The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (35 page)

Mouse picked up speed and trotted down St. Mary Hill, turning right into the alley
that ran along the west side of the building. “Here,” he whispered, motioning to Nicholas.
They halted in front of a wall with a large window in it, some distance from the ground.

“How do you propose we access the window?” Nicholas asked, staring up at the dirty
glass.

Mouse lifted his foot and gestured for Nicholas to give him a leg up. “The same way
we did that night, only we weren’t planning on breaking into the warehouse. Just wanted
to see what was inside.”

Nicholas boosted the boy onto his back. Mouse scrabbled up to sit on his shoulders,
and then slowly stood. “The door is just a touch down the alley. Give me five minutes
and I’ll have it open.”

Mouse pulled a rag from his pocket and covered his fist with it, testing the panes
here and there before picking a thin spot and bashing his fist through. His arm disappeared
inside the jagged hole for a moment, then he pushed the hinged panel open. “I’ll see
you in a jig.”

The boy’s negligible weight eased from Nicholas’s shoulders. He looked up in time
to see Mouse’s fingers gripping the sill before they disappeared, too. A muffled thump
sounded as he landed on the floor inside the warehouse.

Nicholas went down the alley and located the door just beyond a timbered loading dock.
The building at his back blocked most of the moon’s light—both a blessing and a curse.
If the Bishop’s men were anywhere within the warehouse, it would presumably be more
difficult for the henchmen to locate Nicholas and Mouse. Of course, it also meant
it would be slower going for the
two once they were both inside. Their single lamp was little match for the large building.

The door abruptly popped open and Mouse’s small frame appeared in the opening. “Come
in, quick.”

Nicholas shooed the boy back inside and followed, reaching behind to quietly push
the door closed. “Any sign of company?” he asked in a low tone.

“Not that I can see, but it’s a big building. Best to keep on our guard,” Mouse replied
in a whisper, gesturing for the lamp. “Here, I’ll lead the way.”

Nicholas handed the light over. “Now will you tell me why we’re here?”

Mouse nodded. “Remember I told ya some of the boys thought the Bishop was up to something?”
He walked quickly down a large aisle that ran down the middle of the room.

“Hardly surprising for someone like the Bishop,” Nicholas commented, looking at the
shelves on each side of him. They reached nearly to the ceiling of the warehouse and
were filled with boxes and wrapped packages of all shapes and sizes.

Mouse continued on down the aisle. “True enough. Stealing is the man’s business—only
we didn’t know he was taking the same thing twice.”

They reached the end of the aisle, coming to a bank of high windows that mirrored
those on the opposite end.

“What do you mean?” Nicholas asked.

Mouse turned around and held the lamp up. “Do you see all of this?”

Nicholas looked back and scanned what he could see of the shelves. The items near
the front were not boxed, that much he could decipher, but little else.

“Give me the lamp,” Nicholas said. He walked toward the shelving on the right side
of the room, peering at the items that sat waist-high. There was a set of diamond
and emerald jewelry. A Fabergé egg. Several antique
snuffboxes inlaid with ivory. He angled the lamplight so it illuminated more of the
shelving, too many similar items to count glittering in the dim glow.

“So this is where the stolen goods are kept until the Bishop arranges for them to
be resold?” he asked, running his fingers across the diamond and emerald necklace.

Mouse suddenly appeared at his side, proving he deserved his nickname. “That’s just
it. This ain’t the place where we deliver the goods. We’re told where to go, sometimes
what to take, then we steal the valuables and return to the warehouse in Marylebone.
This warehouse doesn’t figure in what we do. Not at all.”

“So the Bishop keeps the most expensive items for himself?” Nicholas pondered aloud,
shining the lamp on the emerald necklace. “Why wouldn’t he sell them and keep the
money?”

Mouse reached out and touched the beautiful necklace, pulling his hand back quickly
as if he’d been burned. “It didn’t make any sense to me, either. But now that I know
he’s a magistrate, it does.”

“What difference does that make?” Nicholas asked, turning toward the aisle and walking
back the way they’d come.

“People we rob pay good money to the magistrates to track down their belongings. More
than you’d get reselling,” Mouse replied, hurrying to keep pace. “Much more.”

The two reached the end of the aisle and moved quietly toward the door. “So your boys
were right. The Bishop is up to something. Keeping back the choicest pieces for the
reward money—”

“And maybe even for himself,” Mouse interrupted, looking back at what amounted to
thousands of pounds in items. “There’s too much here. He’d be far behind in returning
things, and that’s not like the Bishop. My
guess is he fancies some of these bits and bobs and plans on keeping them for his
own.”

Nicholas opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air. “Lock up behind
me, then come out through the window. I’ll be waiting to catch you.”

Mouse quickly closed the door and threw the lock, the sound of his small feet running
to the window all that Nicholas could hear.

They had the Bishop’s name, his hidden warehouse, and the boy who could destroy everything
the bastard had worked so hard to attain.

It was only a matter of time.

26

June 17
T
HE
F
ARNSWORTH
R
ESIDENCE
M
AYFAIR

Sophia looked out at the crowd gathered for the Bow Street benefit, a mixture of impatience,
frustration, and sheer nerves washing over her. She should have been pleased with
the turnout. Many of the ton’s most prestigious families were in attendance, the Farnsworths’
ballroom comfortably full. She forced herself to take another sip of lemonade, letting
the cool, tangy drink slide down her throat.

