to the still-waiting carriage. “Isle of Dogs, please.”
Harry Biggins followed him out. “Potter House is a boarding house of sorts. A Mrs. Jessop is the owner, though I’m darn sure she’s never married, but she has a parade of men through the way you and I would change our socks.”
“I see.”
Concern etched itself across Harry’s forehead. “Be careful, Nathan. She’s been known to have dubious characters staying there.”
“Seems like just the place to find these men, then.” He tapped the carriage driver from behind, and the man released his whip to the air, the crack spurring the horses off at a gentle trot.
What the hell was Rose playing at?
He didn’t have long to wait to find out.
* * * * *
“Mrs. Jessop?” he enquired as the landlady opened the door.
“Lady” was stretching the title, as far the woman who opened the door was concerned. Faced with a rather plunging décolleté spilling over her rather bawdy citrus-colored gown, making her look like a squeezed lemon, it took Nathan considerable effort to curtail his laughter.
While her gown was that sickly yellow, her hair had taken on another color of the spectrum and was as scarlet as the frock coats Nathan had seen the Beefeaters outside Buckingham Palace wear. Her hair matched the painted-on color of her lips and cheeks.
The woman leaned forward, and Nathan found himself automatically arching back as her overindulgence of some sort of pomander assaulted his nostrils.
“I was told that my…ah, cousin’s friends are boarding in your establishment.”
“And who would that be?”
He feigned confusion. “You know, I just can’t remember. It’s rather a convoluted story,” he said of the tale he’d concocted on the way over from Harry’s establishment. “My wife is expecting, and, well, she asked me to visit them and I can’t disappoint her.”
Mrs. Jessop ran a grubby hand across his shoulder and trailed a finger down his cheek. It was all Nathan could do to stop himself from gagging. “You’re married. Such a shame. All the nice ones are married, and you sure are nice.”
Nathan choked on an airless breath. “Thank you. Um…the men,” he prompted. “Foreign, I believe, and with rather thick accents.”
“Oh yeah, I know them.” She stood back so he could enter.
This wasn’t quite the way he wanted to play it, but he had no way out now. He stepped past her only to feel her hand on his buttocks, fingers giving them a decidedly stiff pinch. “Room Four, and when you’re finished, come down and see me.”
Nathan nodded; however, hell would freeze over before he ventured into Mrs. Jessop’s den, that was for sure.
He took the steps two at a time, though he made not a sound. It seemed the old tricks of his trade were still there.
He came to Room Four at the top of the first-floor landing and pressed his ear to the door.
He heard nothing except his heartbeat.
He counted to thirty, just in case, and then tapped on the door. “Delivery for ya. Delivery.”
He waited. Listened some. And still heard nothing.
“Delivery.”
At the bottom of the stairs, he witnessed Mrs. Jessop’s large form. The woman was listening.
Nathan fingered the small pistol in his pocket, something he’d gotten used to carrying over the years. He cocked it and yanked down the door handle at the same time throwing the door back so it slammed against the wall.
It reverberated on its hinges, but that was the only sound.
No voices. No men from Zarrenburg. And no Rose.
“Shit.”
He strode into the room, glancing about, checking the one cupboard, but realized the futility of it, as all three could not fit in it.
What now?
The room was definitely used. In fact, there was a warm pot of tea on the table, and a half-eaten meal. He spied something white on the floor.
Dust?
He bent down and grazed his index finger through it. Powder. White powder. Paste powder.
So Rose had been here. But where was she now?
Just then, he heard a
Harry Biggins followed him out. “Potter House is a boarding house of sorts. A Mrs. Jessop is the owner, though I’m darn sure she’s never married, but she has a parade of men through the way you and I would change our socks.”
“I see.”
Concern etched itself across Harry’s forehead. “Be careful, Nathan. She’s been known to have dubious characters staying there.”
“Seems like just the place to find these men, then.” He tapped the carriage driver from behind, and the man released his whip to the air, the crack spurring the horses off at a gentle trot.
What the hell was Rose playing at?
He didn’t have long to wait to find out.
* * * * *
“Mrs. Jessop?” he enquired as the landlady opened the door.
“Lady” was stretching the title, as far the woman who opened the door was concerned. Faced with a rather plunging décolleté spilling over her rather bawdy citrus-colored gown, making her look like a squeezed lemon, it took Nathan considerable effort to curtail his laughter.
While her gown was that sickly yellow, her hair had taken on another color of the spectrum and was as scarlet as the frock coats Nathan had seen the Beefeaters outside Buckingham Palace wear. Her hair matched the painted-on color of her lips and cheeks.
The woman leaned forward, and Nathan found himself automatically arching back as her overindulgence of some sort of pomander assaulted his nostrils.
“I was told that my…ah, cousin’s friends are boarding in your establishment.”
“And who would that be?”
He feigned confusion. “You know, I just can’t remember. It’s rather a convoluted story,” he said of the tale he’d concocted on the way over from Harry’s establishment. “My wife is expecting, and, well, she asked me to visit them and I can’t disappoint her.”
Mrs. Jessop ran a grubby hand across his shoulder and trailed a finger down his cheek. It was all Nathan could do to stop himself from gagging. “You’re married. Such a shame. All the nice ones are married, and you sure are nice.”
Nathan choked on an airless breath. “Thank you. Um…the men,” he prompted. “Foreign, I believe, and with rather thick accents.”
“Oh yeah, I know them.” She stood back so he could enter.
This wasn’t quite the way he wanted to play it, but he had no way out now. He stepped past her only to feel her hand on his buttocks, fingers giving them a decidedly stiff pinch. “Room Four, and when you’re finished, come down and see me.”
Nathan nodded; however, hell would freeze over before he ventured into Mrs. Jessop’s den, that was for sure.
He took the steps two at a time, though he made not a sound. It seemed the old tricks of his trade were still there.
He came to Room Four at the top of the first-floor landing and pressed his ear to the door.
He heard nothing except his heartbeat.
He counted to thirty, just in case, and then tapped on the door. “Delivery for ya. Delivery.”
He waited. Listened some. And still heard nothing.
“Delivery.”
At the bottom of the stairs, he witnessed Mrs. Jessop’s large form. The woman was listening.
Nathan fingered the small pistol in his pocket, something he’d gotten used to carrying over the years. He cocked it and yanked down the door handle at the same time throwing the door back so it slammed against the wall.
It reverberated on its hinges, but that was the only sound.
No voices. No men from Zarrenburg. And no Rose.
“Shit.”
He strode into the room, glancing about, checking the one cupboard, but realized the futility of it, as all three could not fit in it.
What now?
The room was definitely used. In fact, there was a warm pot of tea on the table, and a half-eaten meal. He spied something white on the floor.
Dust?
He bent down and grazed his index finger through it. Powder. White powder. Paste powder.
So Rose had been here. But where was she now?
Just then, he heard a
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