The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (16 page)

He muttered a curse under his breath, and then looked back at Nicholas. “The gang
you’re looking for is called the Kingsmen. They’re the ones that owned Mouse.”

“If I may, you seem distracted today, Lady Sophia. Is there anything I might do to
help?”

Sophia looked up from her notes, the sheets of paper spread out on the table in front
of her. Mr. Thomas Bean, the man in charge of the Bow Street Runners, sat at his desk
across the sparsely furnished room, eyeing her with concern. Lettie’s words of warning
had kept her up for much of the night thinking. There were many reasons to involve
Bow Street in her mother’s case, and only one not to: Nicholas. She felt sure he would
be very angry with her if she was to tell Mr. Bean about the Bishop.

Beneath the covering of her green muslin gown and the fine cotton of her corset and
chemise, Sophia felt her heart beat faster as she considered Mr. Bean’s question.
She could hardly make decisions based on Nicholas’s moods.

“As it so happens, there is,” she said gravely.

A bear of a man, Mr. Bean pulled a wooden chair over from his own desk and settled
it into place next to Sophia. “Then I’m glad I asked.”

Sophia folded her hands together in her lap and looked directly into Mr. Bean’s kind
eyes. “There is a lead in my mother’s case.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Bean asked, the instant, keen interest in his voice layered with
surprise. “I’ve heard nothing of such things.”

“The information was gathered from other sources. It is reliable,” she assured him.
She couldn’t reveal her knowledge of the Young Corinthians and fervently hoped he
would not demand the details.

Mr. Bean’s broad brow furrowed in concern. “Lady Sophia, I know you have engaged the
services of several individuals over the years to investigate your mother’s death.
Is this information from such a source?”

“No, Mr. Bean,” she replied, wanting to put his mind at ease—at least on that point.
The “individuals” that he referred to had been no more than well-intentioned novices
at best and charlatans at worst. The work of detection to solve long-cold crimes was
still a relatively mysterious undertaking in and of itself, so the men’s failure to
find any useful information was not that unexpected. But Sophia had been disappointed
all the same. “I have not sought help from yet another investigator.”

“Naturally, I am curious as to the identity of your source, both for your safety and
my own interest as a Runner. I will not demand such information from you,
however, even though it is within my authority to do so.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bean.” Sophia smiled at him, deeply appreciative of his restraint.
She had witnessed for herself just how persuasive he could be when he wanted information.
His size alone had intimidated and compelled answers from scores of criminals he’d
interviewed over the years. “Although I would prefer to reveal the source of my information,
I cannot. I am, as ever, glad for your consideration and kindness.”

Mr. Bean’s features reddened and he cleared his throat with a harrumph of embarrassment,
waving his hand dismissively. “Ah well, you cannot blame a man for being curious,
and I trust you will confide in me when you can. Now, let us get to the heart of things.
Tell me what you’ve found.”

“Of course,” Sophia agreed, aware that Mr. Bean would persist in his curiosity, but
glad for the reprieve. “Now, where to begin. Let me see …” She paused, sorting out
what was absolutely necessary to share with her mentor. “By the time I was made aware
of the renewed effort to find my mother’s killer, the individual who committed the
act had been identified.”

“And that would be whom?” Mr. Bean asked.

Sophia could not see the harm in giving the name. In fact, not doing so might hinder
Mr. Bean’s ability to help. “Mr. Francis Smeade.”

“A gentleman?” Mr. Bean wondered aloud, tapping one beefy finger on the deep dent
in his chin.

“You are aware of Mr. Smeade?” Sophia asked.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Mr. Bean replied. “His death was as suspicious as
they come—’course, a gunshot wound to the chest always is. And his being a gentleman,
plus the location of the shooting … We do not find many corpses in the middle of Tower
Bridge.
Everything having to do with the case was odd. Or is odd, I should say …”

Mr. Bean’s voice trailed off, as though he did not want to continue. “Not to imply
any wrongdoing, of course, Lady Sophia …”

“I know what you are wondering,” Sophia offered mercifully. “And the answer is no,
I do not know the identity of his killer, nor does my source. But I believe there
may possibly be a way to find out.”

Mr. Bean’s relief over not having to accuse Sophia of a crime was tempered by his
obvious desire to know more. “Is that so?”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Bean. It seems Mr. Smeade was employed by a gang of thieves and
murderers headquartered in St. Giles.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Lady Sophia,” Mr. Bean urged. “As you know, there
are numerous gangs in that section of the city.”

Sophia took a stack of papers from her table and paged through it until arriving at
the drawing of Mouse’s brand. “Unfortunately, there is very little information to
be found regarding the gang. We have this, though.” She handed the drawing to him
and waited for his response.

“Where did you get this?” Mr. Bean asked. He studied the sketch intently before quickly
folding the paper into fourths and tucking it into his inner vest pocket.

Taken aback by his action, Sophia scooted to the edge of her seat. “Mr. Bean, why
did you take the drawing?”

“Answer my question, Lady Sophia,” he commanded, his voice polite but firm.

“It was burned—branded, actually—on the back of a young boy,” Sophia replied, glancing
at the corner of the drawing that peeked out from Mr. Bean’s dark blue coat. “And
now it is your turn to answer my question.”

Mr. Bean looked about the room, clearly checking the location of the other Runners
and clerks to make certain
he would not be overheard. “I took the drawing for your safety, Lady Sophia,” his
voice rumbled, pitched lower so only she could hear.

“But it is nothing more than a crude sketch. How could such a thing be dangerous?”

