Page 61 of Lord Gabriel’s Undoing

On Gabriel’s arm, she walked through the front door of the tavern.

*

Gabriel had been in a fair few taverns in his time, and this one was little different. It had a higher ceiling than most, but was equipped with the same array of well-worn wooden tables and chairs, bench seats against the walls and a long bar on one side. The floor was made of large slate slabs and the walls were hung with a variety of odd decorations, from manacles to truncheons, that hinted at the occupation of most of the regulars. Easy to see it was close to the headquarters of the famous Bow Street Runners. And it was crowded, almost exclusively with men.

He could see at a glance that this was not the sort of place ladies frequented, not even those of the lower classes. Phoebe, in her pretty sprigged muslin gown and warm pelisse and bonnet, rather stood out.

Heads turned. He experienced a fellow feeling with Phoebe, as this must be how she felt at balls. Only here it was true. Everyone was looking at them, and it wasn’t just his imagination. But he had to do it. He had to try. He’d waited sixteen years for this and he wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass.

He recognized the dark uniform of the Runners on a number of the occupants straight away, but the rest were clad in a variety of mufti and were a variety of ages. Possibly they were the retired officers, many of whom offered their services privately. Donald’s advice had been to ask for Abraham Coolidge, so he made his way across the room and up to the bar, Phoebe keeping close behind him. If she’d felt everyone at the ball was looking at her, which they hadn’t been, here she was going to find out what it was really like to be the center of all attention. But she lifted her chin and ignored the stares. Brave girl. He had a feeling she might be braver than he was, despite his nocturnal escapades as a burglar. They’d never frightened him so there’d been nothing to overcome. But right now, he acknowledged only to himself, his whole body was a mass of anxious nerves.

The barkeeper was polishing glasses with a linen towel. A huge man with a somewhat intimidating looking patch over one eye, he fixed Gabriel with a hard stare from out of the other one. “Good day to you, milord.”

As Gabriel had been turned out by his valet this morning in a fine suit of clothes suitable for a drive in the park and not for frequenting dubious establishments, he was not surprised the man thought him a lord. Well, just at the moment, until they found his mother, he was one.

“Good day to you, sir,” he returned. “I’m told this establishment is one frequented by a gentleman by the name of Abraham Coolidge. I have need of his services and would be grateful if you could point him out to me and my companion.”

One of the uniformed officers, who’d been leaning on the bar, turned his head to look at them. Of early middle-age, he possessed thick brows above a nose so bent and disfigured as to suggest its owner was not unknown to pugilism, or perhaps street fighting might be more accurate. “What does a fine young sprig like you want with a man like Coolidge, if I might be so bold as to ask?” His forthright approach indicated he was well used to being bold, so this was merely a nicety of speech.

Gabriel, who’d not so far had to deal with upholders of the law, held out his hand. “Lord Gabriel Wycliff, at your service, sir. And my companion is Lady Phoebe Nicholson.”

The officer took his offered hand. His was large and rough and the veins on the back stood out like corded ropes. “Jack Whiteley, milord, of, as you can no doubt see for yourself, the Bow Street Runners. Only we prefer to call ourselves Mr. Fielding’s Men.”

Gabriel nodded. “I had indeed taken note of your uniform, Officer Whiteley.” The notion that his new friend would be cock-a-hoop with delight if he were to discover he was shaking hands with the Mayfair Highwayman refused to leave him. What if a real thief-taker like this had the power to sniff out a thief? What if he was exuding guilt like sweat? Best not even to think about his secret life. “May I buy you a drink?”

“That would be most hospitable of you,” Officer Whiteley said. “A cove after my liking.”

Gabriel ordered another brandy for the officer, as that was what he was drinking, and one for himself, but Phoebe shook her head when offered. He very much doubted she’d ever been inside an inn or tavern before. Well, apart from the Rat’s Castle, and that hardly counted. As she only had that for comparison, she was probably thinking this place far more civilized.

Officer Whiteley, having downed his brandy, gestured around the crowded bar. “This is our local hostelry, milord. It’s where we come to meet up with those that can help with our investigations. And you’re right, Mr. Coolidge comes here every day. He used to be one of us but has retired on a pension that he supplements with work as a private inquiry agent. I take it that’s why you’re looking for him? To offer him some work?”

Gabriel nodded, not wanting to say too much as the anxious sensation that the man could see into his inner soul wouldn’t go away. “I am.” The brandy helped a little with his nerves.

“Then that’s him over there in the corner,” Officer Whiteley said. “I’ll take you over to him and introduce you.”

Abraham Coolidge was a short man whose dark hair hung limply to his shoulders and whose lined face had about it a certain vulpine intelligence. However, despite his appearance, he was not lacking in manners and rose to his feet as Gabriel and Phoebe approached with his ex-colleague. “Milord, milady.” He tugged his thin forelock in respect, his small dark eyes running over them both in obvious assessment. Probably working out how much he could get away with charging them.

“A gentleman and lady in need of your services, Abe,” Officer Whiteley said. “I’ll leave you to it.” He sketched a passable bow to Gabriel and Phoebe. “If you’re ever in need of Mr. Fielding’s Men, then send for me, and I’ll come running. Only don’t go calling me a runner!”

Phoebe smiled at him and muttered a thank you, and he was gone, merging back into the crowded bar.

Coolidge waved a hand at a pair of empty seats. “Sit yourselves down then.” And he sank back into his own seat, still regarding them with those all-knowing eyes. Perhaps coming into the lion’s den had not been such a good idea, for this man was more of a lion than Officer Whiteley had been. Gabriel couldn’t rid himself of the feeling he had a big flag on top of his head saying, “Notorious burglar—arrest me now.” But it was too late for regrets. He’d have to brazen this out.

“How can I help you, milord?” Coolidge’s fingers fiddled with the handle of his pint pot, which was nearly empty.

Gabriel took the hint and raised his hand to the barkeeper. “Another ale for my friend, and one for me as well.” He glanced at Phoebe, but she shook her head again. Perhaps she didn’t fancy risking the cleanliness of the establishment.

The barkeeper brought over another glass and filled both it and Coolidge’s to the brim.

Gabriel took a long draught and smacked his lips. “They serve good ale in here.”

Coolidge nodded. “When your regulars are all officers of the law, you don’t dare do anything else.” And he chuckled.

Gabriel glanced at Phoebe, but she had expectant eyes fixed on the object of their visit. He’d best get to the point, or Atkins was going to come bursting in to rescue her mistress from what she no doubt considered a den of iniquity. Goodness knew what she’d have to say about the Rat’s Castle.

“I require your services to find someone,” he began. “However, I fear the job will not be an easy one. If you succeed, I’ll pay you a sizeable bonus on top of your fee.”

Coolidge’s eyes narrowed. “And what is it that makes you think the job’ll be a difficult one? I’m the best in London at finding people.”