“Impressive attendance.”

Sophia jumped at the sound of Mr. Bean’s voice.

“I apologize, Lady Sophia,” he added, looking slightly chagrined. “I did not mean
to frighten you.”

“Please, there is no need to apologize, Mr. Bean,” Sophia answered. “My mind was elsewhere.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, a thoughtful look on his face. “Ah, am I to
understand that you have not had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Bourne yet?”

“You are,” Sophia confirmed, frowning at the mere mention of his name. “I received
a letter this morning informing me that both he and Mouse were perfectly safe and
that he would see me at this evening’s benefit.”

Mr. Bean nodded his head in understanding. “I too received
a letter, containing the address of the warehouse they visited,” he paused as Lord
Winthrop said hello to Sophia. “And the property is registered in the magistrate’s
name.”

“Then you will arrest him this evening,” Sophia quickly replied, turning to look at
the man. “You’ve proof to tie him to the Kingsmen’s thievery. And I will have a confession
from him, I promise you. Give me an hour in the Bow Street office with the Bishop
and he will admit to my mother’s killing.”

Mr. Bean released a heavy sigh. “I would like nothing else, my lady. But for reasons
I am not at liberty to disclose, we must wait.”

“Wait?” Sophia asked, sure she’d misheard the man, then realized how loud she’d spoken.
Lowering her voice to nearly a hiss, she said, “You have enough proof to arrest him.
There is no reason to delay.”

Mr. Bean scowled. “Have a little faith in the Runners, won’t you, my lady?”

“I do have faith in you, Mr. Bean—otherwise I never would have come to you for help,”
Sophia countered angrily, forcing herself to take small sips of cooling lemonade.
“I believe it is time to refill my glass.”

“Let me, my lady.”

“No, thank you,” she replied. “Mrs. Kirk has been too long in returning from the retiring
room. She was not feeling well earlier today and I should check to see if it is necessary
for her to return home.”

Mr. Bean bowed before Sophia and waited until she’d curtsied to reply, “Very well.
Do let me know when Mr. Bourne arrives, won’t you?”

“I will,” she answered, then strode toward the refreshments. A few ladies of her acquaintance
attempted to ensnare Sophia in conversation, but she simply smiled politely and continued
to walk, needing distance between herself and Mr. Bean.

She reached the lemonade table manned by a liveried footman and waited while he refilled
her cup. The orchestra began to play “The Sussex Waltz” by Mozart, Sophia’s favorite.

She turned to watch the musicians and discovered Nicholas standing near the entrance.
He was speaking with a man Sophia did not recognize.

She abandoned her cup and hastened toward the two men, stopping next to Nicholas.

“Mr. Bourne, there you are,” she said, hopeful that her cheery tone hid her frayed
nerves.

Nicholas wasn’t happy to see her, that much was clear. He gritted his teeth, the muscles
in his jaw taut beneath his tanned skin. “Lady Afton, I did not know that you were
looking for me. Is there something you require?”

Of course he knew she’d been waiting for him. He himself had stated in his early morning
letter that he would see her at the benefit ball. Why was he playing such games?

Sophia looked at the man to whom Nicholas had been speaking and smiled politely. He
was attempting to look as if he was not listening to their conversation, turning his
gaze to the merry gathering of elderly ladies two groups over from theirs. She discreetly
examined his profile, his nose capturing her attention.

“Why, yes, I do require something—an introduction.”

Nicholas grinned at her, but his eyes had gone black. “Of course. Where are my manners?
Lady Sophia Afton, may I introduce to you Mr. Philip Ambrose.”

The nose—his nose. She recognized it from her sketch. His hair had thinned and his
jowls had grown more pronounced, but there he was, come to life.

Sophia was standing before the Bishop.

Her mouth went dry and she felt her knees begin to buckle as the man bowed before
her. Nicholas caught her hand in his.

“A pleasure, Lady Sophia.”

She curtsied, demurely lowering her lashes so that she might collect herself. “Thank
you, Mr. Ambrose. And what brings you here this evening?”

Sophia concentrated on breathing in and out, the man before her seemingly stealing
each intake of air from her very lungs.

“As I was telling Mr. Bourne, I am a magistrate—St. Giles district,” he replied, his
voice surprisingly soft. “The Bow Street Runners are very important to the work that
I do, so I wanted to show my support for the men. And you, Lady Sophia? What is your
connection to the Runners?”

“No connection, really,” she blurted out, willing her heartbeat to slow.

Do not fumble in front of this man, Sophia. Do not give anything away
.

She began again. “That is, I support a number of charities and worthwhile endeavors.
The Runners are amongst those.”

“I must say, myself and my fellow magistrates are thankful for your generous nature.
The rewards offered by the members of the ton allow us to provide support to a larger
area of London,” the Bishop replied appreciatively, though not overly so. “And as
you must be aware, the city is in desperate need of such services.”

Was he toying with her? Sophia’s head began to spin. If she’d been prepared to meet
the man face-to-face, then perhaps she could have managed to converse with some semblance
of intelligence, allowing her to observe his behavior.

She forced a polite smile in response to the man’s false flattery. “You are too kind,
Mr. Ambrose, which makes what I must do even more inexcusable. Mr. Bourne, I’m afraid
Mrs. Kirk is not feeling well. Might you help me arrange for our carriage to be brought
around?”