A half hour later they alighted from a hackney carriage on the east bank of Westminster Bridge.
Michael felt a trickle of hope as they approached a smart building with four columns, each topped with a statue in the classical style. The words “Coade and Sealy’s” were carved into the stone facade. Although the windows were darkened at this hour, the neighborhood was clearly a respectable one. “Is this it, then?” he whispered to Anne.
She shook her head. “That’s the gallery. The kiln is five hundred yards downriver.”
He grunted. Of course it was. Knowing his luck, it was probably between a row of basement gin shops and a cockfighting ring.
Once they cleared the handful of houses near the bridge, the landscape opened up. Truth be told, it wasn’t as bad as Michael had feared. It was industrial, to be sure, but not especially seedy, with deserted timber yards to their left and open fields to their right.
Not that he was letting his guard down. Someone called out from the nearby timber yard, and Michael whirled around, fists raised.
It proved to be an owl.
Anne gave him a sideways look but said nothing. “We’ll start by sweeping the area around the kiln,” she whispered, “looking for anything suspicious. We should question anyone we encounter, so long as they don’t look disreputable. Some people are likely to recognize me, so I’ll keep my head down and let you lead the questioning, at least to start. If anyone seems wary, we’ll use the cover Sarah suggested the other day, that you’re a young man out on the town, and I’m your—”
He cut her off, not particularly wanting to hear Anne refer to herself in those terms. “I remember.” He lifted his head. “It smells like we’re getting closer.”
“It does,” Anne agreed.
Indeed, as a row of cramped houses sprang up on their right, not only did the smell of charcoal become thicker, Michael began to detect a faint glow emanating from a building in the distance.
The open fields ended, and they entered a small neighborhood with a few streets of houses and a brewery. They passed what looked to be a basement gin shop. A couple of women lingering on the corner cast Michael suggestive smiles, which he ignored.
“This should be it on our left,” Anne whispered.
They made a quick circuit of the kiln, finally finding the entrance to its yard on the far side of the building. Michael was given to understand that Eleanor Coade’s company made bespoke statues for the wealthy out of some sort of ceramic material (the exact composition was a closely guarded secret), that looked like marble and were completely weatherproof. He saw examples of Mrs. Coade’s handiwork strewn about the yard as they approached the kiln—a recumbent lion here, an urn there, a statue of Poseidon that seemed destined for a fountain in the far corner. It was disconcerting to see statues that looked like they could be ancient treasures sitting in the mud, but there they were.
“Oy,” a sharp voice called, “what’re you two doing?”
Michael wheeled around and saw a night guard approaching. He immediately stepped in front of Anne. She squeezed his arm. “Question him,” she whispered.
Michael nodded. “Good evening. Apologies for having startled you—”
“You can’t tup her here,” the man said, cutting straight to the chase. “Go find someplace else.”
Michael’s hands clenched into fists. He willed himself to calm down. Although he hated the insinuation the guard had just made, it was their cover story, after all. “That’s not why we’re here. We’re looking for a little boy who’s been kidnapped. We’ve reason to believe he might have been brought to this neighborhood. Have you seen anything suspicious? Say, men bringing young boys to one of the nearby houses at all hours?”
The guard snorted. “A wise man don’t see nothing he’s not meant to. Now get out of here.”
Anne was already tugging at his arm. Michael let her lead him away. “We’ll get nothing from him,” she whispered as they stepped back into the street.
They continued north past more houses and more industrial yards. There came the sound of footsteps against the cobblestones, and a little old woman clutching a basket to her chest emerged from the shadows.
Before he even realized her intention, Anne had slipped her hand from his arm and crossed the narrow street. “Anne!” he hissed, hastening after her.
She stepped directly into the woman’s path, pushing back the oversized flaps of her cap. “Forgive me for detaining you, but I was wondering if you could help me. I’m Lady Wynters—”
“Lady Wynters?” The woman’s eyes flew to Anne’s face. “Blimey, it really is you.”
“Would you mind if I asked you some questions?” Anne asked.
The woman gave a nervous chuckle. “Can’t imagine what use I’d be to the great Lady Wynters, but ask away.”
“I’m looking for a boy who’s been kidnapped. I’m trying to track down a man who’s been selling little orphans as apprentices to chimney sweeps. Have you seen any boys being brought to a particular house? We think they’re delivered in a shiny black carriage with a crest of two wild boars.”
The woman’s expression turned stony. “I don’t know nothing about any of that,” she said, staggering back a step before hurrying past Anne. “Beg pardon, m’lady,” she called, already ten feet down the street.
“Can we just leave?” Michael muttered. “We’re not going to learn anything here.”
“I wonder if we just did.” At Michael’s quizzical look, Anne added, “She was glad to talk to me. She seemed eager to help… until I brought up Lord Gladstone’s carriage. It makes me wonder if she has seen it.”
“Even so, we can’t knock on every door within smelling distance of the kiln.” He steered Anne around a man who was lying against a building, reeking of gin and muttering to himself. “And this isn’t the best neighborhood.”
“We’ll look just a bit longer,” Anne said, turning toward a narrow alleyway. “Let’s check in here.”
“I’m going first,” Michael muttered.
