“Aye, that might be true, but the mill’s in a grim state. No roof. No waterwheel. Mill’s not much use without them. ’Twill take capital, and that I don’t have. Not yet, anyway. No sense in dwelling on that now—not when there is naught to be done for it except to keep working and earning money.”
Anthony swigged the last of his ale. “Come on. Finish that up. Mulligan told me there’s a transport convoy taking a load to Scarborough that requires an escort. With any luck we’ll be assigned to it. Good money in that.”
“I suppose.” Timmons indulged in a drink and wiped his wool sleeve across his mouth. “Did ye hear ’bout the thefts on Lowburn Street? Bricks through t’ windows of three houses. Probably more. Rumor is t’ residents intend to ’ire Walstead to set things right.”
Yes, there was no shortage of crimes for men like Anthony to investigate, and the assignments were far from predictable. The wealthy would pay for all sorts of tasks they could not—or would not—do for themselves. The adventure and challenge of never knowing what obstacle he’d face next was a beacon to Anthony. He craved it. Needed it to feel alive. He was a thief-taker, after all. Victims of all sorts hired him or, rather, William Walstead, to bring about justice or for protection.
After emptying their tankards, Anthony and Timmons stood and exited the dark pub into the budding, misty morning. In the short amount of time he’d been inside, the busy street had flared even more to life with more people, more carts, more noise. Anthony took several steps, when a man clipped his shoulder.
“Have a care,” Anthony mumbled, continuing forward.
Then a second man, directly behind the first, clipped his shoulder too.
Once was an accident. Two times was not.
Anthony muttered in annoyance and turned to the two men, who were both as dirty and shabby as one would expect a worker from this corner of Leeds to be. There was a hardness, a directness, in the workmen’s stares that set Anthony on his defenses.
“Walstead’s Watchmen, are ye?” The taller one motioned toward Anthony’s armband and spat on the ground next to the toe of Timmons’s boots.
Anthony gave no reaction for several moments as he continued to assess the men. “Something you’d like to say?”
The first man’s dingy hair clung in greasy strings to his weathered skin, and he inched closer, slow and determined, in the midst of the street’s bustling commotion. “Yea, I do. Ye tell ol’ Walstead I got a message for ’im. Tell ’im that ol’ Rodden remembers. Tell ’im the only thing that’ll make me forget what ’appened at Swendel Bay is t’ money ’e owes me, and t’ longer ’e keeps me waitin’, t’ looser me tongue’s gonna get.”
It was a common occurrence—one that used to be unsettling until Anthony had been on enough jobs to see that many men apprehended by one of Walstead’s men held grudges.
“If the message is so important, tell him yourself.” Anthony continued walking.
“Listen to you, takin’ a tone just like ’im,” called the man after him. “Sooner or later, someone’ll take ye all down a notch or two and put ye in t’ gallows where ye belong.”
Anthony slowed his steps, pausing only a moment for Timmons to join him in walking. It was one thing to stand his ground. It was another thing entirely to engage with a man intent on a fight. But as Anthony strode away, the truth of what had been said smacked.
As respected as Walstead was, his methods were, at times, questionable. He was just as comfortable dealing with criminals as with magistrates and judges, but if he got results, no one questioned him.
And neither should Anthony.
He continued on. He’d not spend energy concerning himself with a random stranger. He would do as he always did—put the events behind him and focus on the next chase.
Chapter 3
Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut and drew several deep breaths. Her chest tightened and her head throbbed with each intake of the morning’s stifling air.
Three hours.
Three hours since she had discovered Roland’s body.
In that time, her entire life had shifted, a tremulous pivot that still seemed impossible.
She opened her eyes slowly, taking a fresh account of the men gathered in the study to assess the infamous Roland Prior’s body. Men from every discipline had converged on the morbid event—magistrates, physicians, the coroner, the vicar, Roland’s private secretary. Every single one of these people had something to gain by assisting in the investigation into his death. Roland’s influence and power, which at one time had impressed her, seemed to continue even posthumously.
She should not be here, in this chamber. She was a woman and, as such, she was supposed to be too weak-minded and delicate for such talk. She should retire to her private quarters and leave the men to deal with the gruesome details of death.
Yet she did not move.
Their deep, low voices rolled on in a continuous, monotonous hum, adding to her general sense of numbness. She was neither hot nor cold. Neither tired nor alert. Even her movements, her voice, was like that from a sluggish dream, when everything was slightly off-balance and peculiar.
Another man entered the study, drawing her attention from her detached reverie. If it had been anyone else, she probably would not have noticed.
But she noticed Silas Prior.
Everyone did.
Silas was Roland’s older brother, and he was the only person in Leeds who was more influential than her husband.
Immediately Silas’s austere gaze latched onto her.
Silas was ten years Roland’s senior and taller by almost a head, and yet their likeness was uncanny. Same icy, pale blue eyes and oddly pale lashes. Same broad forehead, fair complexion, and white-blond hair. She stiffened as he approached. He gripped her elbow and angled her away from the men. “You should not be here.”
Defiance already mounting, she readied herself. Every conversation with this man swelled with potential conflict. Roland’s death would not change that. In fact, it might make it worse. “This is my home, Silas. Where else should I be?”
“This was your home,” he snipped. “Everything will be different now that Roland is dead.”
A shiver traversed her, snapping her from her contemplations, like a freezing gust of wind chilling damp skin. She pressed her lips shut as the statement’s significance dripped over her. Yes, she did know that. Roland had been transparent about his will. She’d be left with very little—certainly nothing to which she’d become accustomed. The fact had been hurled at her as a threat often, as if to make her grateful for the life she led.
“Where’s Henry?” he demanded suddenly.
Charlotte hesitated.
Silas had a vested interest in Henry—one that went deeper than the expected relationship between uncle and nephew. The Prior brothers had no other relatives, and Silas never had any children of his own. As a result, Henry was heir to it all—not only Roland’s fortune, properties, and businesses but Silas’s as well.
She needed to be cautious. “He’s with his nurse.”
“Pack his things. He will come and stay at Gatham House until this is sorted.”
Fire lit beneath her at Silas’s finite tone, especially as the news of Roland’s intention to send Henry to live with Silas reverberated so fresh in her mind. She’d not allow it. Not under any circumstance. “That’s not necessary. He’ll remain with me.”