Holyoake finally managed to remove his shirt, and Margaret’s mouth went dry. His back was to her, and she had always had a weakness for his back. He had broad shoulders and sculpted muscles that tapered into a slim waist. He was thinner now than he had been, the muscles stretched tightly, but he was still an impressive male specimen. He lifted a cloth, dipped it in the water, and applied soap. With a practiced efficiency, he scrubbed his chest, arms, and the part of his back he could reach.
Margaret wanted to offer to help with the parts he couldn’t reach, but she knew where that would lead. He still wanted her. He’d told her that last night. She still wanted him too.
She wanted her freedom more, she reminded herself as he dropped a clean shirt over his upper body and bent to remove his trousers. The shirt was long enough that she probably wouldn’t see his backside, but she turned to give him privacy all the same.
Or perhaps she wanted to avoid temptation.
She went to the table and lifted her reticule, removing the knife inside and sliding it into the sheath inside her boot. Holyoake had placed his pistol on the table as well. She lifted it, testing the weight. Far too heavy for her to use it with any accuracy. In training, she’d done well with lighter firearms.
“Ready?” Holyoake asked.
“Yes.” Margaret turned to him, and he eyed the pistol in her hands warily.
“I’ll take that.”
She handed it over, surreptitiously looking him up and down. He cleaned up well and looked almost presentable even with a rumpled neckcloth and dusty coat. He would have looked like a gentleman heading home after a drunken night out if not for the bruises all over his face. Those gave him a rather dangerous look.
“Are you certain you’re well enough to go out?”
He’d been attempting to move about the flat as though nothing troubled him, but she was his wife. She could see that he favored his injured side.
“I’m fine. Don’t think I’ll allow you to have all the fun without me.”
“Lead on,” she said and followed him out the door.
Vicky and Tabby weren’t outside the door to the flat on the ground floor. It was late morning now, so perhaps they were off doing whatever they did during the day. The street outside the building was still empty. Holyoake had chosen his quarters well.
“Where do you want to begin?” she asked.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, his face somewhat shadowed by the tricorn he’d set on his head just before they stepped outside.Clever, she thought. It would hide some of the bruising.
“Where do you think we should begin?”
“I’m not your student any longer,” she said. “But any student would answer the same—the last place you encountered the assassin.”
“That was at a tavern in Marylebone.”
Margaret looked at the sky. It was clear, the sun peeking through the quickly moving clouds. The weather was mild but a bit windy. She didn’t think they’d be caught in a rain shower, but Marylebone was a good long walk from Seven Dials. “Should we hail a hackney?”
“Where would we find a hackney in Seven Dials? We’ll walk.”
“Are you certain you’re up to that?”
“Are you certain you are?”
Margaret titled her own hat to shield her fair skin from the sun and started toward Marylebone. Holyoake was at her side immediately. “I’m still hungry, but we can eat at the tavern. I trust the food there more than the fare we might buy here.”
“Agreed,” she said. “Can you describe the assassin, so I know who to be looking for?”
“A man with dark hair, about five and a half feet tall, and quick. Thin and wiry, not some big brute. The sort of man who can slide in and out of shadows.”
“That describes half of the criminal element in London. What about his face?”
“I didn’t get much of a look at it. No scars, nothing to make him stand out.”
As they made their way through Seven Dials and toward the sundial pillar that marked the entrance and exit, the number of people they encountered increased. Children, in particular, seemed to be everywhere. Margaret held on to her reticule, fingers closed around the drawstring. She didn’t have anything in her pockets, and more than once she felt little fingers inside those pockets, searching. The children gave Holyoake a wider berth, and at one point, he growled at them, scattering them and giving her room to walk more quickly. “I hope you have enough coin left by the time we reach this tavern. What is the name of it?”
“The Queen’s Arms. He must have tracked me there. I had an appointment to meet with one of Vanderville’s former servants. The man never showed, and after waiting two hours, I left. He caught me just outside. A few well-placed blows and a quick jab, and then he was gone.”
