The Emperor's Assassin (38 page)

M
orton brought two members of the Foot Patrole as well as Vickery. He left them all before the house, standing by the hackneycoach, its door yawning open. A servant answered, pretended not to know Morton, and went looking for the master of the house. In the vestibule the Runner waited impatiently, leaving the door conspicuously agape.

It was some moments before the young master of the house appeared, blurry eyed and yawning but discomfited all the same.

“Mr. Wilfred Stokes?” Morton demanded.

“Yes…. Am I correctly informed?” he said as he reached the foot of the stair. “You are from Bow Street?”

“That is correct, sir. Henry Morton.” He held up a folded sheet of paper. “And I have here a writ to allow the search of your domicile and the seizure of stolen property.”

The man, all six foot five of him, stared at Morton in mute surprise. “What in the world—!” But the sentence
was lost in outrage and fear. He was not, the Runner realised, a man of dazzling intellect.

Morton stepped aside to afford the young man a view of the Patrole men and the waiting coach. “I shall call my fellows in to roust your home&.” Morton let thepause linger. “Or you can return the painting I seek: a seascape by Claude-Joseph Vernet. You know of what I speak.”

“I have no knowledge of such a—”

Morton waved to the men standing by the coach, who all started forward.

“Wait! Wait!” the young man said. “A Vernet, you say? Perhaps I do know of such a painting. I purchased it recently.”

“I'm well aware of the circumstances under which you acquired it,” Morton said. “If I can't convince a magistrate that you conspired with Lord Robert Richardson to steal it, then I'm sure I can convince him that you knowingly received stolen goods in return for paying Lord Robert's gambling debt at White's. Theft of goods valued at excess of forty pounds is a hanging offence. I will have the painting this instant, or I shall have both you and the painting. The choice is yours.”

Stokes hardly considered this a moment before motioning to his servant, who followed him up the stairs.

“There are,” Morton called up the stairs, “a number of my associates watching the back of this house. Do not even consider sneaking the painting out that way.”

Stokes paused on the stair, half-turned toward Morton, and then continued his ascent. A few moments later Stokes and his servant reappeared, carrying between them the painting in its heavy gilt frame. Morton waved to the Patroles, who came and took the painting toward the waiting coach.

“What more will you have of me?” the young man asked disdainfully.

“Nothing more,” Morton said with a slight bow of his head. He turned and stepped back out into the sunlight.

“What will you do with the painting?” the young man called from behind.

“Return it to its owner,” Morton replied, not looking round.

But the young man had not done. “When you appeared at my door, you deceived me, for you dress like a gentleman. But you're nothing but a bloody horney.”

“And despite all appearances, you're nothing but a thief.” Morton mounted the steps to the carriage, its springs rocking and squeaking as he did. He took a seat and gazed out. The young nobleman still stood in the doorway, staring after him as though trying to think of a final line, but failing utterly.

Lincoln's Inn Fields was quiet, respectable. A family strolled beneath the trees in the park. Two elderly gentlemen sat upon a bench, saying nothing, staring contentedly to the south.

Morton sent his calling card in with a servant and waited. A few moments later Caroline Richardson appeared, hanging back slightly from the door. Morton had the driver help him with the painting, which they set down inside the entry.

Caroline gazed for a moment at the canvas, then turned to Morton, a smile of pleasure and relief on her face.

“How in the world did you find it?”

“Ah, secrets of my trade can't be revealed to the lay public.”

She laughed. She wore a day dress of printed muslin in the fashionable Turkish red, a gauzy chemisette filling in the low neckline. Morton thought that today she did not bear such a resemblance to him, but she was a lovely young woman, dark-eyed and gracious of manner. A keen and curious intelligence shone from those eyes, and she missed very little. Morton found himself feeling suddenly awkward, as though not sure what was expected of him.

“And what is the price of such a miracle?” Caroline asked.

“One cannot put a price on a miracle,” Morton an swered. “It is my pleasure to have been of service.”

“But did you not have to pay the rogue who took it?”

“I offered him a stay of execution in return for the painting. He thought it a rather good bargain.”

“Well, Mr. Morton, I thank you.” She curtsied.

Morton made his good-byes and turned to go.

“Mr. Morton?” she said as he stepped over the thresh old.

He turned back. For a moment their eyes met—like staring into a mirror, Morton thought, though not quite.

“Paintings do not get stolen here often enough. I should hate to think we'd have to wait for such an occasion to meet again.”

“And how would we meet?” Morton wondered. “We both of us detest Almack's.” It was a jest: Morton would never have been allowed through the doors of Almack's.

“Perhaps I might have myself invited to Darley's. I understand the company is varied, and the conversation among the best in London.”

Morton found himself oddly affected by this remark, and when he spoke, his voice was somewhat strained.

“I'm sure Lord Arthur would be delighted to have your company.” Morton bowed again.

He was about to turn to go when she spoke again. “We shall be &
friends
, Mr. Morton. Mark my words. I am seldom wrong.”

Morton could not help it. He smiled. He doffed his hat to her once more and set out onto the street. Something caused him to look back. In a high window he could see the slouched shape of his half-brother, Robert. The young man stared down at Morton for a moment, his face almost entirely obscured by reflections on the glass. Then he turned away and disappeared into the depths of the house.

“Robbie” would bear watching, Morton thought, and set off down the quiet street toward the teeming, vital thoroughfares of London.

T. F. Banks is the pseudonym for Sean Russell and Ian Dennis, two Canadian writers who collaborate on the
Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner
series. Their previous Henry Morton novel was
The Thief-Taker
, also published by Bantam Dell.