Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.The old saying threaded through Grimsby’s mind as he stepped through the French door into Alert’s parlor. As always, the room was wreathed in shadows. With the clouds heavy in the sky, there was little light to illuminate the room; he could just make out Alert, sitting in his usual armchair by the hearth.
Mentally cursing the man, Grimsby lumbered forward, Smythe at his back. They ranged before Alert, who remained seated, as he always did.
Neither he nor Smythe needed better light to know Alert was furious, although he hid it well.
“What happened?” Alert’s flat tones cut through the silence.
Smythe told him, baldly and succinctly. He concluded with the most pertinent point. “They were waiting for us.”
When Alert didn’t respond, just sat there looking up at them, Grimsby shifted. “We have to back off. The rozzers know of your game. They’re onto it. If you don’t want to walk away, then at least put the business on hold until the interest dies down.”
Alert studied him, but said nothing.
“Look.” Grimsby tried to find words to convey the situation in all its danger. “There’s those notices out there now, and people have heard about a reward. Next thing we know this boy and his grandma have protection—localprotection—and bobbies on the watch, too. This has become too hot to handle.” Expression hardening, he reiterated, “We need to back off.”
The man they knew as Alert slowly shook his head. “No.” He held their gazes and waited, letting the absolute finality of his refusal sink in. Unbeknown to them, he’d suffered a visit from his blood-sucking cent-per-cent earlier in the evening—just to remind him that reneging on his promise to repay wouldn’t be a wise idea.
He’d assured the man that all was in place. Even if it was he who said so, his plan was brilliant. It would succeed. He’d be free of his debts once and for all; by the turn of the year, he’d have the fortune he’d for years pretended he had.
“We’ll go ahead”—he looked at Smythe—“with the seven boys we have. As you’ve botched getting the eighth, you’ll make do with seven.”
Smythe gave no sign of agreement or disagreement. Which was good enough for Alert. Smythe wasn’t his principal source of concern.
He looked at Grimsby. “You will continue to train and house the boys. You’ll have them ready for Smythe. He’ll complete their training as necessary. And in a few days, we’ll make our move. All you have to do is play your part for a few more days.” He let his voice soften. “That’s all you need do to ensure you never hear from me again—never hear a whisper about what I know.”
What he knew would see Grimsby transported, and, as Grimsby knew, he could make it happen. And he would if Grimsby didn’t dance to his tune.
He wasn’t at all surprised to see Grimsby’s lips thin, but the man offered no further argument.
Shifting his gaze to Smythe, he arched a brow. “Any comments?”
Smythe stared back at him, then shook his head. “I’ll do the job—jobs—with seven, then. They’re not going to be as well trained as I’d like, but…” He shrugged. “With luck, we’ll get by.”
“Good.” That was exactly what Alert had wanted to hear. Smythe, thank God, knew how to keep him happy.
Smythe tipped his head toward the door. “I’ve the most promising two with me tonight. I’ll take them out on the streets, teach them how to move about the lanes and houses, how to get into and out of the mansions and to find their way around inside. I’ve found two empty houses in Mayfair. I’ll train them there.”
Alert let his approbation show. “Excellent. So despite this minor hiccup, we’re on track. Our scheme goes forward as planned.”
He looked from one to the other. “Any more questions?”
They shook their heads.
“Well, then.” With a smile, he waved to the door. “Good luck, gentlemen.”
He waited until Smythe had stepped outside and Grimsby was about to follow before saying, in quite a different tone, “Take care, Grimsby.”
Grimsby glanced back at him, then turned and followed Smythe out, pulling the door shut behind him.
Alert sat in the dark and—for the umpteenth time—went over his plan. It was sound. It was necessary. In the silent dark, his need was very clear, the pressure to succeed tangible, real.
He didn’t like to consider failure, but an escape route was an essential part of any careful plan. Sitting back, he looked around, then up, and smiled.
Even if the entire scheme went arse-over-tit, he would escape detection. He’d have to leave London to avoid the cent-per-cent, but he’d still be free.
Judging that sufficient time had elapsed, he rose and let himself out through the French door, carefully locking it behind him. An acquaintance, Riggs, scion of a noble house, owned the town house; Riggs’s mistress, who lived there, was, most helpfully, addicted to laudanum. Riggs, of course, had left London for the delights of the country weeks ago, leaving his town house as the perfect place for the man known as Alert to indulge his alter ego.
As he walked away into the night, he smiled. If the scheme did, indeed, go all to pieces, there was nothing to connect him with it. No way whatever to trace any of it back to him.
