She’d done her very best since the day he was born to protect him. Now that Roland was dead, her mission began afresh. She would sooner die than see her sweet son become a cruel man like his father. It was now her purpose to make sure that did not happen.
Chapter 2
Warehouse District, Leeds, Yorkshire
October 1817
Anthony Welbourne locked his gaze on the shadowy figure of man at the end of the alley. He dare not look away, lest he lose sight of his target in the night’s murky darkness.
Apprehending this man—this criminal—was his singular task.
And he would not fail.
In an abrupt jerk, the man, as if suddenly alerted to Anthony’s presence, bolted in the opposite direction.
Like a shot from a cannon, Anthony sprinted after him down the dimly lit, uneven road. Blood surged through his limbs and air whipped through his lungs. In this moment his mind was void of all thoughts except one—his ironclad determination to subdue this perpetrator.
Rain stung his face. His wide-brimmed felt hat flew from his head. His boots smacked the wet cobbled street with each staccato step. The few men lingering on the rain-drenched street inched backward as they approached, melding back into the alleys and ramshackle buildings, not wanting to be seen or involved.
But this sort of chase was what Anthony lived for.
In a subtle motion the perpetrator made his fatal error—he glanced over his shoulder. The action slowed his pace just enough for Anthony to gain ground.
The bulkier man broke to the left and ducked around the corner.
Anthony harnessed every bit of energy, lunged forward, and seized the man’s coat in his fist. He spun him up against a rough stone wall.
The man whirled out from the hold and slammed his fist against Anthony’s jaw.
Refusing to be bested, Anthony pushed him back against the wall with his forearm and then, once certain he had control, shoved him to the ground and pinned him with his own weight.
Within moments the hectic footsteps of the other watchman echoed behind them. Together, Anthony and his partner overpowered the now-winded man, and then with Anthony gripping one arm and the other watchman gripping the criminal’s other arm, they escorted him to the constable’s office.
By the time he’d seen the perpetrator secured in the gaol and stopped in at the office of Walstead’s Watchmen to log his time and activities, dawn was breaking in familiar streaks of smoky gray and mist. Energy and life were still surging through him, as they did after every successful conquest.
Anthony ran a hand down his jaw and opened and closed his mouth, gauging the damage from the blow, then shook it off. If anything, the injury fanned the fire within him. It was impossible to rid the underbelly of Leeds of all the ne’er-do-wells, but tonight he’d apprehended one. And if it made the woman the scum had accosted sleep better, then it was worth it.
If he was prudent, he’d return to his rented chamber at the boardinghouse to sleep, for the next night would, no doubt, call for equal exertion. But he was far too impassioned for rest. He was due to meet Timmons, his friend and colleague, at the Elk Pub, just as he did most mornings after a shift.
As he walked down the awakening street, he adjusted the brilliant Walstead’s Watchmen’s blue band around his arm, ignoring how a group of men to the side of the pub door straightened as he approached.
It was not his presence that caused them to adjust their posture and lower their voices.
It was the armband.
The swath of sapphire wool secured about his upper arm was always the first thing anyone noticed about him. It was the outward mark of his profession—a symbol that he was a member of Walstead’s Watchmen, one of the most renowned groups of thief-takers in all England. Some respected it. Some feared it. But everyone understood it.
Anthony paused outside the public house door to shake the night’s lingering moisture from his greatcoat and his Wellington boots. Overhead, dull morning light filtered through ashen clouds, casting a melancholy hue on Leeds’s hectic Warehouse District. The ever-present black smoke that puffed from the stacks lingered in the air, despite the rain attempting to douse it.
He shoved his fingers through his wet hair to dislodge any remaining drops and cast a cautionary glance to the right, then the left. At present the shift at the Prior textile mill had changed, and drably clad men, women, and children bustled to and fro, their muted voices mingling with the sound of rickety wooden carts and the shouts of the boatmen on the nearby river. One always had to be on guard on this street—a lesson he’d learned all too well in the two and a half years since he returned from the war.
The squeak of the public house’s ancient hinges announced his arrival. Patrons, some of whom also bore the armband, glanced his direction before continuing with their hushed conversations. Scents of stale woodsmoke and ale wafted toward him as he crossed the threshold, and he blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to both the shifting shadows and the thick smoke seeping from the fire in the broad hearth. Jonathan Timmons was seated at a corner table, as expected. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over his eyes, a pewter tankard clenched tightly in his fist.
Timmons looked up as Anthony approached. “What took so long? Was ’bout to give up on ye.”
Anthony pulled out the wooden chair opposite Timmons and sat. “Had to deliver a man to the constable’s office and then stop by Walstead’s.”
“Where’s your ’at?”
“Lost it. Again.” He scooted the chair in closer to the table.
Timmons pushed a second tankard in Anthony’s direction.
He gripped the worn tankard handle, eager for his friend’s update. “And what of you? How did you find Bretton?”
Timmons scoffed and propped his elbow on the rough table and held up his disfigured left hand, displaying the misshapen thumb and only remaining finger. “Constable Bretton said ’e admired my selfless service t’ our country, but unfortunately my injuries render me unable to administer t’ necessary duties of a constable. As such, they do not require my services.”
Anthony’s gaze drifted to the scarred purple skin where Timmons’s other fingers once had been. Anthony had seen the injury so often he barely noticed it anymore, but as he refocused on the wound, the memory of the battle that caused it—not to mention the battle that inflicted Anthony’s own injuries—blazed brightly.
Timmons grunted. “Looks like I’m destined to remain a Walstead’s Watchmen, eh?”
“It’s not so dire, is it?” Anthony grinned in an uncomfortable attempt to cheer his friend. “Steady work. Excellent colleagues. Never a shortage of excitement. Ideal employment, I reckon.”
Timmons snorted. “You’re one t’ talk. You’ll jump ship as soon as you’re able.”
The statement, and the truth in it, sobered him.
Yes, Anthony did have a sharp eye to the future. A man, especially a man who’d endured injuries such as his own, could not chase after criminals his whole life. But at the moment, the goals Anthony had for his future seemed as far off and unattainable as Timmons’s did.
The vision of his deceased uncle’s dilapidated, charred mill flashed in his mind. Anthony had visited the site in the days after returning from the United States, and the devastating tragedy that met him there had heaped burning coals atop the traumas he’d experienced at war. One day he’d return to the site, repair the fire damage, and see that the gristmill was once again functional, but many things had to occur for him to do so.