Page 1 of A Problem Princess

One

London

April 1818

Clayton Elliott stepped up behind the porter in the dark alley. Around them, the borough lay quiet and still in the early evening shadows, as if holding its breath in anticipation of the nighttime debaucheries to come. “Hello, Burton.”

The older man spun around, startled. His meaty hands clenched into fists to defend himself, but Clayton would never let the man come close enough to land a blow. Not with his own fingers curled around the small pistol he held at his side.

Burton recognized Clayton’s face in the shadows and relaxed, yet he wasn’t at all happy to see him. “You.” He spat on the ground. “What the hell do you want?”

“Information.”

“About?”

“Scepter.”

Burton froze at the name. Then he laughed. “Ain’t no more Scepter.”

Clayton wished to God that were true. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Then ye’ve heard wrong.”

For the past six months, Clayton had been using Burton to stay informed about happenings at the London docks, hoping to hear news of Scepter, a revolutionary group that had pledged to overthrow the British government. If Scepter was attempting to regroup after the execution of their leader, the Marquess of Hawking, then it would certainly be a dockworker who’d have heard. Few people knew the comings and goings of powerful men like the laborers who worked the quays and ships.

“Tell me what you know,” Clayton ordered.

“Scepter don’t exist no more.” Another spit to the ground, this one in capitulation. “Least not like it did.”

“You swear on your life?”

Burton croaked out a hoarse laugh. “If I tell ye anythin’ about what the men of Scepter are up to, that’s what it’ll be, all right—my life.”

“Not if you cooperate. I’ll make it worth your while. You know I will.”

Burton gave him a hard once-over from hat to boots, most likely to figure out exactly how many guns and knives Clayton had hidden beneath his black greatcoat in addition to the one in plain sight in his hand. Yet he was also assessing the power that Clayton possessed as a Home Office undersecretary to fulfill his promise.

“But if you lie to me,” Clayton warned and pointed his pistol at Burton’s chest, “I will kill you myself before Scepter’s men have the chance to.”

Burton was Clayton’s last lead in his search for information about Scepter. His Home Office operatives had turned up nothing new about the group since Hawking’s execution. The lack of evidence pointed toward what Burton and Clayton’s other contacts in London’s underworld had told him—Scepter had died along with the marquess.

Clayton had come to believe that the group was a hydra that simply grew a new head whenever an old one was cut off. But how many heads did the monster have left? Or had the men of the Armory truly managed to kill the beast after all?

He needed answers, and damn it to hell that he was left with only Burton to provide them.

“There’s a ship at Greenwich leaving at dawn,” Clayton told him, “whose captain is looking for a good shipman. He’s offering twice the regular pay and might just be persuaded to give you the position of third mate if I ask him.” He paused, dangling the reward as bait. “Of course, that all depends on what information you can give me.”

Burton’s face lit with greed, and he licked his lips. “Haven’t heard much at all ’bout Scepter. They’ve done a few bits of business ’ere an’ there in the stews and warehouses, but nothin’ organized. Mostly by their old managers tryin’ to carry on the businesses without ’em. They’re like dogs after scraps, tryin’ to pick up what they can while the goin’s still good. Others are makin’ for the Continent or up north to stay one step out o’ Newgate.” He gave a ghastly grin of amusement that showed three missing teeth and a lip permanently scarred from an old fight. “Scurryin’ ’round like rats, they are, lookin’ for holes to run into an’ places to hide.”

“And their leader?” Hawking’s execution would have created the perfect opportunity for an underling to seize control. “Who’s attempting to organize them?”

“No one. I told ye. It’s done fer.”

“But you’ve heard rumors. What are they saying?” When Burton didn’t answer, Clayton clucked his tongue. “Damnable shame if that boat sails from Greenwich without you.”

Spurred on by greed, Burton admitted, “Just stories floatin’ ’round the docks that a new leader’s arrivin’ soon from the Continent, ready t’ drop in an’ scoop up the reins.”

“You don’t believe them?”