The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

The entryway of Lord Chelmsford’s house was, by far, the grandest place Vera had ever been in. And this was simply the landing place for visitors who weren’t yet certain of their welcome.

“I feel like an imposter,” she whispered.

“If there’s one thing an Irishman living in England learns quickly, it’s that he does best to pretend he’s wanted and welcome. Otherwise, everyone around him will insist he’s not.”

“I can imagine the members of every immigrant community would heartily agree with that strategy.”

Brogan gave a minute nod.

In the next moment, a butler invited them to follow him to a very elegant drawing room, where Lord Chelmsford was waiting. The space was overly large for three people to meet for a short conversation, but she’d often heard the drawing rooms of the upper class were meant to impress. This one most certainly did, as did its occupant. He was dressed quite fine with a very regal bearing. He greeted them with a dip of his head and genteel words of welcome.

Brogan saw her seated, then sat directly beside her. His suggestion repeated in her mind. Act as if you belong, and Lord Chelmsford will believe it.

“I was most intrigued by your note requesting this interview,” Lord Chelmsford said.

“We do not mean to take too much of your time, my lord,” Brogan said. “We wish simply to express our very deep gratitude at your public support for the creation of the London Fire Engine Establishment. Captain Shaw is a friend of mine, and I’m pleased that he was chosen to head it. I have no doubt your influence was crucial in this.”

Vera was beginning to understand how Brogan had managed this call. He’d tossed out Captain Shaw’s name, who was a man of some importance. He’d also discovered that Lord Chelmsford had spoken in favor of the recently passed law, something that likely had taken some effort to learn, as Lord Chelmsford wasn’t currently in parliament or the cabinet. Writing a note expressing his wish to talk about the goodness of this gentleman in supporting the cause would’ve softened Lord Chelmsford to the request.

Brogan continued his explanation. “There was, unfortunately, a very devastating fire on our street a short while ago. The tragedy of it was only made worse by the fact that the private brigades ignored the flames on account of the building not boasting a fire mark.”

Lord Chelmsford shook his head, his expression one of sincere regret. “Even those who argue that such services should only be afforded to those who can pay for them must be willing to admit that any fire left to burn out of control threatens every building and every life nearby. Fighting fires is a public service and should be treated and funded as such.”

“I could not agree more.” Brogan’s Irish accent was still obvious, but his word choice was a bit more formal than usual. He was adapting to the situation. She would do well to determine her wisest role and adapt as well.

“Have you had an opportunity to speak with Captain Shaw about the changes that will take effect in a few weeks?” Lord Chelmsford asked Brogan.

The discussion turned to fire brigades, safety techniques, and the character of Captain Shaw and the London Fire Engine Establishment. Through it all, Vera offered only a few quick interjections, not wishing to disrupt the flow, not knowing if Lord Chelmsford was one of those gentlemen who felt it best for women to keep quiet. She followed Brogan’s lead in this, just as he followed hers in the matter of her neighbors’ safety.

She peered now and then at the clock on the mantelpiece, watching the minutes tick by. How long would they need to keep this up? How could they possibly know when this Phantom Fox had managed his task?

“Though I didn’t grow up in London,” Brogan said, “I am still quite familiar with the Radlett murder. Your work on that case is quite well spoken of, even in Ireland.”

It was an important change of topic. They were meant to learn what they could about the case mentioned in the forged document.

“I am ashamed to admit,” Vera said, “I’m not acquainted with it. A few details here and there, yes, but overall, that case is a mystery to me.”

Brogan took her hand and squeezed it, decidedly giving the impression of a tender connection between them. It would likely help Lord Chelmsford feel comfortable conversing with the two of them.

“I could tell her of it,” Brogan said, “but I would not wish to deprive her of the opportunity to hear about it from your lips, Lord Chelmsford. What an opportunity that is.”

While Lord Chelmsford did hesitate, he did not seem truly opposed to sharing details. What followed was a very intricate recounting of what she knew had been a notorious event. A man convinced a local solicitor, to whom he owed a great gambling debt, to join him and two friends for a weekend of cards. Near to their destination, the man shot the solicitor, but failed to kill him. He finished his sinister deed by beating the man to death. He and his two friends hid the body in a nearby pond before continuing on to their destination and enjoying a hot dinner and a night of lighthearted revelry, despite the atrocities still fresh in their minds.

