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Chapter Seven
Baldwin had just situated himself in his darkened coach when the door was flung open and Corbyn stepped inside.
“You are helping the chit now?” Corbyn asked as he sat down across from Baldwin, his voice dripping with disapproval.
“I see that you got my letter,” Baldwin replied as the coach jerked forward.
“I did, and I have some questions.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Corbyn untied his white cravat and tossed it to the side. “If I understand your letter correctly, you want me to use the agency’s resources to find this woman, this Edith Hardy.”
“Yes.”
Frowning, Corbyn asked, “For what purpose?”
“You said yourself that Miss Hardy could be one of the women that were reported missing in the newspaper.”
“She might likely be, but the Bow Street Runners were assigned the case,” Corbyn said. “No one asked for our assistance.”
“That hasn’t stopped us before.”
Corbyn shook his head. “I know Runners are incompetent at best, but that doesn’t mean we interfere every time they botch an investigation.”
“All I am asking is that we send out a few inquiries to the other agents around Town and see if they have seen anything that would warrant some concern.”
Leaning forward, Corbyn removed his grey jacket and promptly turned it inside out, making it brown in color. “I have agents residing in the rookeries,” he shared, setting the jacket next to him. “Everything they see is suspicious. Crimes are rampant there, and some Runners won’t even go into certain parts of Town.”
“Someone must have seen these girls being abducted,” Baldwin pressed.
“Most likely, but we have more pressing matters at hand,” Corbyn argued. “You are supposed to be trying to find a French spy and stopping a radical group.”
“I can do both.”
“Can you?”
Baldwin reared back. “What are you implying?” he asked.
“You seem awfully preoccupied with this Miss Dowding.”
“That is not true.”
Corbyn gave him a knowing look. “Miss Dowding keeps showing up where you are, and she has a sad, distressing story to get you to do her bidding.”
“What are you inferring?”
“Maybe you were right,” Corbyn said with a slight shrug. “Perhaps Miss Dowding is more than what she is letting on.”
“I do not believe that to be the case,” Baldwin replied. “Her eyes do not speak of a devious nature.”
“Just promise me that you will be cautious.”
“Aren’t I always?”
Chuckling, Corbyn replied, “I believe we both know that to be untrue. Sometimes I wonder if you have a death wish.”
As Corbyn started unbuttoning his ivory waistcoat, Baldwin asked, “What are you doing?”
