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Chapter Twelve
“This won’t do at all,” Bridget said as soon as she stepped into the house. From the outside it had appeared quite satisfactory. It was in the Liberties, a working-class area of the city, which was where the informants had said Innishfree met. The house was old and ramshackle, but that was to be expected. Her practiced eye noted the street in front was free of debris, the windows were all intact and clean, and smoke puffed from two of the four chimneys.
She had not expected that she and Callahan would share the house with other renters. She should have. They were supposed to be poor. Insurrectionists had no interest in the wealthy. The rich had too much reason to favor protecting the status quo. But the house was not large, and it had been divided into four flats, which meant she and Callahan would be sharing one room.
The room was furnished and clean, the furnishings worn but still serviceable. But she couldn’t help staring at the small bed—barely big enough for two people—that took up one wall. A screen stood nearby, most likely hiding the chamber pot and wash basin. In the center of the room was a table and four chairs. On the other side of the room, about twelve steps away, was a tiny window under which sat a stove and beside which were larder shelves.
“What’s wrong with it?” the man who’d introduced himself as Patrick Donnelly asked in a thick Irish accent. Bridget reminded herself to use her own accent. She’d have to be careful until it became second-nature.
“Me wife and I are grateful to you,” Callahan, said, stepping in. “This is more than we could have hoped for.”
Donnelly nodded. “It’s late. I’ll let you settle in and come back tomorrow to show you the pub.”
“Pub?”
Bridget heard the strain in Callahan’s voice.
“I’ll explain more tomorrow.” He tipped his hat and was gone, shutting the door behind him.
Bridget set the clipboard she’d clutched in her hand since leaving the ship on the table. “We cannot stay here. Why didn’t you tell him this will not do?”
“First rule of running a swindle.” He held up a finger. “Don’t let everyone in on the swindle.”
She frowned. “This is a mission, not a swindle.”
“Call it what you will, but I’ve been thinking.”
“Scheming,” she said under her breath.
“Exactly. Why did Baron want me for this scheme?” He moved to the fireplace and began stacking the kindling beside it inside. She was thankful as it was cold enough to see her breath.
“It’s a mission, and because you’re Irish.” She pulled out one of the chairs and sat. Her body felt heavy and tired, her eyes burned when she blinked.
“No, it’s because I know how to run a swindle, and that’s what this is.” He lowered his voice, probably aware the walls were thin. “We’re here pretending to be Mr. and Mrs. Kelly so we can cozy up with Innishfree. Sure and the only difference is we’re not trying to swindle them out of blunt but information.” He struck the flint, sending sparks leaping into the kindling he’d stacked. She couldn’t help but be impressed by how easy he made it look.
“And you’ve swindled many people out of blunt?” She gave him a pointed look, but he didn’t have enough shame to look embarrassed.
“Enough to run this swindle in me sleep, and I’m telling you that the best swindles don’t involve any shills.” Satisfied with the fire, he moved away.
“Are you still speaking English?” She studied the scratched wood of the table. She should find a tablecloth for it. In the meantime, she had the urge to lay her head on it and close her eyes, just for a moment.
“A shill is a”—he waved his hand—“a helper. Someone who’s in on the game.”
“An accomplice,” she murmured.
“Right. Donnelly is our shill, but if Baron knows how to play a long game—and it looks that way to me, so it does—he won’t tell the shills any more than they need to know. So we play our parts with him and with everyone. Then no one is suspicious.”
Bridget did lay her head on the table then, her face turned so she could see Callahan, whose brows were knit together now.
“Are you not feeling well?”
“I’m tired, and there’s only one bed. What are we supposed to do about that?”
He looked at the bed as though just now noticing it. But Bridget didn’t believe that for a moment. He shrugged. “We’re playing at being married, Mrs. Kelly. It makes the most sense if we share the bed.”
She sat up. “No.”
“Sure and supposing someone comes to visit late at night or early in the morning. How do we explain why I sleep on the floor?”
