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“Then you won’t mind if I check the contents of your flagon.”

Charlie raised his knife and aimed the tip of it at Samuel’s chin. “Ya’ll not take another step unless it’s t’ leave.”

Samuel’s thoughts continued to race. Charlie had assumed that Samuel was here to take back material goods. Ten minutes ago, Samuel would have agreed with him. His focus had been on recovering stolen rum. Now, however, he saw the possibility of leaving this oversized hovel with something far more important: information. The trick would be discovering how much Charlie knew about their former associates without him realizing what Samuel was after.

Over the last couple of weeks, Samuel had sat across the room at various public houses, watching Jealous, Clarke, and other Bow Street men draw information out of hardened criminals. As far as Samuel could tell, there were two key elements for the interrogators’ success: a basic level of trust and a bargaining chip. If he played his cards right, he could manage both.

“You do not recognize me, do you, Charlie?”

“There’s nothin’ t’ remember. I don’t know who squealed an’ told ya me name, but ’e’ll pay fer it.”

Samuel drew off one glove. The scar Grimsby’s knife had left across the top of his hand had faded, but it was still visible. “Do you recall the day I received this wound? We’d come back from working the Strand with a gold sovereign each, but I didn’t hand mine over to Grimsby fast enough for his liking.”

Charlie staggered back a pace, his eyes widening as if he’d seen a ghost. “I don’ believe it. Someun put ya up t’ this.”

“No one else knew about the two shillings we hid under the floorboard at the old place.”

Charlie gaped. “S-Sammy?” He shook his head. “Yer eyes are right. An’ so’s that groove in yer chin. But I thought ya never made it outa Newgate alive.” His brows came together. “It makes no sense. ’Ow can ya be ’ere all dressed up an’ speakin’ like a toff?”

His new and painful reality settled heavily on Samuel. He was a misfit. Captain Lund had transformed the urchin pickpocket into a gentleman. Samuel no longer belonged among petty thieves, and he could no longer claim a ship’s crew. Sadly, his transformation only went so far. With limited financial resources and a highly undesirable background, he was equally out of place in the world of the socially elite. A vision of Miss Hannah Dennington handing him his cravat rose before him, bringing with it an unexpected ache. He quashed the vision immediately.

“I’m not a toff,” he said. “I’m a recently returned sailor.”

Charlie snorted. “Sailors don’ look nor talk like you. I know. I see ’em on th’ wharf ev’ry day.”

“After I was caught, the Blind Beak sent me to the Marine Society.” Sir John’s nickname slipped out naturally while he spoke with Charlie. “From there, I went to the Royal Navy. The captain took an interest in me.”

“If yer goin’ t’ tell me ’e taught ya t’ read an’ write an’ speak like a gent, I don’ want t’ ’ear it. Them things don’ ’appen t’ people like us.”

“You are looking at the proof.”

Charlie stared at him as though challenging him to refute it. When Samuel remained silent, he sneered. “Must be nice.”

Anger flared in Samuel’s chest. Charlie had not the faintest idea of all that Samuel had endured. During those first years on board ship, he’d suffered the agonies of a boy who’d had everything familiar stripped from him. He’d endured taunting, beating, and days locked in the hold. The terror associated with climbing the rigging when he was so weak from seasickness that he could barely walk had lingered with him long after he’d begun working his way up the ranks. Added to that were the horrors of war at sea: the sounds of cannons, crashing waves, and screams mingled with scenes of destruction, blood, and death.

He pushed the terrible images away and attempted to redirect his anger.

“Where’s Thrasher?”

“Dead,” Charlie said bluntly. “Consumption took ’im two years ago.” He drew back his shoulders. “I’m in charge o’ th’ gang now.”

Samuel should have anticipated such news. Thrasher had been considerably older than the boys and hadn’t been in good health when Samuel had known him. Samuel felt no sorrow over the loss of the self-serving man. Indeed, he owned to some gladness, especially as learning of Thrasher’s death made his next far more critical question appear quite natural. “What about Grimsby?”

“Grimsby?” Charlie sneered. “Thought ’e were too good fer us, ’e did.”

“Where did he go?”

A sudden wariness flickered in Charlie’s eyes, and he raised his knife again. “Who wants t’ know?”

Tell the truth, or string Charlie along? Samuel had mere seconds to decide. “I know people who might be interested in information about his whereabouts.”

Charlie’s wariness remained, but it was now joined by an unmistakable gleam of greed.

“’Ow much are these people willin’ t’ pay?”

The last time Samuel had been at the Denningtons’ house, Mr. Dennington had expressed a willingness to do whatever it took to bring the highwayman who held Miss Dennington hostage to justice. Taking him at his word, Samuel stared Charlie down. “The hogsheads of rum,” he said. “We both know you stole them. I’ll pretend I didn’t see them, and you tell me where I can find Grimsby.”

“An’ if I don’t?”