The Wedding Night Affair--An Historical Mystery by L.C. Sharp (books to read as a couple TXT) 📕

it. But if the journalist was interested in linking the cases, that gave Ash’s theory more credence. Ransom followed the Raven around like royalty.

He would try to track him down, but these journalists moved around, using presses for hire to get their copy out. He didn’t have time to waste.

“Fielding’s eager to get the trial done, and I’ll be there. So everybody will know then. Until then, keep it under your hat, will you?”

“Right you are.” Jack touched his greasy forelock with a grubby finger. He made to move away, but Ash took a step sideways to block him.

“You owe me something else,” he said.

Jack shrugged. “No I don’t. I’ve told you what I know abaht that mob.”

Ash flattened his lips. “Remember last week? When I got you out of that molly house an hour before the raid?”

Jack shrugged. “Mebbe.” He scuffed his shoe on the floor but stayed where he was.

“Did you take up the suggestion I gave you then?”

Jack brightened. “To grab that link job? Yeah. Thanks for lettin’ me know where ter go.”

Not to mention the guinea Ash had handed him to buy the concession.

Linkboys lit the way through a dark London for people out late at night who didn’t want to risk the uneven streets and worse, the dangers that thronged there for the unwary. Reluctantly, Ash had to admit he liked Cutty Jack, and not just for the information he could obtain. He wanted to keep him out of prison.

“You can earn good money that way, if you play it straight.”

“Some. The tips is good if I butter ’em up.”

Ash nodded to the maid to bring another drink. When the girl had topped up Jack’s mug from an open pitcher and left, he said casually, “Is the birdman interested in my client’s case?” He didn’t want to say the names too often, because they were standing in the middle of a busy coffee house, the buzz of conversation surrounding them.

Jack shrugged. “’Ow do I know?”

“Come on, Jack, you can do better than that.”

Jack shook his head, uncharacteristically staring down at his feet. “’E’s a vengeful man. I don’t want ter cross ’im. ’E don’t like people knowin’ where ’e’ll be, or what ’e takes an interest in. ’E allus goes masked. I know that much.”

“Everybody knows that, thanks to Ransom. Anything new could earn you a guinea.” He wouldn’t usually offer such largesse, but information against the Raven was expensive.

Jack brightened. “’E’s sponsorin’ the masquerade tomorrow night.”

“Is he now?” That was interesting.

One of the primary events of the season was happening tomorrow. Not the respectable season where young girls were presented at court, and to prospective husbands. The other one, the mirror.

Tomorrow night, a market of a different kind would take place. There, courtesans and whores would seek their next clients, and try to steal the most lucrative ones from their rivals. Extravagant, revealing clothes would be on display, extraordinary performances would take place, mirroring the theatres but more dangerous, lewder. Without restriction.

A man could discover a great deal at these places. Especially if a certain courtesan attended, and if Ash knew her at all, she would be there. If Uppingham used whores, then La Senza would know.

Jack nodded. “That one.”

Oh yes, that was exactly what he needed.

Jack shrugged. “Will you be going?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

Cutty Jack drained his mug and then pushed past Ash. “I’ll hike and nap.”

Ash doubted Jack would be going home to sleep at this hour, but he nodded and slipped him a guinea. Not that he’d earned it, but Ash wanted to keep him sweet. Jack wanted to get away. Maybe to report back to someone, maybe to get up to mischief somewhere. But he wouldn’t tell Ash any more. The guinea would help him to hold his tongue.

Ash was going to the masquerade.

Moving on to the duke seemed almost an anticlimax. Where Jack was a bright man born in the gutter, dragging himself up the best way he knew, the Duke of Abercorn seemed determined to dissipate the vast fortune he’d inherited as fast as possible. However, Ash suspected his air of world-weary boredom and vague stupidity covered something else. What it was, he had yet to discover.

As always he looked down his nose at Ash. “Ah, the friend of the Prime Minister,” he drawled. “Can’t remember your name.” Implying that Ash’s name wasn’t that important.

“The man who found the loophole that changed your crime from imprisonment to a fine? Pardon me, your grace, but I’m sure you can recall it if you scour your mind.”

The duke was a remarkably handsome man with the gift of merging into whatever society he found himself in. An inch or two over average height, with brown hair and bright blue eyes that he kept perpetually half closed, he already had a bad reputation. For a wild boy, he’d taken considerable care not to fall into the traps set for unwary rich men who enjoyed the seamier side of life. As far as anyone knew he had never contracted the pox, nor did he flaunt his wealth enough to make him a target for the gangs that roamed the alleys of the city looking for easy pickings.

Today he wore a plain coat and breeches in maroon, but his wig was finely made and a glint of gold gleamed on his finger. If Ash knew Abercorn, and he did, after taking his part in last year’s enquiry over a duel on the Heath, at least one of the burly men standing by the fire smoking clay pipes was in his employ. Abercorn was never as alone as people thought. But the duke was here for a reason, and now Ash thought he knew what it was. “So you’re hanging out for an invitation to the masquerade?”

“I don’t need one. This place is amusing, after the exhaustive boredom of St. James’s Palace. That is all.”

The drawl didn’t fool Ash. The man was not boasting, merely stating a fact. And he did need an invitation. Everybody