Page 29 of When You Rescued Me

“Yes, my lord. But if you remember, Jealous was not with us at Primrose Hill, and with no clear sighting of the man’s face and no hints from our sneaks, we are left making guesses as to his identity and have expended considerable time attempting to locate suspects.”

Sir John’s unfocused gaze made it difficult to gauge his thoughts, but his deepening frown clearly indicated his displeasure. “To have four of my men witness a robbery and be none the wiser as to who we are dealing with is beyond belief. It is not good enough, gentlemen! The government expects more of us than that. The public expects more of us than that. Blast it all, I expect more of us than that!”

Given how hard Samuel had been working to prove his worth to the magistrate, the reprimand stung. But he’d endured enough dressing-downs in the navy to know that offering any manner of justification or excuse would be both unhelpful and unwelcome. Results or, at the very least, answers that would lead to fruitful results were the only things that would fully appease the frustrated magistrate.

When Samuel had returned to Bow Street and shared Mr. Dennington’s request that he oversee the investigation at the wharf, Jealous had happily relinquished the assignment. The principal officer had passed along his initial observations that the warehouse lock had been picked and that nothing more than three hogsheads of rum was missing, but he had scarcely spoken to Samuel since. Instead, he had joined forces with Clarke to rout out the escaped highwayman. He likely had assumed that Samuel would come to him if he had questions and that any information a novice Bow Street assistant might offer about the highway robbery could be supplied by Clarke. In fairness, Samuel had thought the same. But he had long since learned that no two people saw life through the same lens, and he was beginning to wonder if that was also true of investigations.

He sifted through his memories of the attack on Primrose Hill, fixing his thoughts on his interaction with the man holding Miss Dennington prisoner. He could picture him all too easily. Was that because the image of the man’s knife at the young lady’s throat had been so horrific? Or was it because the nagging sense of familiarity he’d experienced then lingered even now?

He shifted his focus to his impressions. The highwayman’s voice had triggered a memory from his childhood. He’d arrived back at Thrasher’s house early, and Grimsby had been the only one there. It had been an ideal scenario for the bully, and he’d quickly cornered Samuel, threatening him with the tip of his blade at Samuel’s throat.

“A sneak will cave soon enough,” Jealous said. “We shall keep after them until one of them does.”

Samuel blinked, jolted back to the present by Jealous’s voice. But the image of Grimsby towering over him remained at the forefront of his mind. His stance, his eyes, his voice. The villain who had tortured Miss Dennington had possessed an exact match.

Samuel took an unsteady breath as a new sense of certainty settled upon him. “Are you familiar with a man by the name of Grimsby, Jealous?” he asked.

“George Grimsby?” The officer scowled. “To my detriment, I am. A person would have difficulty finding a worse scoundrel. But he’s as slippery as an eel. He should have been sent to the gallows five times over, but whenever he’s gone before a judge, he’s managed to produce an alibi.”

“Describe him,” Samuel said.

“Tall, broad shouldered, crooked nose—likely from having it broken in a fight—small, deep-set, dark eyes.”

“What of his voice?”

Jealous gave him a puzzled look. “I do faces, Ross, not voices.”

“I can help with that,” Sir John said. “George Grimsby has a rough, raspy voice that grates on the nerves.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”

Samuel looked from Sir John to Jealous to Clarke. They all knew his background. This was the very reason he’d considered himself an asset to the Bow Street office, yet drawing on unpleasant memories from his early years was unexpectedly difficult. “George Grimsby is the leader of the Bardsey Gang,” he said. “I have only now connected the highwayman on Primrose Hill with the bully from my youth, but I am fully convinced that they are one and the same.”

For three full heartbeats, the room was silent. Jealous and Clarke stared at him. Sir John gazed at a space above Samuel’s head.

Then the magistrate pushed back his chair and reached for his cane. “Find him!” he growled. “Use whatever means you must. I want Grimsby standing before me by month’s end.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Rising to their feet, the three men responded as one.

Setting the tip of his cane on the floor before him, Sir John started for the door. “Well done, Ross,” he said, not bothering to look back. “Next time, however, do not take so long to share your insights. I would appreciate fewer sleepless nights, and I daresay Jealous and Clarke feel the same.”

Chapter 12

Hannah sat in the armchair closest to the fire in her father’s study, an open book in her hands. She would have rather been seated at his desk, poring over his most recent business accounts, but as it had taken considerably more persuasion than normal for her father to finally allow her to join him downstairs, she was not going to push him any further. She had a sinking feeling that her experience with the highwaymen after her insistence upon going to the wharf would prove to be a turning point in her father’s leniency toward her and her activities.

“How are you feeling?” her father asked. He was seated at his desk, working on his correspondence, but he’d stopped his writing to study her.

“Very well,” she said. “It’s a joy to be out of my bedchamber after so many days.”

He nodded. “I understand completely. I felt the same after I broke my leg. But I will not have you overexert yourself on your first visit downstairs. Your sisters issued me the same warning, and so I wish to know the moment fatigue sets in so that Mrs. Romford may assist you back to your room.”

“Yes, Father,” she said. “But over the last couple of days, I believe I have regained my normal strength.” It was true. To a point. It was not so much her strength but her stamina that was still lacking. Yesterday, she had managed four hours without a rest; today, she wished to go at least five.

“Hmm.”

Her father appeared appropriately skeptical, but she gave him a warm smile and turned back to her book. He need not know that she’d read the same page three times because her thoughts were elsewhere. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Quarter to three. Sophia had told her that Mr. Ross usually came to the house between two and three o’clock. She hoped he did not break from routine today.

Romford’s soft knock on the study door came seven minutes later. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Dennington, but Mr. Ross is here.”

“Have him come in, Romford,” her father responded.