The three of them were soon connected with the murder, and one of the men—Joseph Hunt, who owned a local inn—led authorities to the body of the victim, whom the villains had also robbed. Lord Chelmsford, a young barrister at the time, had been tasked with representing Joseph Hunt. Though Mr. Hunt had been the most cooperative and helpful of the three men, it was the other accomplice who was offered freedom in exchange for turning King’s evidence. The murderer was hanged. The other accomplice went free.

“What was Mr. Hunt’s punishment in the end?” Vera asked.

“Transportation for life. He was sent to Botany Bay, as many other criminals are.”

“Did he have any family here?” Vera asked.

“None of note,” Lord Chelmsford said. “He was well liked, though, by the staff and regulars at his tavern. Many of them seemed to regret his role in the crime and his sentence. One of the young women who worked at the tavern even cried when his sentence was handed down.”

Vera nodded slowly. “Life is often cruel, isn’t it? One cannot help but be aware that crimes impact so many innocent people. The family of the victim will mourn the loss of their loved one. The family of the guilty mourn as well. The people living nearby struggle afterward to feel safe. So many innocent people’s lives change forever.”

Lord Chelmsford looked at her with a kind expression one might receive from an uncle or grandfather. He was of an age to have been either one, though there was nothing feeble about him. “You have a kind heart, miss. Not everyone recognizes how many unseen victims there are.”

“The nation is fortunate to have barristers such as yourself,” Brogan said, “who are not merely gifted at what they do, but execute their duties with needed compassion. That is an important combination.”

“Not everyone is pleased with the work I have done.” Lord Chelmsford seemed to inwardly sigh.

Heavens, this was a fortunate direction for the conversation to take. Vera didn’t mean to let it slip away. “Truly? Who could be displeased?”

“Any number of people. Those who were upset that I failed to gain a conviction. Those who feel a punishment was too harsh or too lenient. Those who were guilty as sin, but fully expected me to free them of the natural consequences of their actions.”

“I’m certain you did your very best work,” Vera said.

“If everyone had your generous heart, I believe we would make strides toward a more just system than we have now.”

Brogan squeezed her hand but addressed Lord Chelmsford. “We are taking up your time, Lord Chelmsford. Thank you for seeing us.”

“My pleasure.”

Lord Chelmsford stood along with them and saw them to the drawing room door. He offered a friendly farewell, which they returned in kind.

Once on the pavement, they strolled leisurely down the street and around the nearby corner. Brogan then stopped and tucked them both up against a tall hedge, casting them fully in shadow.

“Do you think the Phantom Fox had enough time?” Vera asked in a nearly silent whisper.

“I was told to distract Chelmsford for at least fifteen minutes. We managed twenty-five.”

“How will you know if the thief was successful?”

“I won’t for a time,” he said.

Across the street, two men emerged from the shadows and moved quickly and silently to where they stood. Vera recognized them in the brief moments their faces were illuminated. It was Fletcher Walker and Stone, the other two authors who were present when she’d been told about Papa’s forgeries.

“What did you learn?” Fletcher asked, his voice low but not a whisper.

“We managed a quick discussion of the Radlett murder, particularly about Joseph Hunt.”

“Hunt’s name is on that forged list,” Stone said. His American accent always caught Vera off guard. It wasn’t one she heard around London, but she liked the sound of it.

“Chelmsford talked about people not always being pleased with the results of cases he’s worked,” Brogan said. “People were upset that Joseph Hunt was transported.”

“But that was decades ago,” Vera said. “I’d be full surprised if someone were seeking vengeance for it now. Mr. Hunt’s likely not even alive any longer. The people upset about him might not be either.”

“I know it,” Brogan said. “I wonder if it’s a more recent case someone’s fuming over instead. The blackmailer may want to discredit Chelmsford, make him seem an object of ridicule and pity.”

“The Radlett case was one of his most famous,” Fletcher said. “Casting doubt on it’d do damage, for sure and certain.”

“The two men who’re connected to our troubles are criminals, yeah?” Vera pressed. “It makes sense blokes like them’d have beef with a barrister. Maybe avenging a wrong they feel was done to them or another of their criminal confederates.”

“Any word from our phantom friend?” Fletcher asked.

“Not as yet,” Brogan said.