After a few feet, the side street opened up into a tiny brick courtyard. Little light filtered down to street level due to all the washing hung between the rows of buildings. Most of the windows were either boarded up or covered with paper and rags. Michael knew this was a common practice to get out of paying the window tax, but the ubiquity of the practice also provided a convenient cover for those who didn’t want anyone to see inside.
They had almost reached the end of the courtyard when a door opened. A thin, fair-haired man who was only an inch or two shorter than Michael came ambling down the steps.
The man started at their presence. “Who’re you? What’re you doing here?” he growled.
Anne buried her face in Michael’s shoulder. Her grip on his arm was steel. He knew what she was trying to remind him—act casual and keep to their plan. God, how he hated doing this, hated referring to Anne in the terms he was about to use.
“Nothing much,” he said, trying to sound tipsy and unconcerned. “Just looking for somewhere to take this prime article.” He gave Anne a squeeze.
The man turned to Anne. “Say, I ain’t seen her before. I like a Long Meg, I do, but they’re hard enough to find. Most bunters ain’t tall enough for a Tuppenny Upright. I fancy you know what I mean, being a jack of legs yourself.”
It took every ounce of Michael’s self-control not to throttle him. Anne squeezed his arm. Stay calm. He strove for a jovial tone as he replied, “Indeed I do.” It came out sounding a bit strangled, but the man didn’t seem to notice.
“Why don’t you take her around that corner?” The man nodded to the building behind them. “There’s a little alleyway, nice and private. I fancy a turn with her after you’ve done. As tall as she is, she’ll do nicely for me even up against the wall.”
“This one’s mine,” Michael snapped. “Why don’t you find someone else and take her inside?” He nodded toward the door through which the man had come.
“Because my boss is a right cunt, he is, and he won’t let me bring no one inside.”
“But he doesn’t mind you loitering in the alley, looking for a fancy piece?”
The man looked affronted. “Well, he ain’t there now.”
Michael was inching back toward the main street, ignoring Anne’s attempts to dig in her heels. “You can find someone to bring inside, then, can’t you?”
“I’m telling you, I can’t. If they tell him I brought a moll in there, he’ll skin me alive.”
Michael peered at him. “They? Who exactly are they?”
For a split second the man’s eyes went wide before he schooled his features. “N-never you mind. The point is, I ain’t had a swive in three days, and unless I can find a cat tall enough to do it up against the wall, I won’t be getting one.”
“Well, you’ll have to keep looking,” Michael snapped.
“Hey, now. Don’t be like that. Like I said, I’ll wait ’til you’ve finished with her. Head ’round that corner. You’ll find a nice spot. There’s a good fellow.”
Michael was debating the merits of strangling the man with his bare hands when he felt a sharp pinch on the inside of his arm. He glanced down at Anne.
Her expression was unmistakable, even in the near darkness. Don’t you dare. He gave her a petulant look, and she very subtly shook her head.
He drew in another breath. “Around the corner, you say?” He led Anne the direction the man had indicated, glad at least to be getting her away from that cretin.
Anne pulled him into a nook, then looped her arms around his neck and began kissing his jaw. “That was good, Michael,” she whispered. “Very convincing.”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he muttered.
“Not yet. I wonder who’s hiding inside, who would tell on him to his boss? Let’s see if we can get him to say.”
“That could be anyone. It’s probably just his criminal associates. I don’t want you anywhere near him. We need to—”
“I say,” the man said, peeking around the corner, “here I was, coming to see if you was close to done, and what do I find but you haven’t even started! I’m on a tight schedule here, so get on with it.”
Anne buried her head in Michael’s chest to hide her face. “That’s more like it,” the lanky man said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to check your progress.” He disappeared again.
“Anne!” Michael hissed. “We’re leaving. Now!”
“But Michael—"
“Now!” He grabbed Anne’s hand and pulled her deeper into the alleyway, only to find that the way was blocked by a pile of broken crates.
Cursing, Michael led Anne back the way they had come. “All done, then?” the lanky man asked. Michael didn’t respond but positioned himself between him and Anne as they hurried past.
Michael felt the man grab his arm from behind. “Where do you think you’re going? I said I wanted a go with her.”
Michael shook him off. “I’ve decided I want her for the entire night.”
Unable to take the hint, the man began jogging after them. “That’s fine and good but let me have a turn with her first.” He eyed Anne’s figure appreciatively. “Aren’t you a rum piece? Lift up your skirts for me, little squirrel, this won’t take me but a minute.”
That was when the lanky man made a crucial mistake. After another fruitless attempt to arrest Michael’s progress, he reached out and grabbed Anne by the arm, jerking her to a halt. Her eyes went wide.
“Unhand her,” Michael growled. “Now.”
A scowl crossed the blond man’s face, and this time he yanked Anne’s arm. “The hell I will! Not until I’ve—"
Michael’s fist took the man square in the left eye. The punch would have been enough to knock most men out cold, but it appeared this man’s one redeeming quality was that he knew how to take a punch.
The quality was redeeming only because it afforded Michael the pleasure of hitting him again. A hook to the right temple followed by an uppercut beneath his chin and the man’s body went limp, then crumpled to the ground in a heap.
Anne was staring slack-jawed at the man’s collapsed form. Michael grabbed her around the waist and lifted her over the man’s inert body. “Let’s go,” he growled, hauling her back toward the main road.