“You say you found the likeness on a young boy’s back?” Mr. Bean asked. “Was the boy
alive or dead?”

“Quite alive, I assure you,” Sophia replied, “and on the run from the Kingsmen.”

Mr. Bean nodded in understanding, crossing his substantial arms over his equally broad
chest. “Lady Sophia, I must urge you to turn the matter over to the Runners.”

“You know I want to be involved in the investigation. If I give everything over, you’ll
cut me out.”

“You cannot assume such a thing,” Mr. Bean countered, his mouth settling into a determined
line.

“You stole a drawing right out of my hands, Mr. Bean. Because it could, in some unknown
way, put me in danger. If I am not allowed to possess a simple sketch, how can I believe
your men will allow me to be involved in an investigation involving the drawing?”

Mr. Bean’s dark eyebrows lowered until they appeared to form almost one continuous
line of irritation. “You’ve put me in a difficult position. I am honor-bound to reveal
any information that pertains to an open case to my superiors.”

“And I am sorry for that, Mr. Bean,” Sophia admitted apologetically. “Still, it does
not have to be true. If you would tell me what you know of this gang, without any
more questions, then the only information you have is their connection to Smeade’s
death. Surely you can’t lie about what you
don’t
know?”

Before Mr. Bean could answer, a loud crash sounded from the hall, followed by a heavy
thud, startling Sophia.

“Let me see to whatever is going on in the outer chamber, and then we will continue
our conversation,” Mr. Bean said. His level gaze promised Sophia he meant every word,
then he stood and strode across the room.

He shoved against the partially open door and stepped out.

And Sophia heard a deep, familiar voice say dryly, “He’s only a Runner, Mouse, not
God. There is no need to be frightened.”

12

“What is all this?” Mr. Bean demanded.

Nicholas turned to the large man who stepped out from behind a partially opened door.
“I am afraid your Mr. Connelly frightened young Mouse here.”

The Runner looked first at Mr. Connelly, inspecting his co-worker’s slight build and
undeniably pleasant face, then turned his attention to Mouse, who had taken up residence
behind a cabinet near the front door of the office.

“Mr. Bourne?” Sophia peered around the Runner, who seemed to be in charge. “And Mouse?
Is that you?”

Nicholas barely had time to register the surprise of her lovely features. Her slim
figure, clad in a fashionable gown trimmed in cream ribbon, moved with swift grace
as she slipped out from behind the Runner’s broad bulk and hurried past him to the
boy. “Whatever happened? What are you doing here?”

“As I just told Mr.…?” Nicholas paused to look inquiringly at the bulky man, noting
with admiration that the Runner stood a full head taller than him. He held out his
hand and waited for the man to take it.

“Bean,” the older man replied, accepting the friendly gesture and shaking Nicholas’s
hand politely.

“Mr. Bean?” Nicholas repeated, curious as to whether he might take the opportunity
to underscore just how delightfully the man’s name failed to describe him. He
looked first at Sophia, whose patience appeared to be waning, then back to Mr. Bean.
The Runner hardly looked in the mood for pleasantries, either.

“Very well,” Nicholas continued, releasing Mr. Bean’s paw. “As I was just telling
Mr. Bean, Mouse found Mr. Connelly’s attack to be quite frightful.”

“Your attack?” Sophia asked the young Runner accusingly.

Mr. Connelly’s mouth gaped at the question. “I swear I did nothing of the sort.”

“Then what did you do?” Sophia pressed, reaching for Mouse and pulling him upright.

“I said hello to the lad. That is all. I promise.”

Sophia led Mouse around the cabinet and gently tugged him after her until they joined
Nicholas. “Mr. Bourne, are you indulging your habit of stretching the truth?”

Nicholas looked down at Mouse, who was watching Mr. Connelly and Mr. Bean with fierce
yet frantic eyes.

“Oh, all right. The jig is up, as they say,” Nicholas replied, patting Mouse on the
back. “Mr. Connelly is not to blame for the boy’s reaction—not directly, anyway. It
seems young Mouse has a bit of an aversion to the Runners, don’t you, Mouse?”

The boy kept looking back and forth at the men as if his life depended on it. “You
could say that.”

“Mr. Bourne?”

Nicholas turned to the doorway. Mrs. Kirk stood on the threshold, holding a tea tray
and eyeing him with calm inquiry.

“What an unexpected delight, finding you here, Mrs. Kirk.”

“I could say the same to you, Mr. Bourne,” she replied, turning to set the tray down
on the cabinet vacated by Mouse only moments before.

Sophia cleared her throat and looked at Nicholas with
a disconcerting gleam in her eye. “I believe we will take tea in Mr. Bean’s office
today, Mrs. Kirk.”

“Of course.” The older woman lifted the tray once more and walked toward them.

Sophia intercepted Mrs. Kirk just as she reached Mr. Bean’s door. “Thank you, Lettie.
I will see to the tea. If you would be so kind as to assist Mr. Connelly and entertain
young Mouse while Mr. Bourne and I speak with Mr. Bean, I would be ever so grateful.”

Mrs. Kirk smiled knowingly and gestured for Mouse to follow. “Come along, Mouse.”

The boy peered up again at Nicholas, uncertainty and fear written on his worry-pinched
features.

“It will be all right,” Nicholas assured him. “I’ll just be in there,” he added, nodding
toward Mr. Bean’s office, “taking tea with a Runner.” He gave the boy an exaggerated
wink, then efficiently nudged him in the general direction of Mrs. Kirk.