Seemed all three of them knew the legendary sneak thief. Papa had insisted authors couldn’t be trusted because they were dishonest. It seemed to her they were secret keepers more than they were liars.

The group walked casually toward the mews. The night was quiet, but not silent. Vera kept an eye on their surroundings. She suspected the other three were doing the same.

Without warning, a man sprinted around the corner and collided with Stone. Their American friend was a large man, built solid as a mountain. The collision sent him a single step backward, but left the other man sprawled on the pavement.

Quick as a flash, Fletcher grabbed him and yanked him to his feet.

“No reason to rough me,” the man said, frantic. “Let me go, bloke.”

“Not a chance of it, mate.” Fletcher shook him a little bit. “Hold up your hands.”

“Why?” he demanded

“Because you’re outnumbered,” Brogan said. “Do as he says, or you’ll discover all of us are armed.”

Vera didn’t know if that was true, but it was a useful bluff.

Head darting about, the man held up his hands slowly. Five fingers on the left. Four on the right.

Brogan muttered something Vera suspected was an Irish curse. This was the notorious Four-Finger Mike.

“Stone,” Fletcher said. “Catch up to our friend. Make certain all’s well.”

Stone left without hesitation. Vera didn’t need an explanation. It was possible this criminal was not the only one nearby, which meant the Phantom Fox might’ve been followed.

In Fletcher’s tiny moment of distraction in sending Stone off, Four-Finger Mike managed to produce a small knife, and before even a single word of warning could be issued, he’d swung backward and wounded Fletcher’s arm.

Fletcher loosened his grip, and in an instant, the miscreant was free.

He made to run, but Brogan grabbed hold of his coat. Four-Finger Mike struggled, and the fabric ripped. He spun about, slipping his arms from the garment. He would be gone in an instant if something wasn’t done.

Vera held her umbrella like a club and swung with all her might at the man’s knees. She then jammed the handle into his middle. He bent forward, grabbing his gut. She raised the umbrella over her head and slammed it against his upper back. It was not the most efficient weapon, but it slowed him enough for Fletcher and Brogan to rejoin the brawl.

In an effort too well-coordinated for this to be the first time the two men had fought side-by-side, they quickly had Four-Finger Mike on the ground, his arms tied behind him with his own coat, his nose bleeding, and every ounce of fight drained from him.

“You’ve made a dangerous enemy, my friend,” Fletcher said. “And this time, you won’t escape.”

“You know nothing of enemies.” Even in his current state, Four-Finger Mike was defiant. “Toss me over to the blue-bottles if you want, won’t make no difference.”

“Locking up a man with as many marks on his record as you, with as much influence in the criminal world, not make a difference?” Brogan kept his tone calm. “You give yourself too little credit.”

“You have no idea the tempest that’s coming for you.”

Stone returned, a bit winded, but still clearly agile and determined.

“All’s well?” Fletcher asked.

“All,” Stone said.

“There’s a police station not far from here,” Fletcher said. “Let’s the two of us deliver this ribbon-tied present to them, shall we?”

“It’d be a pleasure,” Stone said.

With that, the two men dragged their catch down the dark streets.

Brogan’s attention turned immediately to Vera. “Are you injured?”

“Not a bit,” she said.

Brogan let out a quick breath filled with relief. “I’d no idea Four-Finger’d be hanging about. I’d not meant to put you at risk.”

She shook her head. “I had an umbrella, so I was well armed.”

He chuckled. “I hadn’t realized you were so handy with that thing.”

“Neither had I.” She hooked her arm through his, and he began walking again, the same casual, connected arrangement they’d assumed before, though both of them were a bit worse for wear.

“Do you remember what Clare said when she delivered that last note?” Vera asked.

“She said we couldn’t stop the Mastiff. She said that a storm that was coming was—Oh, saints.”

“Precisely.” Vera could see he’d made the connection she had. “Four-Finger Mike said much the same thing, that we have no idea the tempest that’s coming for us. The battle I’ve taken on is starting to feel too big and too dangerous.”

He set his free hand atop hers, a nearby street lamp highlighting his scars. “You’re not fighting alone.”

Thank the heavens for that.

“There’s strength in numbers,” he added.

Strength, yes. But also chaos. Sooner or later the gale force winds would whip into the tempest they’d been warned of. What if they weren’t ready for it?