did not doubt that his abilities and instincts were still there, but he no longer possessed the hunger to hunt. He wanted to be at home with his wife.
Damn, he thought in rising agitation.
'Morgan will gut me like a cod if he finds out that I asked you to do this,' Sayer said ruefully.
'He won't find out.' Nick joined him at the table, shaking his head in refusal as a barmaid approached them with a jug of ale. The coarse-faced girl pretended to pout, then winked as she sidled away.
'I could do it myself, I think,' Sayer said softly, heedful of the possibility of being overheard. 'But I don't know all the ins and outs of Fleet Ditch as well as you do. No one does. And you're the only one who could easily identify the fellow I want to catch, as you've had prior experience with him.'
'Who is it?' Nick set his forearms on the table and removed them promptly as he felt his sleeves sticking to the wooden surface.
'Dick Follard.'
The name took Nick by surprise. Unlike the average criminal in London, most of whom were opportunists, Follard was of that category considered to be the criminal elite, both skillful and soulless. Nick had arrested Follard two years ago, after the bastard had robbed the house of a prosperous attorney and killed the man and raped his wife when they'd offered resistance. However, Follard had been spared the gallows and been transported instead, in return for offering evidence against his accomplices.
'Follard was sent to Australia,' Nick said.
'He's come back,' Sayer replied with a grim smile. 'Like a dog to its vomit.'
'How do you know that?'
'I can't prove it, unfortunately. But there have been rumors of sightings lately, not to mention a string of violent robberies that look exactly like Follard's work. Yesterday I questioned a poor woman who was raped by a thief who had broken into her home and killed her husband. Same method of breaking in, same knife-work on the body, and the woman's description of her attacker matched Follard's-right down to the scar on the right side of the neck.'
'Jesus.' Frowning, Nick pinched the bridge of his nose as he pondered the information. 'I can't believe that Morgan would send you to catch Follard alone.'
'He didn't,' Sayer said cheerfully. 'He wants me to question some of Follard's old cohorts and give him a report. I'd rather just bring Follard in directly.'
Nick couldn't help grinning at that, knowing exactly what Morgan's reaction to that would be. 'If you succeed, Morgan will flay the hide off you for such damned stupid showmanship.'
'Yes...and then he'll kiss my bony arse for capturing a returned transportee. And I'll be on the front page of theTimes , with scores of women begging for my attention.'
Nick's smile turned wry. 'That's not as enjoyable as you might think,' he informed his friend.
'No? Well, I'd like to try it, nevertheless.' Sayer cocked his brow expectantly. 'Are you game?'
Nick nodded with a sigh. 'Where do you want to start looking?'
'Reports are that Follard has been seen in the slums between Hanging Ax Alley and Dead Man's Lane. It's like an anthill with all the holes in the walls, and tunnels between the cellars-'
'Yes, I know the place.' Nick kept his face expressionless, although he was aware of cold distaste coiling in his belly. He had gone in those slums before, and even with his high tolerance for the horrors of the underworld, it was a nasty experience. The last time he had visited Hanging Ax Alley, he had seen a mother prostituting her child for gin, while beggars and whores crammed in the narrow lanes like sardines.
'We'll have to search quickly,' Nick said. 'Once they realize we're in the area, word will spread fast, and Follard will slip away before we ever clap eyes on him.'
Sayer grinned with barely repressed enthusiasm. 'Let's go, then. You lead the way.'
They left the tavern and made their way through streets bisected with open gutters, the stench of dead animals and rotting garbage hanging thick in the air. The decaying buildings leaned against each other as if in exhaustion, groaning with every strong wind that blew against them. There were no signs to identify streets, nor were there numbers on houses or buildings. A stranger to the area could easily become lost and quickly find himself robbed, carved up and left for dead in some dark yard or alley. The poverty of the slum inhabitants was unimaginable, and their only escape was the temporary one to be found in a gin shop. In fact, there was a gin shop on nearly every street.
It bothered Nick to see the wretchedness of the people around him, the skeletal children, the degraded women and desperate men. The only healthy creatures to be found were the rats and mice that scuttled across the street. Until now, Nick had accepted all of this as an inevitable part of life. For the first time, he wondered what could be done for these people. Good God, they needed so much that it nearly overwhelmed him. He remembered what Lottie had said to him only a few days earlier...'There must be some issue that concerns you,'she had said.'Something you want to fight for...' Now that he'd had time to consider it, he had to admit that she was right. As Lord Sydney, he could accomplish far more than he ever had as Nick Gentry.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Nick glanced cautiously at Sayer, who was clearly thinking of nothing more than finding Dick Follard. Just as he should be. No distractions, Nick warned himself, even as another voice filtered through his mind.
'There comes a time when a man has tweaked the devil's nose once too often, 'Morgan had told him.' And if he's too stubborn or slow-witted to realize it, he'll pay with his own blood. I knew when to stop. And so must you...'
It was indeed time to stop, although Nick hadn't known it until this moment. After helping Sayer with this one task, Nick would finally let go of his identity as a runner and reinvent himself once more. This time as Lord Sydney...a man with a wife, a home, perhaps even children someday.
The idea of seeing Lottie pregnant with his child caused a sweet pang in his chest. Finally he was beginning to understand why Sir Ross had found it so easy to resign from the magistracy when he'd married, and why Morgan valued his family above all else.
'Gentry,' Sayer muttered. 'Gentry?'
Lost in his thoughts, Nick did not notice until Sayer spoke once more.
'Sydney!'
Nick gave him an inquiring glance. 'Yes?'
Sayer was frowning. 'Keep your wits about you. You seem a bit distracted.'
'I'm fine,' Nick said curtly, realizing that he had indeed been preoccupied. In this place, that could be a fatal mistake.
They ventured into the slum district, and Nick assessed the area with a critical glance, trying to remember what he knew of the warren of alleys, tunnels, and crossways between buildings. He passed a hand lightly over his chest, checking the reassuring weight of an iron-filled leather cudgel in his coat pocket.
'Let's start with the buildings on the north side of the street,' Nick said. 'We'll work our way to the corner.'
Sayer nodded, his body tensing visibly as he prepared for action.
They searched the buildings methodically, pausing briefly to ask questions of those who seemed likely to know something. The rooms and burrows were badly lit, not to mention crowded and fetid. Nick and Sayer met with no resistance, although they were the focus of many suspicious and hostile stares.
In a workshop near the end of the street-ostensibly a buckle-maker's shop, but in reality a harbor for coiners and forgerers-Nick saw the betraying flicker in a scrawny old man's eyes when he heard the mention of Follard's name. While Sayer checked through the shop, Nick approached the man with an inquiring gaze.
'Do you know anything about Follard?' Nick asked gently, fingering the edge of his own left sleeve with his opposite hand, in a signal well-known to those in the London rookeries. The subtle gesture was a promise of payment for valid information.
The man's paper-thin lids lowered over his yellowed eyes as he considered the offer. 'I might.'
Nick crossed his palm with a few coins, and the old man's wrinkled fingers closed over the money. 'Can you tell me where I may find him?'
'Ye might try the gin shop on Melancholy Lane.'
Nodding in thanks, Nick glanced at Sayer and indicated with a swerve of his gaze that it was time to leave.
