Page 14 of The Unfortunate Debutante
Luke crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m afraid I am not following this conversation. Is this Bow Street Runner trustworthy?”
“Yes,” the three men said in unison, but then Jonathon added, “He is just a dunderhead.”
“Well, then,” Luke replied, uncrossing his arms, “how do I get in contact with him?”
Benedict directed his gaze at Jonathon. “You don’t, but we will.”
3
Simeon Martin foundhe rather detested most people. It was an unfortunate discovery on his part, but perhaps it was a good thing. These past few years had hardened him, making him sullen. People tended to steer clear of him, allowing him to work his cases alone as a Bow Street Runner. It was easier that way, and much simpler. He answered to no one, except for the Bow Street magistrate. More importantly, he wasn’t responsible for anyone besides himself.
Now, he sat in the darkened corner of the crowded Bottomless Pit Pub, observing the ruffians sitting at the table across from him. He had been tracking a group of rebels garnering strength after the Corn Laws were passed by Parliament. Little was known about this Anti-Corn Law ring, but after spending a small fortune on bribes, he was able to identify one of the members. Mr. Carew Boyle.
Mr. Boyle was of average height, a little on the thin side, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders, and he worked at a shop down the street. The suspect was sitting with three other men, all of whom were becoming increasingly inebriated.
The aging barmaid sashayed up to the table. “Can I get ye another drink, love?”
“Not at the moment,” he replied dismissively as he slid a few coins in her direction, hoping to satisfy her.
She deposited the coins into her ample bosom and left without saying another word.
He didn’t blame her for checking up on him. After all, he’d been sitting at this table for more than two hours watching these men toss back drink after drink of this cheap ale.
Simeon’s plan had been simple. He would follow Boyle until he led him to the group of rebels. Then he could assess the threat. He needed to see if the group was organized, or if they were a bunch of unmotivated complainers. Not that he blamed them for their anger. He had been outraged when the Corn Laws had passed, despite his vote against it. Regardless, it mattered not. He rarely attended Parliament. He didn’t belong there.
He shoved his drink to the side, causing it to slosh over the top. He was a blasted viscount. What a terrible consolation prize! Prince George had honored him by giving him the title of Viscount of Wentworth after his role in bringing down the smuggling ring in Gravesend. He became Lord Wentworth while Dr. Emmett Maddix claimed Martha Haskett’s heart.
His first love; hisonlylove.
Simeon had spent the past year trying to forget her, but how could he forget someone that he had fought so valiantly to find? Unfortunately, once he finally found her, she had already given her heart to Emmett. It didn’t matter that he had wealth, power, and now a title. He wasn’t content. He was still trying to find a new purpose for his life.
The door was wrenched opened, and the last ray of light shone on the wall. Two familiar faces ducked under the low frame and stepped into the room, but he felt no desire to make his presence known. He was on an assignment, and he did not have time to chit-chat with Lord Jonathon Beckett or Benedict, the Marquess of Lansdowne. Nor did he want to.
Lord Lansdowne, dressed plainly tonight, scanned over the room until he spotted him. Simeon acknowledged him with a tip of his head, but he made no move to call him over. Rather than take the hint, they headed straight for him.
Once they approached the table, he politely acknowledged them. “Beckett. Lansdowne.”
“May we join you, Wentworth?” Benedict asked.
Reaching for his tankard, Simeon replied, “I’m on assignment at the moment.”
Jonathon knowingly glanced over his shoulder at the table where Mr. Boyle was sitting. “We’ll help you. Which one is your suspect?”
He scoffed, loudly. “I am quite familiar with yourhelp. I experienced it firsthand in Gravesend, and, if you recall, your horribly executed plan got me shot.”
Benedict let out a laugh. “None of the agents managed to get themselves shot. Just the Bow Street Runner. Ironic, isn’t it?”
The barmaid bustled over to their table and asked, “Can I get you blokes some ale?”
“They were just leaving,” Simeon declared.
Sliding into the seat across from him, Beckett smiled up at the barmaid. “Pardon my friend’s boorish manners. We would like two tankards and bread, if you have it.”
“We sure do, love,” the barmaid responded, smiling. “We just baked a whole new batch.”
Watching her walk away, Simeon asked in a dry tone, “What do you want?”
“Just wanted to catch up with an old friend,” Benedict said, sitting next to Beckett.
