The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) by Nathan Goodwin (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

the streets, going for days without food…freezing in the winter…accepting any kind of miserable work. So, I travelled around, hoping that life would improve elsewhere…but a vagrant in Paris is the same as a vagrant in London—but with the added difficulty of not being able to beg in your own language.’

His eyes locked onto hers with a warm smile, hoping, she suspected, that she would smile back. She did not: she held his gaze and held her tongue.

‘I used to look at the rich gentlemen strolling past with more money than they could ever hope to spend and realised then that all my efforts and actions had been focused on the present moment: I stole food because I was starving; I would break into buildings at night because I was freezing and needed somewhere to sleep. I realised that I needed to think more adroitly and act for the future, not for the present. So, I stole a gentleman’s outfit and found that pocket-picking was much easier if dressed correctly and speaking correctly. Then, a rather strange thing occurred: I found that I made friends among the upper classes. I was given things and offered places—grand places, at that—to lodge…for free. It was really most incredible.’

Ann narrowed her eyes, her interest in his tale now beginning to show on her face. Most of her internal questions, though, remained unanswered.

‘And, as with any set of friends, I was told things—secrets. I observed dubious business practices, witnessed marital indiscretions, saw political impropriety; all of it giving someone with a mind for self-gain a great advantage and a far greater and more far-reaching reward than stealing half a loaf of bread to satisfy a desperate hunger.’

‘Extortion,’ Ann summarised.

Jonas glanced over his shoulder, carefully taking in the room. ‘That would be the legal definition; I prefer to call it gentlemanly persuasion.’

‘I be assuming that gentleman what you was just with, and the folk around you at Alexander Spence’s hanging, all be to do with your gentle persuasions?’

Jonas nodded in confirmation. ‘The auspicious Henry Purdon. He’s an agent to the Hanoverian Consulate at Latham, Rice & Co. and author of many dubious transnational dealings.’

Ann’s own issues had still yet to be addressed. ‘Because why, then, did I be seeing you at the Bourne Tap and my mistress’s house?’

Jonas reached out and placed a hand on hers. She supressed her initial reaction to withdraw it, finding odd pleasure in the contact. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘Mister Banks—the owner of Court Lodge Farm, to which Braemar Cottage, among many others, is tied—is a friend of mine.’

‘So you be extorting him?’ Ann asked.

Jonas laughed, squeezed her hand gently and smiled. ‘I’m merely developing and nurturing an acquaintance into a more advantageous friendship, let’s just say. The more I know about Mister Banks—from his friends, tenants and workers—the better our friendship could be.’

‘Happen it be very profitable if you be paying people like Mistress Banister for information.’

Jonas appeared almost apologetic. ‘Acting for the future, Ann. You should try it.’

‘Happen I am,’ she said, her tone a mixture of defensiveness and pride.

‘Oh?’

‘I be having lessons,’ Ann revealed, surprised to hear herself blurting out her secret, and to him of all people.

He raised his eyebrows, took a sip of ale, but inexplicably kept his hand on hers. ‘And what lessons might they be?’

She went to say something fancy such as ‘Poetry,’ but it felt more appropriate to be telling the truth to a man like Jonas Blackwood, who had come from the same bleak place as she. So she said, ‘Reading and writing.’

‘Brilliant.’ He smiled, drank some more, touched his dark moustache, thinking. ‘You know, we come from very similar circumstances, you and I; you’ve chosen one path and I’ve chosen another and yet, here we are, together. Moving away from our pasts.’

Ann sank the last of her drink.

‘Let me get us another,’ he said.

Without allowing her time to protest, he made for the bar. She watched with growing intrigue as he ordered the drinks. Maybe it was a false warmth given by the rum, but Ann was finding herself strangely attracted to Jonas. He returned, setting a glass down in front of her, then slid back onto the stool opposite. She flinched momentarily, as his leg brushed against hers, and thought that he had made a miscalculation of her position, but no, he held it there, pressing it more firmly to her.

‘Happen you be back in Aldington to be seeing your old friends anytime soon?’ Ann asked.

‘Old friends—no. New friends—yes.’

Ann took a large swig of her rum, then unhurriedly lowered her hand beneath the table, placing it onto her own leg, but cautiously raising her index finger so that it touched Jonas’s thigh. He displayed no reaction to her touch, but nor did he move his leg in subtle reproach. If she could not get herself a real gentleman like Ralph, then maybe a sham gentleman would do. Jonas Blackwood and Ann Fothergill: she thought they sounded a rather handsome couple.

‘And what of life in the old parish? Does the wicked trade continue unabated?’ he asked sardonically.

‘I think there be trouble coming,’ Ann answered, finding that the alcohol was liberating the final lingering shackles of her previous reserve.

‘Trouble?’

Ann drank more, then relayed the recent catastrophes which had befallen the Aldington Gang since the arrival of the Ramillies. Jonas listened intently, asking questions as she spoke. When Ann had finished, both of their glasses were empty.

‘Time for another!’ Jonas declared, jumping up.

‘Gracious-heart-alive!’ Ann exclaimed, suddenly aware of how long she had been drinking and talking. ‘What be the time?’ She sprang up and hurried for the door. Outside, the sun was hanging low over the horizon, painting the quay in a light orange hue. Sunset was fast approaching, and she had missed the coach back