.”

“Talk to the clerk at his house.” The sandy-haired runner with a hooked nose still had his fingers wrapped around the handle of his pistol. “Sir John does not take reports or complaints.”